A big thank you to everyone who is following or has favourited this story, and especially to those who have taken the time to leave a review - glad you are enjoying it! To Debbie (guest so I can't reply directly) I promise this really is my first story on any site. It's been a long time brewing in my head but it's harder than I thought to get the pacing and amount of detail right. Let me know if I get it wrong... Things go from bad to worse today and as this chapter's title suggests, it'll be a while before they are all reunited, but don't worry, we will catch up with Athos, Porthos and Aramis again soon. Warning: slight cliffie ahead. Only it's not an actual cliff, more of a ... well, you'll see.
Chapter 4: On their own
It was only moments before he was conscious again, Constance reassured him when she saw the distress in his eyes. He was suspicious, seeing that they had padded the wound on top and bottom of his foot and bandaged it firmly since he was last aware. He was also pretty sure the Queen had assisted in the removal of the bolt, going by his disjointed memories just before losing his battle to stay conscious, but he decided that was too embarrassing to contemplate and he preferred not to know for sure.
"Help me up," he ordered tersely, ignoring the rise of Constance's eyebrow at his tone. He couldn't seem to get his brain in gear and had no time for niceties. He grabbed his pistol and reloaded it quickly, trying to control the trembling of his fingers. They were still in danger and he needed to be ready to defend them – a fact that became only too clear in the next instant, as a horse appeared from the direction of the road, and a shout of "Estan aqui!"* went up, leaving him in no doubt that the rider was Spanish – and was looking for them.
Looking frantically around, he spotted a small pathway leading away from the glade, and simultaneously his sword which was rolling around in the foot well of the cart. "Quick! Head that way," he ordered, handing his pistol to Constance even as he staggered to his feet and groped for his sword. Constance opened her mouth – to argue, he could see it in her eyes – but he had no time. "Go! Get the Queen to safety! I'll catch you up," he promised, and pushed her firmly out of the cart as the soldier leapt off his horse, drawing his blade as two more mercenaries followed him into the glade.
Constance dragged the Queen hastily away from the cart and down the track. One of the newcomers headed their way as a fourth arrived in the glade shouting orders. D'Artagnan stayed on the cart, knowing his only chance against multiple opponents, and with an injured foot, was to keep the height advantage which the Spaniards were stupidly giving up by dismounting. The disadvantage was that his legs were vulnerable, being the only part the mercenaries could easily reach, and he quickly felt the bite of a blade in his thigh before he managed to bury his blade in the chest of the first soldier and turned to fend off the returning swipe from the second man.
The fourth man had stayed on his horse, no doubt assuming d'Artagnan would succumb to the double onslaught, but dismounted and rushed to join the fight when the first man fell to d'Artagnan's blade. Suddenly there was the sound of a distant gunshot in the direction the women had taken, and the officer skidded to a halt, turning as if to follow the sound. D'Artagnan was flagging, feeling waves of pain shuddering up both legs now, and gasping for breath with every blow he traded, but knew he wouldn't get a second chance. Gritting his teeth he lunged forward, putting all his weight on his right leg, but using the extra reach this gave him to land a killing blow on his opponent. Before the body had even hit the ground d'Artagnan had reached for his main gauche and sent it hurtling towards the leader's back as he started towards the woodland path the woman had followed. There was a satisfying thunk, a last gasp, and he too sank to his knees before pitching forward.
For a moment all d'Artagnan could hear was the ragged sound of his own breathing as he gasped for air, and the thunder of his heart in his chest. Slowly and carefully he lowered himself to the ground and wobbled over to retrieve his dagger from the Spaniard's body. As he straightened, he heard more shouts coming from the road and, with a lurch of new adrenaline, realised he had only seconds before their glade would be invaded again. Quickly he sheathed his weapons, grabbed the cartier's water skin from the driving seat, and hobbled as fast as he could down the narrow path through the trees after the women.
