He silently shook himself free of the sensation, and crept in to grab one of the folded blankets piled on a chair near the bed before slipping back out the door. Making his way to the sitting room just beyond the house’s foyer, he removed his boots and weapons and curled up on a chaise longue next to the fireplace. Wrapped in his borrowed blanket, d’Artagnan slid almost immediately into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
He awoke to chaos and confusion as a strong arm yanked him unceremoniously upright. His heart pounded in sudden alarm as de Tréville’s sharp voice penetrated his foggy mind.
“Up, d’Artagnan! Grab your weapons, man! Isabella’s forces are attacking the village. You’re with me.”
D’Artagnan lunged for his boots and weapons belt almost before his eyes were open. As he regained awareness, he noticed more people running into and out of the house. One of the lads d’Artagnan recognized as being from the village charged in and slid to a halt in front of de Tréville.
“Report from the patrols, sir,” the boy said breathlessly.
“Porthos!” de Tréville bellowed, and Porthos shouldered his way into the room a moment later, a question on his face. “We have a new report—I want you to hear it. Go ahead, lad.”
The runner opened his mouth, but was interrupted by Milady’s voice at the interior doorway saying, “Just a minute; we’re here as well.”
She supported Athos into the room with one of his arms slung across her shoulder. He was in his shirt sleeves, pale and wan, but the belt slung low on his hips bristled with weapons.
De Tréville nodded, and the boy started his report. “M. Tolbert’s company was on duty when one of the patrols sent a rider to report that men on horseback were approaching from the east—at least three score. They sounded the alarm and moved to secure the main road, but when I left, they were having trouble holding the line. Enemy forces were breaking through, into the main camp.”
“Aramis was in the main camp,” d’Artagnan said, aware on some level that this was a stupid and self-indulgent thing to worry about, but unable to stop the words rising to his lips.
“Then he’s where he’ll do the most good,” Porthos said, seemingly unconcerned. “It’s far from the first battle he’s seen, d’Artagnan.”
D’Artagnan nodded and made a concerted attempt to clamp down on his sleep-muddled thoughts and worries as de Tréville spoke.
“Milady, you will stay in the Queen’s quarters with Her Majesty and the baby.”
Milady’s eyes flashed. “I’m quite capable of fighting, Captain, as well you know.”
“I’m perfectly aware,” de Tréville said, his tone never changing. “The enemy, however, will not be. You will be the very last line of defense, should it be needed—a final element of surprise.” Milady subsided, nodding stiffly in agreement. “Athos, can you fight if need be?”
“Of course,” Athos said.
“Then you and Porthos will guard the door to the room. I’ve sent orders for a small force of twenty heavily armed men to guard the house and grounds,” de Tréville said.
“They arrived on the property at the same time I did,” said the messenger.
“Good. D’Artagnan and I will join the battle at the camp. Questions?”
The others shook their heads.
“Stay safe, both of you,” Porthos told them. “And d’Artagnan? Take Aramis’ horse. He walked to the camp last evening so she should still be in the stable, and she’s trained for battle.”
“I will,” d’Artagnan said. “Thank you.”
Everyone scattered to their assigned duties, d’Artagnan following de Tréville’s purposeful stride out of the house and down the driveway to the stables. More people were milling around the large outbuilding, readying horses and riding out.
“Be quick,” de Tréville ordered. “These things tend to be fast and unpredictable once they begin.”
“Yes, Captain,” d’Artagnan said, and waylaid a boy to ready de Tréville’s stallion while he saddled Aramis’ gray mare.
De Tréville, in the mean time, was choosing additional arms from a rack along the wall near the entrance—two arquebuses for each of them and several daggers. D’Artagnan led the horses up to him, and they stowed the firearms in their saddle holsters. At the Captain’s urging, d’Artagnan secreted a few small daggers around his person, for use in close combat if he was disarmed of his main weapons.
