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By R. A. Steffan
Copyright 2015 by R. A. Steffan
SAMPLE CHAPTER
Chapter I: July 11th, 1631
Call nothing yours which you can lose,
Whatever the world gives, it intends to snatch away,
Think on heavenly things, may your heart be in heaven,
Happy is the one who will be able to despise the world.
~John Audelay, "Cur mundus militat sub vana gloria," ca. 1426
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IN THE SLANTING LIGHT of the midsummer evening, the village of La Croix-du-Perche was transformed.
Tents littered the village green like a vast herd of strange, sleeping animals, flaps fluttering lightly in the breeze. The buzz of voices and the clatter of pots being hung over cooking fires were punctuated by the occasional bark of raucous laughter as Antoine d’Aumont’s troops amused themselves with drinking and gambling.
D’Artagnan moved among the tents and people, stopping here and there to introduce himself and inquire if the men’s needs were being met. He was still struck at odd moments by the surreal quality of his surroundings. After laboring for months against near-insurmountable odds, it was almost impossible to believe that deliverance had appeared so suddenly and unexpectedly for their small group.
The Queen—still recovering from giving birth the night before—had smiled a radiant smile, a single tear sliding down her cheek when d’Artagnan and de Tréville returned to report that almost three hundred men had joined their cause. D’Aumont’s militia was no cobbled together force raised in a day. The nobleman, whose family had supported the house of Bourbon for generations, had been quietly gathering troops since the assassination of King Louis’ treacherous younger brother and the ascendancy of Isabella of Savoy’s infant son Francis III to the throne.
Unlike the slow trickle of local men and boys from La Croix-du-Perche and the surrounding villages, d’Aumont’s forces were supported by a convoy overseen by dozens of camp followers—wives and sisters, boys too young to fight, and a smattering of old men. The wagons and carts of supplies had been trailing in throughout the day, laden with burlap sacks of grain, kegs of wine, piles of produce, cages of squawking chickens and geese; even the occasional fat pig.
D’Artagnan was fascinated by the management and coordination involved in maintaining such a force at a time when many had difficulty merely putting enough food on the table for their own families. He knew little of Chartres, but it was clearly a much larger city with greater resources than the towns near where he had grown up and through which he had traveled on his journey from Gascony. The one thing the small army lacked was horseflesh. Only d’Aumont and his lieutenants had been mounted; the rest of the men were on foot. And while there were a few draft horses pulling supply wagons, most of the motley collection of conveyances were hauled by asses and oxen.
To be fair, additional horses would only have increased the need for heavy supplies like oats and hay. Again, d’Artagnan shook his head at all of the decisions involved in raising troops for battle. De Tréville had chosen him to act as a liaison with the new men, and he silently vowed to absorb as much information on the subject as he could from both his captain and d’Aumont, so that he could become more useful to the Queen’s cause.
A hat with a familiar curled feather caught d’Artagnan’s attention across an open space to his left as he continued through the camp, and he turned to look. Aramis was seated with several other people in front of one of the larger tents, bottle of wine in hand, speaking to a handsome middle-aged couple. The woman was lithe and olive-skinned, with a simple braid of thick, dark hair trailing almost to her waist. The man was pale and muscular, with high cheekbones. Streaks of silver lined his sandy hair and meticulously trimmed beard. The casually possessive hand he rested on the woman’s lower back spoke of a husband and wife, or at least a man with his long-time mistress. Both of them laughed loudly at something the chevalier had said.
Aramis looked up, his eyes sweeping around the area and catching on d’Artagnan’s. After the first instant of recognition, Aramis smirked and raised his bottle in salute. He winked, throwing the younger man a look that could only be described as devilish before returning his attention to his two companions. D’Artagnan shook his head in exasperation and continued on, wondering what sort of trouble his friend was courting now.
As he resumed his slow circuit of the camp, a flustered, red-faced man stopped him to ask about getting more water buckets from the villagers, and d’Artagnan promised to see to it. Continuing on, he followed a path of trampled grass leading downhill to the edge of the Foussarde River, which demarcated the southern edge of the green.
Several young women from the supply wagons were gathered there, chatting amongst themselves as they washed the men’s clothing in the babbling waterway. D’Artagnan’s gaze was caught by one of them when she laughed in delight at something her friend had said. She had dancing blue eyes and her hair fell in dark ringlets over her shoulders, flashing with red highlights where the setting sun shone on it. Her nose turned up slightly, lending her face a pert aspect supported by the rosy bloom on her cheeks.
After a moment, the woman looked up at him, a question in her eyes, and d’Artagnan realized with a start that he had been staring. His jaw clicked shut against the nonsensical apology that tried to rise to his tongue, and he hastily retreated. He was unable to stop himself looking back over his shoulder, though, and he hoped his expression was closer to a friendly smile than the foolish grin he suspected it was. The young woman was also smiling, and it broadened to crinkle the corners of her eyes when d’Artagnan—giving no thought to where he was treading—stumbled over a tuft of grass. Her light laughter, and that of her companions, followed him over the crest of the hill.