A short way down the meandering pathway, d'Artagnan's relief knew no bounds when he came across the body of a soldier. He'd heard the gunshot but had no way of knowing who had fired it or whether one of the women had been hit. He paused briefly to collect the man's pistol and shot pouch from his body, then carried on as fast as he could manage. Every time his right foot touched the ground a wave of pain flooded up his leg, as if he was stepping on a red-hot knife, but he had no choice but to continue and try to block out the pain. His body throbbed from the hits he'd taken, including the cut on his left thigh and the one in his upper arm which he'd received in the fight back at the inn, but he gritted his teeth and ploughed on.
The sound of the river grew louder and suddenly he was out of the trees and facing the very welcome sight of the two women, Constance standing in front of the Queen with his pistol pointed determinedly at his head as he emerged. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and limped rapidly towards them, holding out a hand to stop Constance as she dropped her firing stance and gathered her skirts to run to meet him, huge smile on her face.
"Stay there, we need to move. There are more on the way," he instructed her tersely, and she stopped in her tracks, turning uncertainly to the Queen who hovered behind, looking equally lost.
"There's a pathway there, I think it leads to that bridge," the Queen pointed upstream.
D'Artagnan hesitated, looking quickly around then started to move the way she pointed, seeing their only other option was a tiny gap in the thick brambles growing between the trees and the river bank. "Quickly then," he admonished – but then stopped so suddenly that Constance, who was reaching behind her to catch the Queen's hand, bumped into him, nearly knocking him flying.
"Sorry," she apologised, then: "what's wrong?"
He cocked his head, listening intently. "There!" He hadn't been sure, but now he heard it again: the sound of distant shouts – men's shouts, in Spanish – upstream, in the direction of the bridge. "Damn it!" he swore under his breath, then turned and caught Constance's hand without thinking. "This way, come on."
He headed determinedly into the brambles, trying to follow the tiny animal path he'd spotted. Within seconds they were all scratched as they became embroiled in the thick brambles. The women suffered more as their dresses became caught repeatedly, until Constance dropped both the hands she was clasping and used hers to gather her skirts tightly up around her waist. D'Artagnan cast her an approving glance then forged on through the tangle of briars, trying to ignore the flash of the Queen's ankles he had just glimpsed as she, more hesitantly, followed Constance's lead.
After what felt like hours they finally fought their way clear of the brambles, to find themselves teetering on the edge of the river. This was their first glimpse of the water itself, and it was not encouraging, as it was wide here – as wide as the courtyard at the Garrison – and flowed rapidly around some large boulders. Miniature whirlpools suggested more boulders under the water. D'Artagnan searched quickly around but the brambles carried on even more thickly after this one stony clearing, and he feared they would just entrap themselves if they carried on that way. But the river... could they cross it?
"Can you swim?" he muttered to Constance, shoving the pilfered Spanish pistol into his belt, tying the water skin firmly to his belt, then dropping to the ground and sliding his legs cautiously over the overhanging bank. He drew his sword and dipped it into the eddying waters to test the water's depth. At the edge here it was only inches deep but when he reached further out his sword disappeared up to the hilt.
"Yes, and so can the Queen," replied Constance staunchly, trying not to let her voice tremble. She was rewarded with one of his flashing grins which warmed her heart.
"Okay. I'll go first. Your majesty, you need to hold on to my belt and don't let go." He eyed the Queen dubiously as she stood looking dishevelled, hair tugged out of place and scratches marring her beautiful skin. "You'd better take your shoes off. Give them to me," he ordered, forgetting all propriety in his haste.
Her eyebrows shot up.
"They won't stay on in the river," he explained more kindly.
She could see the sense of that; her shoes were delicate cloth court shoes, totally useless in these conditions. She bent and slipped them off, handing them obediently to d'Artagnan who tucked them inside his jacket, then held out his hand to the Queen. "If we can get across without being seen..."
He didn't finish his sentence. His meaning was clear and in any case he was suppressing a gasp as he slid his feet – one still booted – into the muddy water at the river's edge. It was cold! Glancing quickly to right and left he reassured himself that they were currently unobserved, then turned to assist the Queen down into the river. She shuddered as the water slid up to her knees, and grabbed his hand tightly where before she had merely placed her fingers very correctly on his palm. He tried to give her a reassuring smile but wasn't sure he'd pulled it off. "Ready?"