By the time they mounted, d’Artagnan was twitching with the same jittery buzz of nerves that always seemed to afflict him before a fight. He knew that once the enemy was in his pistol sights, the twitchiness would become a sweet rush of pulsing blood that would narrow his focus to the present moment as little else could—little else but the stinging lashes of his cat o’ nine tails, which de Tréville had now forbidden him to use.
The Captain set off at a fast canter, but once d’Artagnan caught up with him, the older man rode close enough by his side to be heard over the pounding of hooves and the rush of wind.
“This kind of battle is different than anything you’ve seen before, d’Artagnan,” de Tréville said. “It is far too easy to become overwhelmed by the sights and sounds... the smell of death and blood. You must concentrate on two things—your immediate surroundings and the broader movements of the two forces. Do not become so embroiled in fighting whoever stands in front of you that you allow the enemy troops to surround you and cut off your retreat.”
“I understand, sir,” d’Artagnan said.
“Don’t allow yourself to be unhorsed unless there is absolutely no other recourse,” de Tréville continued. “The fact that our opponents are mounted goes a long way toward negating our strength of numbers. We cannot afford to lose any of our own riders. Trust your mount to help protect you; riding a horse trained for warfare is like having another set of weapons. With luck, the enemy will be mounted on animals that are not experienced with gunfire and explosions, and thus prone to panic.”
As if de Tréville’s words had conjured it, d’Artagnan became aware of the noise of the battle ahead of them as they rode around the curve of the road and approached the church in the center of the town. Passing the hulking structure lit by flickering lanterns in the dark, the two of them galloped through the churchyard and reined to a halt at the edge of the village green. The gradual slope of the land down toward the river made it difficult to get a wide view of the battle in the pale silver moonlight, and d’Artagnan wondered how in heaven’s name de Tréville expected him to keep track of the attackers’ forces once they were part of the mêlée.
All he could see was chaos and death.
“The attackers entered the camp from the eastern edge,” de Tréville said, pointing with the reins still in his hand. “They almost certainly didn’t expect to find any significant opposition, but now they’re forced to deal with the camp or risk encirclement by our forces as they try to get to the Queen. Surrounding them and cutting them off will still be our goal, along with the capture of as many of their horses as we can get.”
D’Artagnan could begin to see the broader movements now, made easier by the fact that almost everyone on horseback was a member of the enemy troops. De Tréville hooked his reins to his belt buckle and quickly checked his various weapons one-handed.
“Come,” the Captain said. “We will attack on the north flank and see if we can help turn things in our favor before they reach the center of the encampment.”
D’Artagnan nodded, feeling his nerves sing at the prospect of action. De Tréville guided his horse toward the fighting with knee and spur, pistol held steady in his single hand. D’Artagnan drew the first of his two arquebuses, moving in close enough to get a clear line on one of the riders near the rear of the enemy’s spearhead. Breathing out, he steadied the sights and pulled the trigger. The man fell an instant later, clutching his shoulder.
De Tréville followed suit, shooting another rider as d’Artagnan replaced the empty gun in its holster and pulled out a loaded one. His second shot missed,
and he silently cursed the darkness and his own lack of skill. A shout within the enemy’s ranks alerted the other riders to their presence as de Tréville shot another soldier from his horse. Several men broke away, galloping straight at them.
D’Artagnan’s heart pounded against his ribcage, and beneath him, he felt Rosita swell up as if she had grown two inches taller in an instant. The Spanish mare gathered herself over her haunches, sweeping her ears back flat against her head and dancing lightly in place, poised to charge. Remembering what the Captain had said about a battle-trained horse, d’Artagnan drew his sword from its scabbard, dug his heels into the mare’s sides, and yelled “Hyaah!”
Rosita leapt forward into the fray as if shot from a cannon. The lead horse shied sideways as she bore down on it with ears pinned back and teeth bared. Not having been prepared for the strength and speed of his horse’s charge, d’Artagnan swung clumsily at the rider, managing to slice the other man’s thigh. The soldier screamed and curled sideways around the injury, half out of the saddle. Beside d’Artagnan, de Tréville’s stallion squealed and struck out with flailing hooves as two horses closed on him. One man slid off his horse when the animal reared in fright, and fell under the trampling hooves with a cry; de Tréville dispatched the other with a vicious sword blow to the junction of neck and shoulder.
