Author's Notes: Once again, I decided I'm not going for historical accuracy and just wanted to write a fun adventure I hope you all enjoy, but due to word count limitations, I had to thin down most of my usual detail. The towns of Boitron and Verdelot are actual places in France per modern Google Maps, but everything I've written about them is pure fiction. Also, I confirmed with the rules, and not including these Notes, the Disclaimer, and the Summary, the actual word count of the story came out to 10,238 words, which is, fortunately, within the 10% buffer allotted!
Disclaimer: I do not own "The Musketeers" in any capacity with the exception of the books written by Alexandre Dumas from where these characters originated. There is no money made from this hobby, but that does not stop my imagination from conjuring up new stories.
Summary: Post-Series. The infamous marauder, the Gray Falcon of Boitron, finally apprehends his long-sought prey. Will his newly-acquired captives be compassionate to his plight or will they seek to end him? My entry in the October Fête des Mousquetaires challenge: Masquerade.
The Masks We Wear
Several years ago, a shadow began to appear throughout the forests of the Boitron lands, and no wealthy traveler has ever been safe since his arrival. Under the watchful eye of the Gray Falcon, all is seen as he manages to consistently remain a step ahead of his selected targets. No noble should dare roam the countryside of the Boitron lands alone – and, to do so is a foolhardy quest. Those who have disregarded such warnings in the past have found themselves ensnared in one of the Gray Falcon's many traps and their purse far lighter because of their imprudence.
General Marcellin, the overseer of Boitron, has shown he is far too lazy to waste resources on such an enemy – so long as he continues to receive his ever-increasing taxes when they are due. Still, the Gray Falcon has become a champion of the commoners of Boitron, despite General Marcellin's disregard of him.
If you happen upon the Gray Falcon in your travels, be wise and spare him your change so that he may use it for the betterment of the overtaxed Boitron people.
– The Legend of the Gray Falcon of Boitron, as overheard in many a local tavern
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Chapter 1 – Of Carriages and Safe Travels
The carriage rumbled along the muddied road, splashing murky water and smearing the already dirt-ridden side with grime. The slimy filth slid down the wooden slats, only to fall again onto the spinning wheels, where it was flung backwards. The droplets returned to their place along the worn-down path, and the cycle of splattering mud continued in the aftermath of the previous day's storms. The sun had not yet shone long enough in the mid-morning to evaporate the puddles, and the driver begged the two horses at the front to pull harder so that the wheels would not sink into the soft earth.
The dark curtains of the carriage windows had been drawn, making it difficult to discern if there were any passengers aboard. The few citizens that had come into contact with the carriage had merely remarked that it looked like a rolling storage for the bodies of the dead. Others claimed the owner was probably a lazy carpenter who had no idea about how to decorate it with proper embellishments. And, another had called it a sloppy box on wheels, good for nothing more than hauling cheap wine to an even cheaper tavern.
Still, there was one amongst the few citizens that had said nothing, simply watching the carriage move along through the forest. He sat upon his horse at the top of the crest overlooking the road, his face obscured by a dark gray scarf that covered his nose and mouth, with only an opening beneath his chin to allow space for breathing. The charcoal-colored cavalier upon his head was worn low and provided his eyes nothing more than a slit to peer through, making it a mystery to even discern the color of his irises. The long, gray cloak he wore gave nothing away as to whether his clothing beneath was of a pauper or a prince.
"That's what we want," he said softly, but confidently.
"Be reasonable, Falcon. No one worth their salt would be seen dead in that moving storage crate," another man retorted. He was dressed in dark greens and dark tans, and his style of clothing was similar to that of the gray-clad observer.
The man named Falcon kept his eyes on his quarry but addressed his partner. "That poor rendition of a carriage is exactly why they have chosen it, Talon. They believed they would be concealed and that we would not think to find what we seek in such an inferior design."
"And, if you're wrong…"
"If you doubt me, then take the road behind us and return to the community. You will be absolved of my long-awaited plans and will face no punishment for my impending crime. I've waited far too many years for this opportunity, and I will not waste it because I have grown fearful when the moment has finally come into alignment."
The green and tan Talon took a long breath, his attention on the carriage as it was drawing near. "No, Falcon, I swore to you I would stay by your side, and I will face whatever fate comes our way."
"Thank you, Brother. Now, inform the others the plan is as we agreed. Time is of the essence."
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The carriage came to a sudden stop, and the blonde-haired driver who was not more than thirty-years-old began assessing how to get around the missing section of the dirt road. It was apparent even to him that someone had been extraordinarily busy the night or day before, removing large sections of dirt.
In his eleven years as a carriage driver, he had never seen such a neatly-prepared trap before. Before him on the ground was a hole that extended across the width of the road, and was nearly three feet deep.
Looking to his left and right, the driver considered the option of simply pulling around the divot, but the thick bushes on the left and the tight growth of trees on the right were not wide enough from the road to fit the carriage through safely. Whoever had done this, had been strategic in ensuring that the carriage and its contents would not be able to pass this section of road.
Two knocks came from the inside wall of the carriage to the right of the driver's seat. Then, the slat opened, and a pair of dark irises peered out.
Strangely calm, the man's voice that belonged to those dark irises asked, "Martin, why have we stopped?"
