Book 3: The Queen's Musketeers, #3

by R. A. Steffan

  The man who had been unhorsed earlier had retreated across the open space and was frantically attempting to reload his own pistol.

  “D’Artagnan,” Aramis said in his ear.

  “I see him,” d’Artagnan replied, and reined Rosita around. He spurred the mare toward the enemy soldier, his sword held at the ready. The man scrambled backward, trying to put more space between them even as he rammed the rod into his pistol’s barrel in a staccato motion, but d’Artagnan ran him down and pierced him through the breast even as he raised the gun to aim.

  The force of the blow from atop a moving horse jerked d’Artagnan hard to the right, but a strong hand gripped him by the collar and pulled him back upright before he could lose his seat entirely. He reined the mare in and looked around for the next attack, but it appeared the fighting had quieted, or at least moved elsewhere. Only the occasional gunshot could be heard, and seemed to come from a considerable distance away.

  “We need to get to a vantage point,” Aramis said. “Find out what’s happening. With whom did you come here?”

  “De Tréville,” d’Artagnan said. “We got separated in the fighting, but he was with some of d’Aumont’s troops. The others are still back at the estate, guarding the Queen.”

  “It will be dawn soon,” Aramis said. “We should head back in the direction of the church and see what we can see.”

  Indeed, the sky to the east was shading from black, through indigo, to violet and amethyst at the horizon. D’Artagnan looked around for a moment to get his bearings, and headed up the gentle slope toward the chapel. Before long they were joined by more of d’Aumont’s men, trudging back to their tents in various states of dishabille.

  “The attackers that aren’t dead ran off, back toward Illiers-Combray,” said one of them, in response to Aramis’ query about the enemy troops. “We need supplies and help for our own wounded now.”

  Aramis agreed to pass on the message, and they continued up the slope to the area behind the church where d’Artagnan had spoken to the blacksmith the evening before. The pair dismounted, and d’Artagnan gasped in surprise as his knees wavered and nearly failed to hold him up. When he raised a hand to brace himself against Rosita’s shoulder, it was shaking. He stared at it blankly in the predawn light.

  “Are you hurt?” Aramis asked, peering at him closely.

  “No,” d’Artagnan said, “but I feel very strange, suddenly.”

  “One of the perils of soldiering, I’m afraid,” Aramis said sympathetically. “It’s merely post-battle nerves. Don’t worry—it will soon pass.”

  Remembering himself, d’Artagnan forced himself to straighten. “You’re hurt, though; I felt you flinch. And your mare...”

  “Rosita?” Aramis asked, turning immediately to the horse. “What happened?”

  “A blade took her over the point of the right shoulder,” d’Artagnan said. “I don’t think it’s too bad, though.”

  Aramis was already at the horse’s right side, angling her body to catch the weak morning light as he examined the cut. “It will leave a scar,” he said, “but you’re right; it doesn’t look terribly serious. And it’s not in a place that will interfere with her movement.” He patted the muscular neck fondly, and Rosita twisted around to nudge his hip with her nose.

  “What about you, though?” d’Artagnan asked.

  Aramis reached across to pull his shirt out of his breeches and lifted it away from his right side. D’Artagnan could see the stain of blood marring the linen, but Aramis made a dismissive noise as he poked and prodded at the cut underneath with his free hand. “It’s of no import. I’ll wrap it later; no need for stitches.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” d’Artagnan said with relief. He turned his attention to the camp, spread out below them as the first rays of sun broke the horizon. Men were trying to corral the loose horses left behind when the surviving troops fled; others moved around the animals that had fallen, slitting the throats of any that still lived.

  “I predict that we will all be dining on horse meat for the foreseeable future,” Aramis said. “Poor beasts.”

  A compact, recognizably asymmetrical figure, leading a familiar black horse by the reins, wove his way through the milling men and animals, stopping here and there to speak with various people. D’Artagnan pointed. “Look... it’s de Tréville. He seems all right.”

