Athos rode at the front of the little group, feeling the warm spring sun on his leather-clad back. The weather had been fine for the last week, so the roads were unusually good for the time of year. If they met no significant delays, they should have no trouble reaching Paris by nightfall.

As they rode through the village, the peasants came out of their houses to watch. One or two of the children pointed at their fine horses, but to his relief no one showed any sign of recognising Joan.

Even with his back to her he was acutely aware of the young woman. A constant distraction, endlessly pulling his thoughts away from their proper course. Porthos had no idea how wrong he was; Athos didn't use drink as a substitute for female companionship. He drank in a desperate attempt to quell the swirling mass of pain, regret and (worst of all) happy memories that constantly dominated his every waking moment. Every unattached woman he met set him into a hopeless downward spiral of if only and maybe. If only he'd never met his wife, if only he'd listened to Thomas, if only he'd been a better man… Maybe this time it could be different? That was the most hopeless idea of all. The last time he had thought for a brief instant there could be a chance of happiness, he had found himself on his knees, begging the Cardinal for mercy while the smell of smoke from Ninon's pyre drifted in from the courtyard. Never again. Tomorrow Treville would set her up with a suitable household and he would never be troubled by her presence again.

She wasn't even especially pretty. Soft mid-brown hair with a slight curl to it, worn loose down her back when she arrived at the garrison. Nobody had ever taught her the sophisticated styles the ladies wore at Court. Rather tall for a woman, with unfashionably tanned skin, warm brown eyes and a sweet smile, when Aramis managed to coax one out of her. She hadn't lied about being able to ride, and had borne the rigours of the journey without complaint. She was obviously uncomfortable in the male clothing Aramis (damn the man and his sense of humour) had persuaded her to wear. It rather suited her though, showing off her trim waist and long legs. He was doing it again! With some difficulty, he wrenched his thoughts away from his unwanted companion and back to more military matters.

They had reached the edge of the fields that surrounded the village. The road passed into the cool shade of the woods. The trees were dense, mostly oak and hazel that had been coppiced for firewood and charcoal. It was impossible to get a clear line of sight for more than a few yards off the road in any direction. A good place for an ambush. He strained his eyes and ears, trying to catch any sign of danger.

Two miles further on they were still in the woods, but the terrain had changed. The road ran along the bottom of a narrow valley with steep, rocky sides. The horses plodded along, mere shadows of the eager, prancing beasts that had left the garrison this morning. The extra weight of the books, and the many miles they had already covered were taking their toll on the animals' remaining stamina.

A twig snapped somewhere up the slope on the right, a little way ahead. Athos stared at the spot, careful not to turn his head in that direction – no sense in giving away a possible advantage, let the enemy think they were still unaware. He slowed his horse just a fraction, so he could talk with the others.

"There's at least one man ahead on the right," he said, keeping his voice soft and calm.

"And several more behind," replied Aramis.

This was not a good place to be ambushed. If they were surrounded, the attackers would have the advantage of higher ground, and the concealment of the trees. They needed to find a better place to make a stand. He thought back to this morning, when they had taken this same road to the farm. He needed somewhere nearby – the horses wouldn't make it far if they had to gallop.

This was why he'd picked Joan's horse. The animal was notorious for its determination to stick with its stable mates at all times. There would be no need to ask one of the others to lead the beast, so all of them were free to fight.

"About a quarter of a mile, on the left, the overhang in the cliffs. Do you remember?" he asked the others. Three tense answering smiles showed they did. "Make for it as soon as I give the word."

For the first time, he looked at Joan. Her face was pale, but determined and she had a good grip on her saddle. There could be only moments before their opponents would start to attack. No time to waste.

"Now!" shouted Athos, urging his horse to run. The poor beast plunged forward valiantly, lumbering into an exhausted gallop that felt like a fraction of its normal speed.

A fusillade of shots rang out. He spared a glance at the others and found that they all seemed to be unscathed. That was excellent, as it would take their opponents time to reload.

Shouts came from behind them, and the noise of many men crashing through the undergrowth, abandoning stealth in favour of speed.

"There!" Athos shouted, pointing at the overhang as it came into view around the next bend. The valley sides were almost vertical here; too steep to climb. The overhang in the cliff would stop any attacks from higher up the slope, and the jumble of boulders below it offered at least some defensive cover.

