Well it seems they've survived the first night. We catch up with all of them as they hit the trail again today.
Chapter 10: It's a Long Walk Home
Dawn was barely a gleam in Night's eye when d'Artagnan struggled to his feet, desperate to put the interminable night behind him and anxious to get going. First however, he had to get his body moving again. He tried some basic stretches but stopped on a gasp of pain as the movements awoke a volcano of hot pain in his shoulder. It felt like there was a musket ball in there although he knew he had not been hit. Could the impact have damaged his shoulder deep inside, maybe cracked his shoulder blade? He rubbed his temples, trying to banish the headache that came with a combination of lack of sleep, worry – oh, and head-butting a river boulder. Then he tried hobbling around the small fire which had burned itself out in the last hour, forcing himself to put more weight on his injured foot with each step. After five minutes he was moving more freely so he headed up to the lane and stood listening for a long minute, checking for any hint of movement or danger. Nothing – yet.
He put a few trees between him and the camp to relieve his bladder, then detoured to the stream to refill the water skin before returned to the clearing to wake the girls, but found they were already up and looking anxiously for him.
"Morning," he greeted them softly in the grey pre-light. The rain had stopped but moisture still hung in the air in the form of a cold fog. Both girls looked cold and tired, but more rested, and he saw a glint of determination in Constance's eyes that cheered him. He returned her smile. "How did you sleep?"
"More like, did we sleep?" Constance retorted, but kindly.
"I slept!" Anne announced, almost proudly. The others looked at her. "What?" she asked, slightly defensively. d'Artagnan began to chuckle. "What?" she repeated.
"No, no, nothing," he said, then spoiled it by chuckling again. Constance was grinning too, but took pity on Anne.
"It's just... your Majesty," she emphasised, "it's a bit of a surprise that you slept ... at all, to be honest. Let alone all night through."
"Oh. Well, I wouldn't go that far. It was horribly uncomfortable, and cold. I didn't sleep the whole night..." She stopped, as Constance's grin widened. "WHAT?" she demanded.
"No, you're right, your Majesty, of course you didn't sleep the whole night through. I must have been the one snoring. It was absolutely, definitely not you..."
Anne looked outraged for a moment, glaring at them with her hands on her hips. d'Artagnan held his breath. Had Constance gone too far? Then the Queen snorted in an un-ladylike fashion and puffed out a breath. "I shall remember the way you mocked my affliction," she said, in a hurt voice.
"Aff- affliction?" d'Artagnan stuttered, sharing a panicked glance with Constance.
"Yes, my affliction," she said, crisply. "It is a family trait which we prefer to keep quite private but now that you have exposed it... " Then she caught their expressions and was unable to finish, breaking down instead into giggles.
"Oh!" exclaimed Constance and made as if to swat at Anne's head. D'Artagnan stood watching, nonplussed, as the pair of them clutched at each other and positively chortled. He cleared his throat and they both looked at him, then at each other, and started giggling again. "Stop it!" Anne gasped at Constance, trying to straighten up. "I didn't start this!" Constance retorted, still laughing.
"Ladies," d'Artagnan tried again. "We should be cautious... it's getting light. We need to move on."
That sobered the pair instantly and Constance stooped to gather his jacket and the cloak. "We both need to... freshen up," she suggested, looking at Anne, who nodded.
"Right. I will break camp – don't go too far." He was careful to keep his back to the two as they made their way into the trees to relieve themselves. He dismantled the night-time shelter and distributed the sapling branches around in the undergrowth, carefully re-laying them moss-side up to ensure they blended back into the woodland landscape. He chucked the fire-stones in different directions, and buried the ashes under leaf-mould. His last act was to carve a small mark into the bark of one of the trees, and place four pine cones at the base of it.
When he turned, he found Constance watching him curiously. She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Is that a marker?" she questioned. He nodded, reluctant to explain, but Anne was there too and she wanted to know more.
"Is that a Musketeer code? How clever to have such a system ready... you have had to use it a lot?"
"Um... no." He didn't want to get their hopes up. "I... we don't have a code or system. It's just something I've been doing, since the river yesterday. I don't know if they'll pick up on it or if they've even noticed them. But it's worth trying."
Anne looked disappointed, but Constance gave him an encouraging smile. "I'm sure it will work. Now, what's our plan?"
He had to smile at the "our". After the rough night and the incomprehensible (to him) hilarity that morning, he was feeling strangely cheered. It wasn't the same as being on a mission with the Inseparables, but they were beginning to feel like a team.
By unspoken agreement, the Inseparables were also up and breaking camp at the first hint of dawn. None had slept well, and all were anxious to get going. There was a brief argument between Athos and Aramis, who had no intention of letting anyone set off without having their wounds checked, but eventually peace was restored, wounds re-dressed, and declared healthy, and they were off.
They were all tense, looking out for possible attack whilst searching for evidence of the missing trio. They constantly debated where d'Artagnan would head, and every time they found a possible trail they tried to put themselves into his mindset. The difficulty was to know how differently he might behave because of being responsible for the Queen – and Constance too – and being injured.