  “Pfft,” Aramis said, “of course he’s all right. De Tréville has seen more battles in his life than you’ve had hot dinners, d’Artagnan. You should go and check in with him, though. I’ll take Rosita back to M. Rougeux’s property and give Her Majesty a report. I’ll also see if I can wrangle some bandages and supplies from the villagers; caring for the wounded will be the next order of business. Are you feeling yourself again, I trust?”

  D’Artagnan paused a moment to take stock. His shaking had subsided, though the lack of sleep he’d suffered over the past several days was making his body feel heavy and his mind slow, now that the rush of excitement and danger had faded. “I’m fine,” he said firmly. “I’ll see what I can do to help here at the camp, once I’ve spoken to the Captain.”

  Aramis nodded and eased himself up into the saddle, mindful of the cut on his side. “The ugliest part of battle is not the fighting itself, but the aftermath,” he said. “With luck, this time it won’t be too bad.”

  * * *

  It was bad enough.

  The groaning of injured men grew into an all-pervasive background noise as d’Artagnan made his way back down through the camp. He forced himself not to look too closely at the bodies on the ground as he walked past them, or to be drawn in by the pleas for help before he had made his report to de Tréville and received his orders in return.

  “I thought I told you not to let the enemy troops cut you off from your own forces,” was how de Tréville greeted him. The old soldier’s single eye raked over him, searching for injuries.

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” d’Artagnan said. “It won’t happen again. I saw Aramis; he was outnumbered and fighting on foot, so I went to help him.”

  It wasn’t a lie, exactly, and it sounded better—in d’Artagnan’s mind, at least—than saying that he had fallen behind during the charge and lost the rest of them in the dark.

  “Hmm,” de Tréville said noncommittally. “Please tell me you didn’t manage to lose the man’s horse in the course of riding to his rescue.”

  “No, sir, Aramis has her. He rode back to M. Rougeux’s property to report the outcome of the battle to the Queen. I stayed to make our report to you, and help in the camp however I can. Aramis said he would try to acquire medical supplies from the villagers.”

  “Very well,” said de Tréville. “The camp followers are already starting to attend to the dead and wounded. Arrange for those who are likely to survive to be taken to the church. Get as accurate a count of the casualties as you can. I must meet with d’Aumont and Patenaude—Tolbert was apparently injured in the attack, though I don’t know how badly. I will be in d’Aumont’s tent should you have need of me.”

  “Yes, Captain,” d’Artagnan said.

  The sun had risen completely when de Tréville took his leave and d’Artagnan looked around, trying to decide how best to approach his assigned duties. The morning light did no favors to the tableau that surrounded him, illuminating a scene perhaps better left to concealing darkness. In addition to the moans of pain and fear, punctuated by shouts and the occasional scream, the smell was rising like the morning mist—blood and piss and the contents of spilled guts. It should have been little different to d’Artagnan’s nose than the slaughtering of cattle and hogs he had known during his rural childhood... yet somehow, it was.

  Indeed, some hardy and enterprising souls were already butchering the downed horses for meat, dragging haunches and shoulders off to be sliced and smoked for jerky. The camp had the aspect of a charnel house, for all that their side had won the battle. D’Artagnan clamped down firmly on his churning stomach, telling himself that if
he was not used to death by now, after all he had seen in his short life, then truly there was little hope for him.

  Deciding to utilize the same strategy that he had used to survey the camp the previous day, he simply began walking. Aware that he needed some method of tallying the numbers of dead and injured, he stopped to pick up a piece of charred wood from an extinguished campfire. A scrap of leather roughly the length of his arm from wrist to elbow lay crumpled a few feet away, and he picked that up as well. He would make a charcoal mark along the top of the scrap for each person killed, one across the middle for each who was injured and not expected to survive, and one along the bottom for each man likely to recover from his wounds.

  With this bare outline of a plan in place, he moved further into the camp and began his grim task.

  * * *

  D’Artagnan was roughly two-thirds of the way through his initial circuit of the camp when he came upon the beautiful young woman he had seen washing clothes in the river the previous evening. She was cradling the upper body of a lad several years younger than d’Artagnan, holding a waterskin carefully to his lips, and glaring up at a grizzled soldier who stood in front of the pair, partly obscuring d’Artagnan’s view.