“D’Aumont’s forces! Rally to me!” de Tréville bellowed, as d’Artagnan swung Rosita’s haunches sideways to slam into the man he had wounded in the thigh, now limping toward him with a dagger in one hand and a pistol in the other. He twisted in the saddle, piercing the man through a lung as he stumbled from the impact with the mare’s muscular hindquarters.
Their own forces were still spilling out from the tents, half-clothed, as the men who had been sleeping before the attack strapped on weapons and emerged to join the fight. D’Artagnan tried to heed the Captain’s advice, combing his gaze over what he could see of the battlefield between defeating one opponent and engaging the next. It appeared from their vantage point that the mounted forces were intending to sweep through the camp in broad ranks riding abreast, with an advance guard of a dozen or so attempting to pierce deeper into their territory and split the men fighting on foot down the middle. Several riderless horses milled around in a panic, their instincts keeping them with the herd despite the noise and chaos.
“D’Aumont’s men! To me!” de Tréville shouted once more, and this time a motley collection of half-dressed soldiers heeded his call, forming up on either side of the two riders. “Attack their flank—kill their horses if that’s what it takes!”
The men raised their swords with a chorus of ragged shouts and plunged forward, following in the wake of de Tréville’s charge. Caught unawares, d’Artagnan found himself a few strides behind the rest as they were swallowed by the opposing forces, and within moments he was separated from them. The moon disappeared behind a cloud, throwing the battlefield into deeper darkness until the screams and clanging of swords seemed all-encompassing. Apprehension clawed its way up d’Artagnan’s throat when the silver moonlight brightened once more, and he realized he had lost sight of his comrades behind a knot of enemy riders who were trying to surround him.
He parried clumsily as a blade thrust toward his stomach. Rosita crow-hopped beneath him, kicking out viciously at a horse approaching from behind and causing it to veer away. D’Artagnan held on tightly with his knees as the mare weaved sinuously underneath him, twisting like a snake. He was viscerally aware that a fall right now would mean instant death. His sword scraped against another opponent’s coming at him from the side. He jerked the man’s blade downward and struck out wildly with the pommel of his rapier, feeling a satisfying thud of metal against flesh and hearing a pained grunt. Disoriented, he whirled Rosita in the direction that he thought the Captain and the others must lie, urging the mare forward between two enemy riders. Rosita lunged at one horse, her teeth sinking into its shoulder as it tried to scrabble sideways away from her. D’Artagnan ducked as the other rider swung a blade at his head. The man swiveled his sword arm smoothly, slicing low this time even as d’Artagnan aimed a thrust at his stomach.
Rosita squealed and shuddered beneath him as the man’s blade sliced across the point of her right shoulder, while d’Artagnan’s rapier slid into the man’s belly. He wrenched it free and suddenly found himself in a little area momentarily clear of fighting. He leaned forward to look at the mare’s wound. It was too dark to see details, but the trail of dark blood running down the silver-gray hide was only a couple inches wide at the top and she did not seem to be limping.
D’Artagnan quickly turned his attention back to his surroundings. He still couldn’t see de Tréville and the men that had rallied to him. Off to his side, he heard shouts and cursing. Several dead and wounded horses lay tangled at the edge of the clear space. Beyond them, three men on foot fought another man, who whirled and parried as elegantly against his opponents as if they were sparring for sport in a training yard somewhere, rather than the midst of a bloody battle.
One of the men fell with a gurgle at the same instant d’Artagnan recognized the curl of the single feather on the lone swordsman’s hat. Aramis. D’Artagnan bit down on the urge to call out to him, not wanting to distract his friend while he was still outnumbered. The musketeer had a cloak or blanket wrapped around his left forearm and was using it as a rough shield to block the second man’s wild swipes while he engaged the first with his rapier. D’Artagnan started toward him, hoping that the fighters would pause long enough that he could call out and identify himself without putting his friend at risk. Otherwise, Aramis might assume that he was one of the enemy in the dark, because he was mounted.
