Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2

by R. A. Steffan

  He tried to reach the knot. His fingers could make out the free ends of the rope below it, but he couldn’t get the angle to manipulate the knot itself, and his hands were already starting to go numb from reduced blood flow. He shuffled around until he could at least lean his right shoulder up against the wall, still feeling dizzy from the punch.

  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to embrace Athos for his bravery and selflessness, or shake him and shout in his face until he promised never to throw himself in harm’s way on d’Artagnan’s behalf again. The man’s actions made no sense. D’Artagnan was young and strong, and quite frankly knew fewer details of the political and military situation surrounding Queen Anne than Athos did. Their captor was right; Athos should have let them take him.

  Stomach roiling with guilt and worry, d’Artagnan tried to quiet his breathing and calm his pounding heart enough to listen to what was happening on the other side of the large building. Low voices could be heard; the rattle of the chain. He held his breath, but it was impossible to make out any words across the echoing space.

  While he still had some feeling left in his hands, he began to explore behind him; fingers brushing over the free ends of the rope. It was rough hemp; not new—the fibers having reached that state of dryness which caused the cordage to feel slightly brittle and dusty, but with no signs of rot. The wooden post into which the iron ring had been set was unfinished oak, but the sharpness of the corners had been lost to time and the teeth of bored horses with nothing better to do than gnaw at the wall where they were left tied for hours on end.

  He had to hitch his arms up uncomfortably to get at the ring; still heavy and solid despite the layer of flaky rust covering the metal. The low murmur of voices coming from outside his makeshift prison was broken by an unmistakable grunt of pain, and d’Artagnan’s heart sped up again. He closed his eyes and forced himself to continue his exploration of the metal under his fingers. Like most such fittings, it was hinged so as to move with the rope when the horse moved its head to and fro, and d’Artagnan’s perseverance was rewarded when the skin of his finger caught on a rough burr in the metalwork.

  Another grunt followed by a low groan floated to his ears.

  The burr was not sharp, exactly—it wouldn’t pierce skin—but it might catch clothing. Experimentally, d’Artagnan twisted himself around in such a way that he could grasp the loose end of rope and lift it a bit to rub it back and forth across the edge of the hinge. He felt a twinge of excitement when the twisted fibers caught and pulled on the small obstruction.

  He dropped the tail of the rope and moved himself this way and that for a few moments, trying to decide on the best position for what he had planned. It was incredibly awkward, but if he stood at an angle with his left shoulder near the wall, hunched forward with his elbows bent, he could press the loops of rope wrapped tightly around his left wrist against the iron burr. By swaying his upper body back and forth, the rope sawed up and down against the small edge, and he could feel the tiny, individual fibers snag and fray.

  His injured shoulder protested the effort almost immediately, and his uninjured shoulder followed suit within minutes. He gritted his teeth and settled in for a sustained effort. Eventually, he was forced to rest for a bit... as much as one could rest when tied in such an uncomfortable position. He couldn’t readily gauge his progress. There were definitely some fuzzy strands of unraveled rope brushing his skin, but the body of the twisted cord still seemed largely intact.

  More sounds of a man in pain quickly banished thoughts of rest, and he repositioned himself to continue. A new source of discomfort soon made itself known, as the rope rubbed against his left wrist with every stroke, scraping against the sensitive skin. He ignored it.

  Athos’ first scream, when it finally came, was something that would stay with d’Artagnan for the rest of his life. His stomach dropped, and the hair on the back of his neck rose at the high-pitched cry of distress. He sawed the rope against the hinge faster and harder, sweat beginning to run down his forehead and into his eyes. The muscles in his arms, shoulders, and back burned, but that was nothing to the mounting fear and nausea at the thought of Athos, who had shown him nothing but hospitality and kindness, suffering so in an effort to protect him.

  More howls of pain followed the first. D’Artagnan’s muscles began to tremble and fail, losing coordination. Guilt and self-loathing flooded him as he slumped forward, unable to continue without resting again.

  Too weak. Too slow. Not good enough or strong enough to save anyone he cared about.