The tracks were sometimes easy to spot after all the rain, and told their own tale. Porthos had found fuzzy prints which he eventually worked out could be from d'Artagnan's bandaged bare feet, and was sure that some showed traces of blood, and all of them could see the uneven way he was walking, with the weight heavily on his uninjured left foot which also seemed to be unbooted, for a reason they couldn't fathom. None of them had picked up signs of the Queen's delicate footwear, something which worried all three of them, but they regularly found two sets of boot prints alongside d'Artagnan's prints so they could only hope that, for some reason, the Queen had changed her footwear.
The sun slowly burned off the overnight mist, and warmed their chilled limbs. D'Artagnan was increasingly cautious as the visibility improved, and he tried to keep close to cover wherever he could.
To begin with their spirits were high, especially the Queen, who seemed chuffed that she had survived her first ever "wild camp", and seemed to think it was only a matter of time before the others found them and rescued them, or they could get to the main Paris road and find help. Unfortunately D'Artagnan had very little idea of where they were, let alone how to get to the road. He had only a rough knowledge of the region but they were already far north of the expected route, and he hadn't studied the maps as thoroughly as Athos did. All he could do was keep pressing onwards, trying to work their way east whilst keeping out of sight, and aim eventually to find a busy road or town where, he hoped, the influence of the renegades had not reached.
To add to his worries, he was concerned that his strength would let them down. He was certainly in no condition to fight even if he still had his sword, but at the moment he was more worried about his mobility. He'd checked the wound in his foot before setting off, and found it surprisingly clean. Clearly, immersion in the river had helped – he was glad something good had come of that fiasco – but the flesh around the entry wound was slightly swollen and warm. He'd steeled himself to press on it, gritting his teeth at the pulse of agony that shot up his leg, but could see no pus coming from the wound, only dark blood, so he hoped it was just inflammation, not infection. Even so he knew it might be days before he bear weight on it without pain. He was trying to walk without limping but it was impossible and he knew that the odd hiss of pain or hitch of his breath would be giving away just how much he was struggling.
Then Constance was beside him, holding something out in her hand, an uncertain smile on her face. He smiled back, automatically, then looked to see what she held. It was a branch, sturdy, the length of a shepherd's crook but with a roundish knob on the top, just right for his palm.
"I thought this might help?" she suggested.
He stared at her for a moment, overwhelmed with love for this amazing woman. Then he took the branch, thumped it on the ground and found it solid enough to bear his weight. He nodded, then impulsively caught Constance around the waist and pulled her in for a quick hug of thanks. Laughing, she pushed him off and caught up to the Queen who had paused to watch, a tiny smile on her lips. d'Artagnan swung after them, moving faster now and feeling happier than he had for a long time.
"There!" Porthos pointed. Athos and Aramis peered where he was indicating. Aramis's eyesight was the best of all of them, but Porthos seemed to be able to pluck tracks out of thin air, as he had apparently been doing for the last two hours. "Oh, yes, got it," announced Aramis confidently, then slid his eyes sideways to where Athos was giving him "The Look". Aramis shrugged, caught out; Athos merely huffed and walked over to join Porthos who was now standing looking around, deep in thought. Athos waited, patiently. Behind him Aramis held 3 sets of reins and tried not to betray his impatience. Their camaraderie so far was keeping him sane but his worry about the Queen, as well as the others of course, was all-consuming. "Surely we can't be too far behind them now!" he exclaimed despite his intention to remain calm. "I know we keep losing their trail and having to backtrack, but they're on foot, we're mounted..."
Athos flicked him another look and Aramis subsided, muttering under his breath. Athos hoped it was a prayer rather than a curse.
"This way," proclaimed Porthos eventually, and followed an imperceptible animal trail into the woodland to his right. After a few minutes he stopped in a clearing and looked around. Athos joined him leaving Aramis with the horses.
"Maybe..." Porthos mused to himself, pottering around the clearing picking up branches and examining them. Athos waited. "This one here's been moved. Doesn't match the indentation and the moss is different from the ones it's laying on... I don't know Athos. They could have been here. That stone's blackened, but it's cold... I can't tell if it's recent, or if it was them."
Athos nodded, acknowledging his words, and turned to head back to Aramis. Then let out a sharp exclamation and turned on his heel. Porthos glanced up. Athos was staring at the bark of a tree, and beckoning to Porthos. Squinting, Porthos jogged over then pulled up short. "Is that...?"
"I think so," Athos answered slowly. "Not his best work, but it can't be anything else." Porthos' face split into a huge grin. "That's our boy!" he approved. "Come on, let's..." he trailed off and Athos looked up to find the burly Musketeer staring at Athos' feet. He looked down, then back at Porthos. "Something wrong with my boots?" he enquired politely.
"The cones. Bloody hell boy, you cunning little... yeah, yeah, I get it now." He slapped Athos on the back. "Come on!"
Aramis was startled to find both men running back out of the woods. "What's happened?" he asked, anxiously checked around.