Rosita danced sideways nervously as they approached the pile of groaning horseflesh on the ground, and d’Artagnan caught a glint of moonlight on metal from within the tangle of limbs and bodies. His breath caught in his chest as he made out a rider—his leg trapped under his fallen mount—steadying a pistol, aimed at Aramis. Without thought, he gripped his sword between his teeth and scrabbled for one of his own pistols, still hanging loaded at his belt. Steadying Rosita with reins and knees, he sighted along the barrel, exhaled through his nose, and pulled the trigger with a silent prayer.
Chapter II: July 12th, 1631
BLOOD SPRAYED FROM the would-be gunman’s torso, and he dropped limply onto the dead horseflesh beneath him. One of the two men engaged with Aramis swung around at the noise and Aramis’ blade flashed, catching him across the throat. The final man yelled, enraged, and lunged forward viciously. Aramis twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the blade, and attempted to trap the sword between his blanket-wrapped forearm and his torso. The pair wrestled for control, and d’Artagnan saw three riders approaching them from outside of Aramis’ field of view.
D’Artagnan quickly re-holstered his pistol and took up his sword again. Urging Rosita forward, he threw caution to the wind and shouted, “Aramis! Enemy riders behind you!”
Aramis jerked his head toward the noise, and then around to see the others approaching from behind, grappling for control of the blade all the while. Bringing his sword arm up to wrap around the back of his opponent’s neck, he surged in closer and kneed the other man in the groin. The soldier staggered back and Aramis stepped forward, his left hand reaching up toward d’Artagnan in the moonlight.
Understanding his intent instantly, d’Artagnan urged Rosita forward into a canter. Holding his breath in concentration, he dropped the reins two strides before he reached his friend and stretched his left arm out, feeling the solid slap of flesh on flesh as they grasped each other, hand to wrist. D’Artagnan braced hard against the stirrups, using momentum to help Aramis swing up behind him on the mare’s broad back. The other man overbalanced for a moment; then recovered, wrapping an arm around d’Artagnan’s waist.
“Thank you for that,” Aramis said, sounding as polite and urbane as if he hadn’t single-handedly just fought off three men and nearly been shot by a fourth.
�
��Don’t mention it,” d’Artagnan said, aware that his own voice was not nearly so steady.
“Company,” Aramis warned as the enemy riders approached. “You defend the left side; I’ve got the right.”
“I should’ve followed Athos’ example and practiced sparring left-handed,” d’Artagnan muttered as he twisted awkwardly in the saddle to slash at a rider crowding close to Rosita’s neck. Rosita squealed and plowed into the man’s horse with her uninjured shoulder, rocking it back onto its haunches.
“Probably,” Aramis agreed as the enemy rider slid sideways to the ground, landing awkwardly but managing to keep his feet. “Ah, well—live and learn. There’s always the next battle.” Busy trading blows with a second rider, d’Artagnan felt Aramis jerk and hiss in pain behind him as the third rider landed a hit on him, but the uninterrupted clang of metal on metal reassured him that it must not have been a serious wound.
“All right?” he asked anyway, as the arm that had been wrapped around his middle disappeared. He felt Aramis twist behind him, steadying his left arm across d’Artagnan’s shoulder blades, and winced at the noise and recoil as the other man fired his pistol from that awkward position. The second rider dropped like a brick.
“Never better,” Aramis said.
“You had a loaded pistol... all that time... and didn’t use it?” d’Artagnan asked between parries and ripostes with his own opponent.
“No,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan felt him twist again, reaching for something else at his belt, and a moment later a second shot felled the man d’Artagnan was fighting. “I had two loaded pistols. Thought I might have more need of them later on. It turns out I was right.”
Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3 Page 2