Constance slid down behind the Queen, managing to suppress her own gasp at the shock of the water temperature, and reached out for his belt. "Ready," she nodded. She'd stuffed his pistol into her own waistband, he noted appreciatively, leaving her other hand free for balance. His feet were rapidly numbing and he knew he had to get going so he smiled again at them both and turned to pick a path across the tumbling waters. "Small steps," he cautioned over his shoulder. "Feel for a safe foothold with your toe, before putting your weight on it."
He'd kept his sword in hand and was using it to prod the river bed ahead of them, wary of unseen dips or loose boulders, and wincing at the misuse of his beloved weapon. They edged forward towards the deepest part of the river. Still no watchers on either shoreline that he could see. He was aiming for a bed of reeds on the far bank, which gave onto more open terrain with little cover. He hoped they could shelter out of sight in the reeds whilst sorting out shoes and weapons once they were across.
He looked back at Anne's white, frightened face as she held tightly to his belt with one hand, with Constance's hand gripped in the other. The water was up past his waist now, tugging fiercely at his legs with every step and filling his remaining boot, and he realised to his chagrin that the water reached much higher on Anne, and she was struggling. Even as he thought this, she wobbled, her feet slipping on the slippery rocks that formed the river bed, and suddenly she was engulfed in the muddy waters. "Hold on to me!" he shouted, letting go of his sword without a thought so he could grab for her other hand and pull her to him, struggling to keep his own balance against the pull of the water and the sudden weight as she flung her free arm around his waist and clung, eyes wide with panic.
He wrapped his left arm around her body and held her firm. "It's okay, I've got you," he reassured her, trying to sound calm. As if anyone could feel calm, stuck halfway across a racing river with Spaniards all around and the Queen of France clinging to him – her life, literally, in his hands.
Constance was wobbling now, both arms outstretched for balance now that she was no longer anchored, through the Queen, to him. He held his breath as she took a cautious step, then another, and caught up to them. "Hold onto my belt," he ordered her, checking the river banks again as she complied.
He now had the Queen on his left and Constance close to his right side, and moved off again, trying to hurry without making any mistakes, but he no longer had the sword to help him balance, the river was stronger here in the centre, and he couldn't feel his feet at all. The Queen's feet were scrabbling for purchase at his left, and Constance was slipping and sliding on his right, and when it all finally went wrong, it was really no surprise at all.
With a small cry Constance stumbled and disappeared under the water. Without thought he lunged at the place where she should be. His fingers brushed something delicate and he grabbed it, pulling strongly, and for a wonderful moment he thought it would all be okay as he found Constance's hand rising out of the water. And then his own foot slipped as he tried to balance all three of them on the tumbling river bed, and suddenly he was under water himself, the roar of the river all around him, mocking him and invading his nostrils and lungs as he scrabbled and kicked his way back upright.
His head burst free of the water and, somehow, he still had hold of both women, but they were all now being swept downstream with the current, and any tiny sense of relief at being able to breathe again was instantly crushed as he saw a massive boulder looming ahead of them. Water boiled around its base as the river split. The current was too fast, too strong and there was no time to avoid it; he had only seconds before they would be dashed against the gleaming, leering rock.
Instinct kicked in and he started to twist to keep his body between the Queen and the terrifying granite boulder. He had no choice – any other position and they would both hit it face on, or she would hit first and his body would slam into her, which was unthinkable. But even as he twisted, he realised he would have to let go of Constance, who was being dragged along at his right side. In that last second his eyes caught hers and he knew, he knew, she was fully aware of what had to be done.
There was no more time. All he could do was push on her outstretched arm as he released her hand, hoping against hope that the extra momentum would carry her past the rock. He had a split second to twist his body fully round and bring his right hand to protect the Queen's face, then there was no more thought, just pain, awful blinding pain as they slammed into the rock and he took the full force of the river and their combined weight on his back and shoulder. His head bounced off the rock, he couldn't breathe, there was water all around him, sucking him down, cutting him off from the world, bubbling and roaring around him.
* Estan aqui: Here they are!