  He longed for his whip; for the peace and oblivion of receiving punishment for his failings. Another scream echoed through the barn, Athos’ voice becoming hoarse with overuse. D’Artagnan’s breath hitched, and he forced himself up and into position again. His shoulder and arm muscles howled in protest, and he decided that this pain would be his punishment. The cramp and burn of abused muscles was different than the clear, sharp bite of the cat o’nine tails, but it was still pain, and pain was what he deserved.

  The worst part was the focus required. The rise and fall of the whip was hypnotic; the rough drag of his bindings across a tiny metal edge necessitated his close attention if the burr was to rasp against the same place on the rope every time. Additionally, the pain was variable and unexpected; not the comforting predictability of lashes meeting skin. One moment the rope dragged over the raw flesh of his wrist, tearing it. The next, a new muscle in his shoulder cramped, twisting further agony through the knife scar there.

  This was what he deserved. He repeated the thought over and over like a chant, in time with his jerky movements. This was what he deserved. The screams continued intermittently, becoming raspy and desperate; then anguished and pleading. D’Artagnan’s left wrist became wet and slick with blood from chafing against the prickly hemp fibers with every movement. Finally, mercifully, his mind seemed to soften and blur, sliding above the pain like a flat rock skimmed across the surface of a flowing river.

  He was aware of his goal and of his friend and mentor’s continued torture. Time, however, was a meaningless concept, and he could no more have guessed how long he had been tied to the wall than he could have described the face of God. When the pattern of noises suddenly changed, and the screams were replaced with silence—interrupted only by low voices and the clank of the chain—he was brought back abruptly to himself.

  He was surprised to discover only a few strands of the rope left intact, the thin remnant digging wickedly into the damaged flesh of his wrist. Voices and footsteps were coming closer to his makeshift prison, until he could at last make out words. The leader was speaking to Athos, sounding positively jovial; his words punctuated by the occasional laugh from his cohort—Thierry, presumably.

  "I knew you would come to see things from my point of view eventually, my dear Comte," said the man. "Now, forgive me, but I must say you do not look at all well. Why don’t you take a little while to rest with your young friend, and I will be back later to continue our discussion, after I have penned a short message for my employer."

  Stony silence was the only answer as the footsteps approached the door to the stall. Desperation flooded d’Artagnan as he realized this might be their only chance. Heedless of his abused arms and wrists, he jerked forward with all his strength against his damaged bonds, swallowing a cry of his own as the remaining fibers flayed his injured wrist before finally giving way.

  His left hand was free.

  He swung around, scrabbling at the knot with clumsy, numb fingers. It loosened after an endless moment and he yanked the tails of the rope loose, letting them dangle from the loop still tied around his right wrist. D’Artagnan darted as quietly as he could across the stall and pressed himself to the front wall beside the door, grateful for the darkness. The door creaked open, allowing lamplight to illuminate the back wall where d’Artagnan should have been.

  "What the hell?" said an unfamiliar voice—Thierry’s—as the man stepped through the doorway.

  D�
�Artagnan simultaneously leapt forward and yelled, "Athos, now!", hoping against hope that the man was in any condition to fight. He grabbed Thierry from behind with arms that felt six feet long and heavy as bars of lead. Fumbling with dead fingers, he grabbed the tail of the rope trailing from his right wrist with his left hand and tightened it around Thierry’s neck, squeezing with all his remaining strength and dragging the man further into the stall as he choked and scrabbled at the makeshift garrote.

  Athos and his captor were barely more than dark silhouettes in the doorway, against the lamplight outside the stall. Athos—barefoot and half-clothed—clasped his bound hands in front of him like a club and swung them at the leader’s head, sending the man staggering and the pistol flying from his hand to land in the dirty straw at their feet. Athos lunged for the weapon, but his opponent tackled him before he could grasp it and rolled on top of him.

  With a feral growl, Athos kneed the man in the groin. Their captor roared in pain and slid to the side, curling around himself on the ground. Grabbing the pistol by the barrel, Athos slammed the butt into the man’s head, and he went limp.