"They were 'ere, last night. Athos found a fleur-de-lis carved into a tree-trunk, and there was a heap of pine cones – suddenly realised I'd seen somethin' similar in stones, yesterday, probably several times, can't be sure now. They're in a pile of 3 with one on top." All of this came in an excited garble as Porthos grabbed his reins and heaved himself back into his saddle.
Aramis looked blankly at him and Porthos tutted, impatiently. "It's us! The three inseparables, with d'Artagnan added on top. I'm sure it's 'im. Keep your eyes peeled," he added, before taking off at a fast canter. Athos shrugged at Aramis in his habitual laid back manner as they mounted up, but Aramis was prepared to swear he could see a smile playing around Athos' lips as they followed Porthos.
Two hours after dawn the Queen was already flagging. D'Artagnan called a water break and they all sank thankfully to the ground.
"How are you doing?" asked Constance.
"I'm... tired," admitted the Queen. "Oh, and hungry. Very hungry... and my feet hurt." She wasn't complaining, just stating facts.
"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan apologised.
"It's not your fault," she said kindly, placing a hand on his. "I'm just not used to all this walking, I suppose. How do you do it – just keep going, hour after hour? Your feet must be hurting too..." They all looked at d'Artagnan's feet. Wrapped in strips of underskirt, caked in mud, blood oozed between the protruding toes of his right foot.
"Um, they do, a bit," admitted d'Artagnan. It was true; the wound in his right foot sent pain shooting up his leg every time it took his weight. In addition the soles of both feet felt bruised, and the skin on most of his toes was grazed or torn from contact with stony ground. Still, there was nothing he could do about it and he had learned early on in his Musketeer training that discomfort is an expected part of each mission. He levered himself up and held out his hand to the Queen to assist her to her feet. As Constance followed, he moved off, still holding the Queen's hand.
"I used to complain to my father when we were walking the farm boundaries or coming back from market. He would sometimes give me a ride on his shoulders but mostly he just talked to me, told me stories of the war or when he was a boy, and I realised he was just distracting me so I didn't think about being tired. It works. If I'm on my own I usually think about something I'd like to do, like... I don't know, like planning a trip, or swimming in a lake. I try to visualise it all, every detail... it might help you." He suddenly realised he was still holding her hand and quickly let go, worried that he'd overstepped the mark. Not that he was actually sure where the mark was, anymore.
She didn't seem to have noticed any transgression. "I'll try that," she said, thoughtfully.
The Inseparables had found two more markers, both of them an arrangement of four stones. It seemed Porthos was right and d'Artagnan had been leaving them clues all along. Hugely encouraged, they were so focussed on the latest marker and debating whether it indicated a direction or not, that none of them noticed a sudden hush in the bird song until it was almost too late. At the last second Aramis' instincts kicked in and he held up a warning hand, swivelling quickly around to face the woodland skirting the meadow they had been riding through. With a roar, four Spaniards burst out of the trees brandishing swords.
The three moved quickly in a well-practice routine. Athos strode towards the two nearest him, drawing sword and dagger and settling into a crouch as he waited for them to make their move. The first lunged expertly, trying to lure him around to give the second man an opening. Athos riposted, keeping his stance steady and doing the minimum. Years of experience had taught him not to expend unnecessary energy. An impatient or frustrated opponent soon makes a mistake, and sure enough the second man stepped closer trying to get a blow to Athos' side; Athos waited until he was within range of his blade then struck with an economical blow that left the man staring at the blossoming red line on his chest, then dropping slowly to his knees. Before he even hit the ground, the other man was dead from a blade across his throat and Athos was moving instantly to aid Aramis who was struggling with a weakened swing on his injured arm.
It was all over in minutes. The three stood breathing heavily. "Everyone okay?" asked Athos, checking the others quickly for any new wounds. "Think so," puffed Porthos. "They're not bad swordsmen though."
Athos agreed. They might be lacking in fight experience but they were definitely well trained. He hoped d'Artagnan hadn't met any. One on one or one on two, he had total confidence in his protégé, but when injured and having to protect two women...
"Alright, mate?" Porthos checked Aramis who was still bent double, hands on knees, panting. "Yeah... caught a blade over my ribs, but it's not deep."
Porthos swung him around and wrinkled his nose at the sight of the gash in the side of Aramis' doublet. "Let's have at it, then."
Athos collected the horses while Porthos took a look. "How is it?" he asked, passing Porthos a waterskin.
"Yeah, like 'e said, not too deep. Probably won't need stitches but I'm guessing it stings a bit." He nudged Aramis who grunted. He was breathing hard to push the pain down, but at the same time he was furious with himself for getting nicked. They had enough to contend with already without gathering more injuries.
Ten minutes later the wound was cleaned to Porthos' satisfaction, and expertly bandaged by Athos. Porthos booted Aramis into his saddle, waited for his nod, then the three set off again, leaving the bodies behind them. "Might as well let them know we're here – and fighting back," grunted Athos.
Porthos, at the back, didn't comment as he saw Aramis crossing himself and tucking his crucifix back into his shirt as they headed off at a canter. They would need all the help they could get today.