Shaking his head and cursing himself for a dolt, he continued his rounds, skirting closer to the eastern edge of the camp as he headed back toward the church where his old gelding was tethered. This route took him past the tent where Aramis had been speaking with the handsome couple earlier. Noises were coming from within, and d’Artagnan heard the distinctive sound of Aramis' laughter. Apparently his friend had found some kindred spirits with whom to while away the evening.
The sound of metal ringing against metal grew louder as d’Artagnan approached a corner of the camp that had been appropriated by workmen from d’Aumont’s group. A forge had been set up in an outbuilding at the edge of the church grounds, where a heavyset, strong-looking man labored over a large anvil, striking a sheet of metal with rhythmic strokes of his hammer. Though his own meager skills as a blacksmith had indirectly acquired him his current position in the Queen’s guard, d’Artagnan was more than happy to see that his services as a farrier to the group’s small stable of horses would no longer be required. The tough, muscular body of the individual before him suited the position far better than his own slender frame.
Not wanting to interrupt, he stood quietly off to the side, the heat from the forge slowly baking one side of his face and neck while he waited until the smith reached a good stopping point in his work. The piece on the anvil was taking the distinctive shape of a cuirass, though to d’Artagnan’s eye, the breastplate would need an uncommonly petite, slender torso to wear it. Still, it was fine workmanship, and he was happy to watch the process for a few minutes until the metal cooled and the blacksmith straightened from his work, using a pair of long tongs to return it to the forge for reheating.
“You need something?” the man said over his shoulder, not bothering to look at d’Artagnan directly.
D’Artagnan cleared his throat. “Actually, I came here to ask you that very question. My name is Charles d’Artagnan; I am acting as liaison between Her Majesty’s guards and M. d’Aumont’s troops. Your forces seem well-supplied, but it’s my job to fill any needs that may remain.”
The smith grunted an acknowledgement. “If the higher-ups want weapons and armor, someone needs to bring me firewood and wet clay from the riverbank to build a charcoal kiln. Can’t work steel over a smoky little campfire made from unseasoned scrub wood, and I’m nearly out of what coal we brought with us.”
“Of course,” d’Artagnan agreed. “I’ll arrange it as soon as possible. Do you need anything else?”
“Couple of lads to tend the kiln,” the man said. “Also, see if the villagers have any scrap metal I can melt down. Got a feelin’ we’ll be needing all the blades we can get before long.”
“I’ve got a feeling you’re absolutely right,” d’Artagnan said. “I’ll see to it.” He nodded at the tiny cuirass as the blacksmith lifted it from the blue and orange flames. “That’s an interesting piece you’re working on. I saw some young lads with the supply wagons, but I didn’t think they’d be joining the fighting.”
The man arranged the cuirass over the horn of the anvil and hefted his hammer once more. “It’s not for a lad,” he said cryptically, before the metallic ring of hammer on steel cut off any further discussion.
* * *
Darkness was falling by the time d’Artagnan managed to procure more water buckets and send them to where they were needed, as well as organizing some of the village boys to get firewood and dig clay to haul up to the blacksmith. Deciding that he would ask M. Rougeux about gathering scrap metal, he mounted his gelding and headed back to the house. The day had been a long, exhausting one—starting as it had in the small hours before dawn with preparation for a battle that never occurred—and d’Artagnan wanted nothing more than to check in with his friends, eat something, and fall into a bed somewhere.
It was almost incomprehensible to think that a mere forty-eight hours ago, he’d been hunched over Athos' unconscious body by the uncertain light of a flickering campfire, trying to feed him sips of weak broth after the man succumbed to his injuries and collapsed on the road back from Blois. That night had been among the lowest points of d’Artagnan’s life, and yet, two days later, Athos was recovering amongst his friends, the Queen had given birth to a new King of France, and they had somehow managed to acquire an army. If his head were not already dizzy from weariness, thinking about it all would be enough to send his thoughts spinning.
Turning his pony into M. Rougeux’s property, with a tired smile for the young men guarding the gates, he dismounted and led the old gelding into the stables, unsaddling him and efficiently seeing to the horse’s simple needs. Grimaud’s little broom-tailed mare was still lame after the hard use she had seen on the road from Blois, and d’Artagnan took it as an excuse to ride his comfortable childhood mount for the first time since he had loaned the pony to the Queen, some weeks earlier. This small point of familiarity amongst all the turmoil settled him somewhat, and he gave the shaggy little beast a final fond pat before trudging back to the house.
He acknowledged two of d’Aumont’s soldiers who were standing watch on either side of the doorway with a brisk nod and entered the Rougeux home quietly, moving down the stone-flagged hallway to the kitchen. Bread, cheese, and flagons of wine had been left out for the soldiers coming and going at odd hours. D’Artagnan ate with gusto, his weariness rising steadily even as his empty stomach filled.
