Joan stood behind the rocks with the exhausted horses. Each animal was lathered with sweat, breathing hard and trembling with exhaustion. She wished that she could do something for them, but there was no space to walk them so they could cool off gently, nor even a wisp of grass to rub them down.
She found a place where she could peer between the boulders and see down the road. For a wonderful moment it was clear, and she allowed herself to hope that their enemies had given up the chase. Then the crowd of men rounded the bend.
She counted them, twice, as they raced toward the rocks. Twelve men. The musketeers were outnumbered three to one. Her father's stories of men whose feats of valour could surmount such impossible odds seemed ridiculous—fairy tales for a credulous child. She looked around. This time there was nowhere to hide, no concealed path to safety. The musketeers would die here, and so would she.
At least she'd got the children to Paris. Captain Treville was a man of honour; he would see they were well cared for.
From her hidden vantage point she could only see d'Artagnan. The others were somewhere to her right, concealed by the rocks. Porthos, with his scarred face, who noticed when children were hungry, who held her hand while she collected keepsakes from the house where her family had died. Aramis who had managed to persuade her to wear these ridiculous clothes—how would William manage without him to send letters back home?
She flinched at the gunfire, but couldn't see if it had done any good—the attackers weren't visible from her hiding place now they were closer. She didn't want to see d'Artagnan die, but she had to know when her turn was coming, so she kept her eyes on him as he carefully replaced his pistol on his belt and drew his sword and dagger. A man came into view, running up the slope towards d'Artagnan, a tall blonde fellow clad in a distinctive dark green doublet. She'd seen that doublet before, back at the farm, the day her family had been murdered. Her last hope of a miracle shrivelled and died. These were not some stray band of brigands picking on any travellers they met—they were the Chevaliers' hired killers, come to finish the job.
The fight was quick, and shockingly brutal. A flurry of blows almost too fast to follow. Even her inexperienced eyes could see how unevenly matched they were—d'Artagnan might have been practising in the courtyard at the garrison, he looked so calm, while the other man seemed increasingly desperate, trying to bring his greater reach and strength to bear. Suddenly d'Artagnan lunged past his opponent's defence, running his sword deep into the man's chest. For a fraction of a second they stood, d'Artagnan slim and strong as ever, the other man looking almost bewildered as a great red stain spread over the green cloth.
As his knees buckled, the man made one last wild swing with his sword, slicing d'Artagnan's thigh. D'Artagnan shouted, and dropped his blade. His face was pale and a steady trickle of blood ran between his shaking fingers. She ran forwards, tugging at the scarf William had wrapped round her neck.
"Lie down," she commanded as she reached him.
"S'alright. Be fine in a moment," he said. He was starting to sway.
"Lie down," she repeated. "You're making it worse, standing up like that."
She won the argument when he fainted, landing on top of her and knocking her flat. She struggled out from under him, laid him as flat as she could on the rocks and pressed her scarf on the wound. A few feet away, the man in the green doublet was noisily breathing his last.
Time stretched on, every second dragging interminably. The bleeding seemed to be slowing a little, and the man in green had finally gone silent. So had the sounds of fighting from the other side of the rocks. Joan took one hand off the wound and stretched towards d'Artagnan's dagger. It was just near enough and she managed to hold it in her blood-slicked trembling fingers. She was no fool—she had no chance against a fully-armed man—but at least she could try.
The other three musketeers came hurrying round the rocks, Athos at the front of the little group. As he saw Joan and d'Artagnan, and realised his friend was alive, his face was transformed from its normal expression of grumpy reserve to a warm, genuine smile of relief and happiness. Joan could finally understand what his comrades saw in him.
"I can't stop the bleeding completely," she said. "If you could tie a tourniquet, I think it would work."