  “Leave off, love,” said the soldier in a condescending tone of voice. “Don’t be wasting water on that one. He’s not long for this world with his guts hanging out of his belly like that. There’s others who might actually live that need you more.”

  The wounded boy choked and turned his head away from the water; his cough dissolving into terrified sobs as he tried to look down at himself. The young woman quickly turned her attention to her charge, her angry expression softening into concern. “Hush now, don’t look,” she said. “Here, look at me instead. That’s right. You just concentrate on me now.”

  D’Artagnan was close enough now to see the awful wound that had gutted the youngster, his intestines spilling over his hands as he tried futilely to hold them in, and he flinched. The older man was right... the boy had no chance. Flies were already swarming around the mess, sensing death.

  “Oh God, it hurts,” said the lad. “It’s like fire... please, I need more water, I need it!”

  “I know,” said the woman soothingly, and raised the waterskin again for him to drink. She looked up at the gray-haired man, her eyes and voice turning hard. “If you won’t help, then at least leave him alone.”

  D’Artagnan approached just as the soldier made a disgruntled noise. “God preserve us from foolish women,” he said, and reached down as if to bodily pull the woman away from her charge. “Come away, you silly—“

  Without thought, d’Artagnan stepped in and blocked the man with an unyielding hand on his shoulder. “We have an entire river full of water,” he said. “Would you deny one of your comrades whatever comfort he can find after he fought at your side? The lady asked you to leave; I suggest you do so. I will take responsibility for this situation now.”

  The man stared at him in surprise for a moment, then turned in disgust and stalked off, grumbling imprecations under his breath. The woman watched warily as he eased himself into a crouch next to the injured boy.

  “I’m d’Artagnan,” he said, addressing the lad, and the woman’s expression relaxed, losing its watchful quality. “What’s your name?”

  “P-Pascal,” the young man stammered.

  “And yours, mademoiselle?” d’Artagnan asked.

  “Constance Bonacieux,” the woman said, “only it’s madame, not mademoiselle.”

  “Forgive me,” he said, feeling a slight blush heat his face. He immediately returned his attention to the boy. “Pascal, is there anything else you need? Can I do anything for you?”

  Pascal’s eyes were starting to glaze; not surprising given the amount of blood pooling around them. “I want my sister... I want Monique...”

  “Is Monique here, at the camp?” d’Artagnan asked. Pascal didn’t seem to hear him, but Mme Bonacieux shook her head.

  “He said earlier that he doesn’t have any family here with him,” she said quietly.

  Pascal moved restlessly in her lap. “Monique... I’m scared,” he said, growing more agitated. “I don’t want to die! Please, God, please, save me...”

  “Shh, shh,” Mme Bonacieux soothed, obviously upset by the boy’s fear and pain. “There, now...”

  “Where is Papa?” Pascal cried. D’Artagnan peeled one of Pascal’s hands away from the sticky mess at his abdomen and squeezed it tightly in his own.

  “Hold onto me, Pascal,” he said, at a loss as to how to help the dying boy. “Do you feel my hand?”

  “Monique... Papa... I’m so scared... please don’t leave me alone!” Pascal said piteously.

  “We won’t leave you, Pascal,” Mme Bonacieux said. “You’re not alone. I promise.”

  Pascal turned an unseeing gaze toward her voice. “Monique—?” he asked, before his eyes rolled up in his head and his body began to jerk like a puppet on its strings. D’Artagnan and Mme Bonacieux did their best to hold him in place, and after several seconds he fell limp, life having finally fled his abused body.

  Mme Bonacieux was pale but composed as she eased the fresh corpse off of her lap and helped d’Artagnan arrange his limbs. A muddy cloak lay discarded nearby, and d’Artagnan draped it over Pascal’s upper body, covering him. Mme Bonacieux accepted d’Artagnan’s offer of a hand up, pulling herself to her feet. Her voice quavered but a little when she said, “That’s the fourth one this morning who has died in my arms.”