As they reached the overhang, Athos could hear the attackers pounding up the road behind them. There seemed to be a lot of footsteps, but nobody had come round the corner yet.

Athos turned to Joan. "Take the horses, go behind the rocks, and stay down," he said. He didn't have time to see whether or not she obeyed.

The attackers were in sight now, twelve of them, running at full tilt round the bend. They hadn't stopped to get their horses, recognising that the musketeers' animals wouldn't be capable of covering any distance before they foundered. As they saw Athos and his companions standing among the rocks, the group spread out to make a harder target for pistols. Not complete amateurs then.

There would only be time for one shot between the time when the attackers came within range, and when they got close enough for hand-to-hand combat. Athos stood calmly, sighting along the barrel at his chosen target.

He loved this part of a fight, even though he knew it was wrong to feel that way. Everything was so simple right now. All the distractions, the nagging doubts and fears he normally had to live with had vanished, leaving him free to focus on this moment. It was freedom, of a sort.

The attackers crossed the invisible line that marked the limit of the accurate range of the pistols. Aramis fired first, naturally – he was always confident of making his shot count. One of the men dropped. Eleven left. Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan fired within a second of each other. Three more down, eight left.

With a third of the men down, a simple mob would probably have broken and run away at this point. These men though, kept coming. Professionals—a fight with many casualties meant the spoils were divided into fewer portions. They knew enough to keep on once the guns had fired too; there would be no chance to reload. Athos hung his pistol on his belt and drew his sword and dagger.

Nothing mattered but this fight. He was aware of his companions, d'Artagnan to his left, Porthos on his right with Aramis beyond him. Their opponents were close now, an unappealing bunch who looked as though they had been dragged from the darkest back-alleys in Paris. The failed ambush had cost the gang more than the advantage of surprise—they were winded from giving chase. Every advantage would help.

Athos stood with his back to one of the great limestone boulders, waiting for the fight to come to him. Away to the right, he heard the clash of steel on steel as Aramis and Porthos engaged their opponents. The two men in front of him paused for a moment, then rushed him.

They were fast, and strong. Athos deflected their first swings, helped by the way the two men crowded each other as they tried to reach him. The one on the left, facing his dagger-hand, was the more aggressive, pressing his attack, trying to exploit the advantage of his longer weapon. Athos held them off, probing for weaknesses. He couldn't mount an attack on one, without leaving himself open to the other man.

There was a shout of pain from his left, d'Artagnan's voice, followed by the sound of a body hitting the loose stones. The man on the left, glanced toward the sound. Athos struck, slashing the dagger past the man's sword, cutting a long slice through his belly. The man shrieked as he fell, and Athos had to push past his fallen body, his feet slipping a little on stones suddenly slick with fresh blood.

Now he had only one opponent. Time to finish this. He could hear horrible rasping breaths coming from his left. D'Artagnan? He knew that sound, a sucking wound in the chest. It wouldn't be long. He wanted to comfort the lad, if he was dying.

The footing was treacherous, soft dusty earth and loose stones on the steep slope. If he slipped, he was as good as dead. His opponent, whip-thin with a straggly mop of greasy black hair, circled him warily with his eyes never leaving Athos's sword. Athos attacked, twisting his sword past the other's frantic defence and into the man's chest.

Aramis had just killed one man; he wouldn't take long to defeat the other. Porthos was hard-pressed by three men. Athos took the nearest of Porthos's attackers from behind, slitting his throat. As the next turned to meet the new threat, he found Athos's sword in his guts. Porthos took care of the other.

Aramis came over, breathing hard. "Invigorating," he said, wiping his blades clean on a scrap of rag before he sheathed them.

"D'Artagnan's wounded," said Athos. As he led the way to the other side of the overhang, he prepared himself for the sight of the lad's body. No one with a wound in the lungs lived for long.

Rounding the boulders, he found Joan, crouched over d'Artagnan. Her face was smeared with blood, which had soaked her cuffs and the cloth she was pressing to the wound in d'Artagnan's thigh. D'Artagnan was pale, and seemed to be unconscious, but was unquestionably alive. Three feet away sprawled the body of the last attacker, with a great wound on his chest.

"I can't stop the bleeding completely," said Joan. "If you could tie a tourniquet, I think it would work."

Aramis hurried up to help. Once he'd applied the tourniquet and examined the wound, he looked up at the other musketeers. "More needlework," he said.