Aramis hurried over. He produced a short length of rope from one of his pockets and fastened it tightly around his comrade's thigh. Then he moved Joan's hands gently aside and pulled away the blood-soaked scarf so he could examine the wound. "More needlework," he said. D'Artagnan groaned and tried to raise his head. "Easy now, just stay down," said Aramis, reinforcing his command with a firm hand on his friend's chest.
"How bad is it?" asked D'Artagnan.
"A few stitches needed, that's all. You were lucky," said Aramis. D'Artagnan's hand moved to investigate the improvised bandage and rope tourniquet around his thigh. Aramis slapped his questing fingers away. "Don't touch. I don't want you making it any worse."
"Can you work on him here?" asked Athos.
"I'd rather not," Aramis said. "The light isn't good, and he'll need to keep still for a few hours afterwards."
"There's an inn about half a mile further on," said Porthos. "Noticed it on the way down. It didn't look that big, but it's the best we're going to get."
Aramis and Porthos busied themselves with the construction of a stretcher. Judging from the speed with which it took shape, Joan concluded that they had had a lot of practice.
For lack of anything better to do, she saw to the horses, checking their hooves and loosening their girths. No one had suggested riding any further today—they would be lucky if their mounts were capable of much work tomorrow.
Athos, with an air of brisk efficiency belied by the look of distaste on his face, was searching the bodies of their fallen opponents. "Nothing," he said. "No papers. Nothing to show where they came from."
"I recognise that one," said Joan, pointing at the man in the green doublet. "Well, I recognise his clothes anyway. He was one of the men…" her voice tailed off as her throat tightened. She gulped and tried to blink back the sudden tears.
Athos looked at her. Really properly looked, his eyes holding hers. "He was one of the men who attacked your farm? Are you sure?"
Joan took a deep, steadying breath. "I didn't get a close look at him, but this is a simple district. Not much call for fancy green doublets here."
"So this wasn't a random attack then. They knew we'd been to the farm, and they targeted us," said Athos. He held her gaze for a moment longer, then seemed to realise what he was doing and turned away abruptly.
"Do you think this is all of them, or were there more, back at the farm?" asked Porthos, as he tugged on the ropes binding the stretcher, testing the knots.
"Probably all, I think. I didn't stop to count," said Joan, suddenly tired of all the questions. "I was busy running away."
Aramis sighed. "Lax, very lax. You'll never make a musketeer you know, if you don't try harder than that."
Joan turned to glare at him and saw his wide smile. He looked like Luc, trying to charm his way out of trouble when she'd caught him up to mischief. "How can you laugh at a time like this?" she demanded, looking at D'Artagnan, still lying on the ground waiting for the stretcher to be ready.
"Because it's much more fun than the alternative," Aramis replied. Athos snorted.
"This is good enough," said Porthos, tightening the last knot on the stretcher. Let's not stay around here any longer. The company's rubbish, and I'm getting hungry."
"What do we do about them?" Joan asked, gesturing at the body of the man in the green doublet. The blood on his chest had started to dry in the warm spring sunshine and a swarm of flies buzzed hungrily about his cooling body.
Athos looked at her in surprise. Maybe no one had asked about that sort of mundane detail before. But surely the musketeers couldn't be in the habit of leaving the corpses of anyone foolish enough to get in their way littering every roadside they travelled?
"We'll tell the innkeeper. The locals will be happy enough to deal with the bodies, in exchange for whatever valuables they can find," said Athos. Joan noticed that he looked at her properly now when he talked to her. He didn't look comfortable with her presence, but at least he wasn't ignoring her altogether. It was hard to see why such a formidable soldier was so discomforted by someone like herself. She couldn't even blame the stupid clothes, because he'd been treating her oddly since the moment they'd first met back at the garrison.
D'Artagnan shuffled himself onto the stretcher, with Aramis fussing beside him supporting the injured leg so it didn't start bleeding again.
"I'm sure you didn't use to be this heavy," said Porthos as he and Aramis lifted the stretcher. "What's Constance been feeding you?"
Aramis chuckled. "I think she's been far too busy to think of feeding him."