  D’Artagnan was distracted as Thierry tried to claw at his face and eyes with his right hand; his left still scrabbling at the rope. The movements became increasingly uncoordinated, and finally he collapsed, dragging d’Artagnan down with him.

  When d’Artagnan eventually released the rope from Thierry’s neck and disentangled himself, he looked up to see Athos opening the leader’s throat with his own dagger. The man’s lifeblood spurted over his chest and onto the floor in a brief, grisly geyser. Athos, still on his knees, slumped against the doorframe.

  "Is yours dead?" he asked in a voice like broken glass.

  D’Artagnan forced his heavy, uncooperative limbs around until he could press fingers to Thierry’s neck, and found no pulse. "I think so."

  "Make sure," Athos said, and slid the knife along the floor to him.

  D’Artagnan hesitated; taken aback by the idea of killing an opponent who was already defeated. A moment’s thought, though, and he realized with a jolt that if Athos had given any information under torture, this man knew what it was, and the Queen’s life was in danger.

  Steeling himself, he grasped the knife in one clumsy hand and Thierry’s hair in the other. Closing his eyes tightly, he slid the blade across the man’s throat with the same smooth, quick movement he would use to slaughter a goat or a sheep. He forced himself to look down, releasing his breath when he saw the blood oozing out of the wound without the force of a living, beating heart behind it.

  His eyes sought his companion immediately. "Athos, are you—"

  Athos spoke across him in a voice still hoarse from screaming.

  "Not now," he said. "We need to flee immediately."

  D’Artagnan swallowed and nodded. "I’ll saddle the horses. Where are the rest of your clothes?" The older man was bare-chested, clothed only in his linen smallclothes.

  "No time," Athos snapped. "Hughes will have heard the commotion. Get your man’s weapons and his purse, if he has one. Hurry."

  Athos suited his own actions to his words, efficiently stripping the leader’s weapon belt and feeling among his clothes for a purse as d’Artagnan quickly cut the rope loose from his right wrist and removed Thierry’s possessions.

  "Help me up," said the older man. "Get me on Aramis’ horse."

  D’Artagnan helped Athos lurch to his feet with arms that felt like stiff lengths of waterlogged wood. The two staggered down the row of stalls until they came to their familiar mounts, tied with halters and ropes to the same sorts of rings to which d’Artagnan himself had been bound mere minutes ago.

  Athos untied Rosita and looped the lead rope around the mare’s neck, knotting the free end under her chin to form a rough set of reins. They led her out of the stall and d’Artagnan went down on one knee, letting Athos use his other bent leg as a step to scramble inelegantly onto the mare’s bare back with a choked gasp as the exertion aggravated injuries unseen in the dim light.

  D’Artagnan rushed into the next stall and retrieved Grimaud’s mare, copying Athos’ method of using the lead rope in place of reins even as he led the horse toward the closed door of the barn. Unbarring the entrance, d’Artagnan swung one of the two heavy doors open just far enough for a man to ride through. He grabbed the reins and a handful of the mare’s mane and vaulted up to lie across the horse’s spine.

  He was trying to haul himself into position with weak, trembling arms when Hughes barreled into the doorway, pistol in hand. Athos fired his own captured pistol, but missed. Taken by surprise, Hughes missed his own shot in the flickering lantern light. With a roar, the big man grabbed d’Artagnan’s leg and tried to drag him off the horse. D’Artagnan kicked out, feeling his boot heel connect with flesh and bone, and Hughes staggered back. Overbalanced, d’Artagnan slid from the mare, landing awkwardly; his death grip on the rope reins yanking unintentionally against the frantic animal’s head with the full force of his weight.

  The little horse pulled back against the sudden pressure, scrambling backwards until her hindquarters bumped into Hughes’ shoulder. With a high-pitched squeal of anger at being hemmed in, front and rear, the animal hauled off with both hind feet and kicked Hughes in the chest, felling the large man like a hewn tree. He hit the ground and lay still.

  D’Artagnan steadied himself and the mare and stared at the downed man for a moment, jaw hanging.

  I’m starting to understand what Grimaud sees in this horse, he thought stupidly.