It remained only to speak to someone and share the latest news of the day, after which he would see if he could lay claim to a corner of the mattress in Athos’ sick room for a few hours. Though honestly, at this point, even the bare floor was beginning to look inviting. After a moment’s thought, he headed toward the back of the house to the Queen’s birthing room, where he knew someone would be awake and on guard.
“It’s d’Artagnan,” he called softly as he turned the corner, not wanting to startle an armed man.
Porthos looked up at him with a grin from his position flanking the closed door. “Done for the day, are you?”
“I sincerely hope so. At the very least, the day seems to have done for me,” d’Artagnan replied fervently. “Is everything here going well?”
“Everything’s right as rain. Athos is sleeping... Milady, too, as far as I know,” the big man replied, before indicating the room behind him with a nod of his head. “Her Majesty is up with the baby right now; de Tréville went in a while ago to check on them both. Oh, an’ Aramis went off duty earlier this evening. Said he was going to the camp for a few hours and see if he could find some trouble to get into.”
“I saw him awhile ago. I don't know if he found trouble, but he seems to have found something to hold his interest, at least,” d’Artagnan said. “Are you all right here on your own? Do you need me for anything?”
“Nah. I’m fine, and you look ready to drop. Go get some rest,” Porthos said. “Here—just a minute, though. You haven’t had a chance to see him yet, have you? The baby, I mean. You should stick your head in for a moment. Pay your respects and all that.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude...” d’Artagnan began, taken aback.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Porthos said, and knocked softly on the door. “I told you, she’s up with him right now, anyway. She’ll probably appreciate the visit.”
“Enter,” the Queen’s voice answered quietly from within.
“See?” Porthos said with a smile, and opened the door. “Your Majesty, d’Artagnan is here. He’d like to pay his respects to the new King.”
D’Artagnan peered hesitantly around the doorjamb. The Queen was pacing slowly around the room, rocking a tiny, swaddled bundle in her arms. De Tréville was slumped in a chair near the large bed, fast asleep with the stump of his missing arm cradled close to his chest and his head tipped awkwardly back to rest against the wall.
Her Majesty smiled a glowing smile and beckoned him inside, lifting a finger to her lips to indicate quiet and flicking her eyes briefly toward the sleeping commander of the guard. “My son may have no taste for sleep right now, but at least our faithful captain can finally rest awhile from his duties,” she whispered, gentle humor lacing her voice.
D’Artagnan entered and bowed deeply in front of his monarchs. The Queen’s eyes were fond as he rose. “You have not yet seen our new King, have you d’Artagnan? I recall that Mme Rougeux was tending him when you and the Captain made your report to me this morning,” she said. “Come closer.”
D’Artagnan approached curiously. The Queen angled her body and pulled back a corner of the swaddling, revealing the smallest baby d’Artagnan had ever seen. The infant’s eyes were clenched tightly shut. His face was red, squashed, and wrinkled. He gurgled and fussed, one diminutive hand freeing itself from the blanket to wave in the air. D’Artagnan could see the crescents of his tiny fingernails as his fist clenched and unclenched.
“He is perfect, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan whispered with complete sincerity.
“He is the answer to all my prayers,” the Queen replied softly. “And without your help and that of our other trusted musketeers, neither of us would be here tonight. We will never forget that, d’Artagnan.”
“It is my honor to serve,” d’Artagnan said, around the lump rising in his throat. “Your Majesty has offered me a place in the world—a chance at a new life after I thought everything lost.”
“Then I am doubly glad that God sent you to us when he did,” the Queen said. “Now, though—loyalty is no substitute for sleep, even for a soldier. The Captain assures me that guards are patrolling the village and will give us warning of any attack. Rest and regain your strength, d’Artagnan. All will be well.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” d’Artagnan replied, bowing over the hand she offered him and backing out of the room respectfully.
Porthos closed the door gently behind him and gave him a cheeky wink. “She really likes you, you know. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up a comte, or a marquis or something at the end of all this.”
“Right now,” d’Artagnan said honestly, “I would trade a noble title for a mattress and a blanket.”
Porthos let loose a low rumble of laughter. “Go on, then—off with you. Someone will wake you up if you’re needed.”
D’Artagnan nodded and the big man clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a companionable shove down the hallway. Athos’ sick room was located on the other side of the house. D'Artagnan's feet took him there more out of habit than anything else. The door was slightly ajar, and the interior of the room, dark. He tapped his knuckles against the worn wood, the noise too soft to disturb a sleeper, but enough to catch the attention of anyone already awake. There was no response.
The door swung silently on oiled hinges as d’Artagnan eased it open. Light from the candle flickering in a sconce in the hallway illuminated a stripe across the room, revealing two figures entwined on the bed. Milady clung to Athos, her head resting on his shoulder and her wild curls spilling across his chest. His nose was buried in the hair at the crown of her head, breathing her in. Both were fast asleep. D’Artagnan stared at them for a long moment, a pang of longing that he could not quite define tugging at his heart.
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.
* * *
Want to read more? The Queen's Musketeers: Book 3 is available now!