"Hey!" D'Artagnan blushed and started to struggle up onto his elbows.
"Lie down," said Athos. "Remember what I said about your feelings getting the better of you. And you two, stop teasing him. You'd never say such a thing in front of Madame Bonacieux anyway—there wouldn't be enough left of the pair of you to feed a crow."
"Fair point," said Aramis as he and Porthos picked their way down the slope to the road.
In a matter of minutes, they had switched from being professional soldiers fighting for their lives, to a group of old friends exchanging easy banter on an ordinary day. Joan remembered the farmhands at home, how the older ones would tease young René about his sweetheart in the village. He'd saved almost all his pay every week, trying to amass enough to impress the girl's sceptical father. Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked to clear them.
"Can you manage all the horses?" asked Athos. "They're too tired to give you any trouble, and it would be best if I kept my hands free." Joan gathered up the loose reins, her gaze darting around the surrounding trees, trying to pick out shapes and movement among the dense leaves and shifting shadows. What if there were more men out there, waiting their chance? With one man wounded, and two carrying a stretcher, their little party was much more vulnerable than before. The leather felt slippery as her hands began to sweat.
"Just a precaution," said Athos. "I didn't mean to alarm you." Too late for that thought Joan, as she followed Aramis and Porthos, with the horses shuffling reluctantly behind her.
It was slow going. Porthos and Aramis grumbled and bickered about the weight of the stretcher every few steps. The horses jostled each other, and were reluctant to go anywhere at all. Joan coaxed them along for what seemed like hours. The shadows the trees cast on the road were lengthening as the afternoon wore on, and it was getting hotter. Sweat soaked the tight linen wrappings William had wound around Joan's chest, making her skin itch. The infernal breeches, still squeaking with every step felt as though they had rubbed every scrap of skin from her thighs and were now working their way to the bone.
Athos, his hand on his pistol, shifting position constantly within their little group to keep the best watch he could on the surrounding trees, showed no sign of discomfort. She couldn't help watching him, fascinated by the easy grace of his movements. Sometimes she even caught him watching her in turn. The third time their eyes met, she risked a small smile and was rewarded with a momentary twitch of his lips, before he returned his attention to the woods.
When they rounded a corner and saw the little inn, Joan almost wept with relief. Even the horses picked up their pace, walking eagerly toward the familiar scent of a stable. As soon as they reached the yard, Joan handed the reins to the two ostlers and stepped behind the others, keeping her head down. With tendrils of hair escaping from the braid concealed under her hat, and the scarf that had encircled her neck lost to D'Artagnan's wound, she was sure her disguise, hardly convincing at the best of times, wouldn't fool anyone who gave her more than a cursory glance. From the way that Porthos and Aramis shuffled aside to make room behind the stretcher, she wasn't alone in her opinion.
"I'll go and get us some rooms," said Athos. He turned to Joan, his face grave. "I'm sorry, but we won't reach Paris tonight."
Joan stared at him in astonishment. "I know that," she said. "I'm not an idiot." With exhausted horses and a wounded man, did he really think she was stupid enough to believe they could go any further today?
Athos looked as if he were about to say something, then changed his mind. He stared at her, making Joan all too aware of the dirt and sweat on her face. "My apologies," he said at last, then turned and hurried away.
He returned a couple of moments later, frowning. "They have one room free. We'll have to make the best of it."
"One!" said Aramis, with a startled sideways glance at Joan. "What about the other guests. Can't you pay them to share?"
"Or tell them we're on the King's business, and make 'em," rumbled Porthos. "It's not like it isn't true."
Athos glared. "I'm sure the young gentlemen in the hunting party will be only too delighted to share with the nuns."
"Ah, I see the problem," said Aramis. Then he brightened. "If there are nuns, then surely Joan can share with them?"
Athos didn't speak, he just looked at Joan standing there in her borrowed breeches.
"Oh," said Aramis.