  “Did you know him?” d’Artagnan asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I hardly know anyone here; only a few of the other women. I wanted to get away from my brothers, can you believe—I moved from Paris to live with them in Chartres after my husband died.” She gave a fragile little laugh. “I thought supporting Queen Anne would be some sort of grand adventure... but this isn’t quite what I’d pictured in my imagination.”

  “If everyone had a true picture in their minds of what a battle entails, I think there would be far fewer battles and wars,” d’Artagnan said, looking around at the carnage. Remembering himself, he took the charred stick and sheet of leather from his bag, and made another mark along the top. “I am making a circuit of the camp to tally the casualties for M. de Tréville. Perhaps we could walk together for a few minutes, madame?”

  Mme Bonacieux nodded, her face still wan. “I’d like that, monsieur. But, please—you must call me Constance. This is far too grim a place for such formalities.”

  “As you wish, Constance. My given name is Charles, but, honestly, everyone just calls me d'Artagnan. ‘Charles’ always makes me feel like I'm still wearing short pants for some reason.” And like I'm hearing it in my father's voice, or my mother's, he didn't add. “I need to continue along the western side of the camp, and then return to the chapel. The less seriously wounded are being taken there, and that’s where the bandages and other medical supplies will be delivered.”

  “I’ll go with you, in that case. I can try to help with the injured who are arriving there,” Constance said, and even in such terrible circumstances, d’Artagnan could not help the small sliver of pleasure that crawled through him upon hearing he would not lose her company immediately.

  The attackers had entered the camp from the east, and were turned away well before they reached the western edge. Therefore, they came upon no more dead or dying men as they walked, only a couple of wounded soldiers hobbling toward the church for treatment with the help of their comrades.

  “I've told you something of my background and how I came to be here,” Constance said as they headed up the slope toward the churchyard, “yet I know nothing of you, beyond the fact that you report to a man named de Tréville. Who is he, pray tell?”

  “M. de Tréville is the captain of the Queen’s private guard,” d’Artagnan said, not above bragging a little to impress the beautiful woman walking next to him. “He commissioned me into service two months ago, and since then I have been hel
ping to protect Her Majesty from her enemies, who are apparently both numerous and determined.”

  Constance’s eyes lit up with excitement, and she placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s upper arm to stop him. “You’ve seen the Queen in person?” she asked, obviously enthralled. “Even spoken with her?”

  “I visited with Her Majesty and paid my respects to the infant King only last evening,” he replied, feeling his chest puff out a bit with pride.

  “That’s amazing, d’Artagnan!” Constance said. “Please, you must tell me what she’s like. My godfather was at court and used to tell stories of life at the palace when I was small. Is she as beautiful as he said?”

  “She has an ineffable air of radiance about her, like that of an angel. Even more so, now that she is also a mother,” d’Artagnan replied, not adding though at this moment she pales in my eyes before your own compassion and beauty.

  “I’ve never met royalty,” Constance said wistfully. “M. de La Porte—that’s my godfather—had planned to sponsor me at court when I was younger. Then... well, the King’s brother deposed him, and my godfather barely managed to maintain his own position as a gentleman-in-waiting to Isabella of Savoy. But I’ve always admired Queen Anne. When the opportunity came to do something concrete to help her, I leapt at it.”

  “You should dine with me tonight, at the chateau where the Queen is staying,” d’Artagnan said quickly, without thought. “I’m sure Her Majesty would be willing to meet with such an ardent supporter as yourself.”

  His companion’s eyes grew wide as dinner plates. “Do you truly think so?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, I’m certain of it,” d’Artagnan said, hoping fervently that the Queen—and de Tréville, for that matter—would see things the same way. “I must take my leave of you soon to complete my duties, but meet me again in front of the church before vespers, and I will escort you there.”

  The smile that split Constance’s face made her seem suddenly years younger—carefree and light despite the mud and blood smeared over her skirts and bodice. D’Artagnan caught his breath, unable to help himself.