"We encountered an obstruction," the driver replied. Looking up, Martin started raising his arm and the sunlight glinted off the barrel of his pistol, "It's a trap! There is…"
The sound of another pistol cracked through the forest, echoing amongst the trees and forcing the birds to screech as they darted from the noise. Amidst the scattering of the birds and mammals as the animals ducked for safety, the driver screamed and the dark irises closed the slat shut as the driver slumped in his seat. Two horses thundered around the carriage, with ten men in total now surrounding it.
Three of the men quickly moved before the carriage horses, and they worked to calm the animals. They all had their faces covered with scarves, despite being dressed in different kinds of tunics and trousers. Some of them wore aprons that spoke of occupations not known for being marauders. The leather apron on the one man was marked with burns that were specific to smithy work. Another had stains from ale and wine, and even food preparations. The third man looked like a monk as he was wearing a simple, brown robe with a brown, tasseled belt along his waist.
The other men, dressed in tunics and trousers of the kind farmers wear, ran towards the chasm in the road while holding long, wooden planks in their hands. They efficiently worked to set down the makeshift bridge that would ensure the horses and carriage passed safely through their trap.
"Dear God, my arm! You shot my arm!" Martin growled, as he sat up and realized that blood was soaking through his tunic.
"It is a superficial wound, and you will survive. You should not have attempted to attack my men. Now, shut up or my next shot won't be so lenient," the gray-clad man warned as he raised his pistol to aim at Martin while he stayed upon his horse supervising the men around him.
"Falcon," the man named Talon said as he rode towards the other, and watched the red-scarfed man in the smithy apron take his place near the driver on the carriage, "The road ahead is clear."
Nodding, the man who went by Falcon nodded towards the smithy, "Irons, your part comes into play now."
"Yes, sir," Irons replied as he took the horses' reins and snapped them once to get the horses moving again.
The rest of the men took their assigned positions around the carriage, with Falcon in the front and Talon in the back. Falcon claimed that they finally had in their possession exactly what they needed, and Falcon, especially, had waited years for this moment. The men who accompanied him had learned over time that he was a patient man. None of them expected that his constant monitoring of the road would actually pay off, but now they knew their lives would change, just as he had promised them.
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Warmth pressed to her hand, and she inhaled fearfully as she curled her fingers around his in the dim light from the closed curtains. The carriage had started moving again, but not without harm to Martin. No one was supposed to know that she was not in the usual carriage of her station, and that it was now merely acting as a decoy as it ran four miles south on a road parallel to theirs. It was supposed to be the perfect plan with the perfect disguise – to hide the Queen of France in a decrepit carriage that had seen better days than to have her travel in plain sight in the royal carriage.
"Be strong, Majesty," Aramis whispered softly, his face shadowed so that just his dark irises caught the light. "Our captors may still believe we are lowly subjects. Constance and D'Artagnan remain in command of the royal carriage and carry the documents that will prove Duke Elliot's innocence. They will see he is released in our absence."
"I so rarely leave the palace now," Anne remarked quietly. "Usually a letter with my seal resolves such disputes, but as regent under a council, the magistrate of Verdelot would only give over those documents in my presence. I am not accepted nearly as willingly as I should be. Do you think someone on the council has arranged this trip as a convenient accident for us?"
"We have our enemies, of that I am certain," Aramis answered, "But, I never told the council about the plan D'Artagnan, Constance, and I had prepared in which we would switch carriages in order to keep your identity hidden. I realize we are traveling through the lands of the Gray Falcon, but do not believe the exaggerations. While a Musketeer, I had ridden through Boitron many times, and never once encountered him. My fear for you is of bandits or enemies of the crown if they discover your identity. Please trust that we are well-concealed as a commoner couple wishing we were wealthy."
Taking a breath, Anne looked once again to her personal protector. "Are you are certain you could not fight our attackers while we were stationary?"
Aramis kissed her knuckles, hoping to ease her worries. There were multiple slats throughout the carriage that were designed as peek holes, and Aramis had used them to monitor the outside activities. "Except for two of our captors, these men were weaponless. In fact, they looked like simple townsfolk, just all hiding their faces. Their danger lies in that they were organized and careful, rather than sloppy and hurried."
The carriage steadily trundled along, and as one of the wheels rolled over something raised in the road, Anne and Aramis were jarred in their seats and gently slammed into the walls.
"Don't tip it, Irons!" came the voice of the man that seemed to be leading this group, and Aramis passed a quick glance to Anne.
"Sorry, Falcon. I didn't see the rock until it was too late," replied the voice of the replacement driver.
"Perhaps if we are lucky, these are just incompetent robbers that will be easily tricked," Aramis jested.
In the dim light, Anne barely caught the glimpse of his smile, and for the briefest of moments she felt at ease. However, a few minutes later, the carriage came to a stop, and her heart started thudding almost painfully in her chest.
"Strength, Majesty," Aramis whispered before releasing her fingers and grasping both his pistols in his hands.
When the doors to the carriage opened, Aramis brought both hands up and each pistol was aimed at each opened door. Although he could not see their frightened faces behind their scarves, he could see the utter fear in the men's eyes, and they immediately brought their hands up in surrender.
Aramis's voice was soft, threatening, "I think you've chosen the wrong carriage."
The men who opened the doors quickly disappeared and in their place stood the only two men in the group who had weapons, each one holding their pistols towards Anne.
"I'd say this is exactly the carriage I was seeking," the gray-covered man answered. Shifting his eyes towards the queen, his tone softened, "Majesty, I've been waiting a long time for you."