by R A Dodson
“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 a while 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. “Here—come closer.”
Chapter 36
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’s 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’s 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 was 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 before curling up on the 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. A lad 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 shirtsleeves, 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, and 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, making 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 aware of this fact. 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’ hor
se. He walked to the camp last evening, so she should still be in the stable. 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 meantime, 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, they 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 though 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, hanging half out of the saddle for a moment before he fell. 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.
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.
Screams and the sound of gunfire echoed in d’Artagnan’s ears, disorienting in the flickering firelight of the camp. 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, unexpectedly finding himself in a little area clear of fighting. Panting from exertion, 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.