  "Don’t just stand there, man. Get his money and weapons and come on," Athos said, shattering d’Artagnan’s reverie.

  He quickly complied, scrambling onto the irritated horse’s back successfully on the second attempt, stolen weapons digging into his side. Righting himself, he looked to where Athos was painfully hunched over Rosita’s neck as she danced nervously in place. Without a word, the two rode through the open door and into the darkness outside, eyes adjusting slowly to the faint sheen of the setting moon.

  As quietly as possible, they picked their way past the smoldering house and up the tree-lined drive, keeping to the grassy verge to muffle the sound of hoof beats. They were almost to the road when d’Artagnan’s horse snorted softly and swiveled an ear to the right, craning her head around and skittering sideways a moment later. Remembering the last time that had happened, d’Artagnan hissed, "Athos! To our right!" just before pounding hooves and shouts broke the stillness of the night.

  Chapter VIII: July 5th, 1631

  "RIDE FOR YOUR LIFE, d’Artagnan!" Athos said, and spurred Aramis’ mare to a gallop, d’Artagnan following close behind. A shot rang out behind them as they scrambled around a tight turn onto the main road, heading south. A second shot followed, but fortunately for the pair of them, it was too dark for accuracy. Both men urged the horses into a flat gallop, knowing their only chance was to outdistance their pursuers.

  Without benefit of saddle or bit, d’Artagnan gripped the mare’s slick hide with his knees and gave the horse her head, feeling her powerful, compact muscles bunch and explode beneath him with every stride. A fall at this speed meant almost certain death—either from the impact or at the hands of their pursuers—and was all too likely, riding bareback as they were. D’Artagnan’s fear was all for Athos, though. His friend had undergone hours of torture and could barely remain upright under his own power.

  He risked a glance to the side through watering eyes and received the impression of a figure bent nearly double; hands tangled in the Spanish mare’s extravagant mane, clinging stubbornly to the animal’s broad back. Both horses’ breath came in deep, rhythmic snorts as they settled in for a sustained run.

  Their saving grace was that these horses had rested in the barn during their captivity, while their pursuers’ animals had been out on patrol during that time. Additionally, though the lack of tack made their headlong flight ridiculously dangerous, it also meant that their captors’ mounts were carrying upwards of fifty e
xtra pounds apiece in saddlery and supplies. D’Artagnan refused to think about how they would manage after their escape with little more than the clothes on their backs—and barely any of those, in Athos’ case. Instead, he focused on the way that the hoof beats behind them were fading almost imperceptibly as they gained ground.

  The moon had set, and Rosita’s light gray hide was a faint blur beside him under the starlight. D’Artagnan split his attention between his injured companion, the pursuers now far behind them, and the labored breathing of his own sweat-lathered mount. He squinted. The dark shapes off the road on Athos’ other side were almost certainly trees, he decided.

  "Athos!" he hissed, receiving no response.

  Sitting back, he allowed his exhausted horse to slow, which she did gladly. He was relieved to find that Rosita kept pace with him in the apparent absence of any direction from her passenger. As quickly and carefully as he could, he eased close to the other horse and grabbed her rope. Closer inspection showed Athos still bent over her neck, hands tangled tightly in the horse’s mane.

  "I’m taking us into the woods to hide," d’Artagnan whispered, unsure if the other man was even aware enough to understand.

  He directed the horses off the road and down a gentle incline, letting them pick their own way in the dark. Not until the large boles closed around them, hiding them from view, did he release a tense breath. The little mare he was riding continued to press forward eagerly, and he concentrated on avoiding low branches and other obstacles, letting her take them deeper into the forest, always traveling downhill.

  The horse’s goal became obvious when the rushing of water caught d’Artagnan’s notice over the background rustle of leaves. He was suddenly aware of his own powerful hunger and thirst, it having been many difficult and exhausting hours since they had eaten or drunk. The trees opened up into a clearing, allowing just enough starlight in to see by. The horses hurried forward to the pebbled shore of the small river and plunged their muzzles into the cool water, drinking deeply.