Dear readers, I've long run out of words to apologize for keeping you waiting between chapters. You know by now that with BtWD, writing is more like a wrestling match, and I have no other explanation, nor excuse, because I have no idea why it's not easier. Thank you for your patience; thanks to those of you who sent me lovely messages (always very effective) and for the guest reviews on the last chapter that I couldn't personally reply. Now, "Grab a Hold", and next, I'll ask you to "Hang on Tight".
With my thanks to penless for looking this over and making sure we don't fall into any plot-holes.
Chapter Eleven, Part I:
Grab a Hold...
The idyllic peace of the countryside was shattered when four horses burst through the trees of Rambouillet, hooves stomping on the dirt trail leading north-east towards the capital. Four riders, breathing almost as heavily as their mounts, pulled hard on the reins to bring the animals to a stop, but the horses, too charged to come to a sudden standstill, continued to dance nimbly on their feet, neighing and nickering as they shook their heads.
"Is it safe to stop?" King Louis asked, glancing anxiously back towards the trees as if he expected riders to charge at them any moment.
"For a few minutes," d'Artagnan confirmed, swiftly sliding off the saddle, "There's been no sign of pursuit for an hour now. Are you hurt, your majesty?"
"No, no.. Scraped only."
"General?"
Toussaine shook his head.
"Good. We'll give the horses a few minutes to rest, then ride on to Elancourt as planned."
"Elancourt?" The king turned around in alarm. "But that was our original plan! Whoever these men are, it's obvious they're well-informed of our itinerary - what if they lie in wait in Elancourt as well? What if we ride into another trap?"
"That's highly unlikely," d'Artagnan countered, marching up to Aramis, who was dismounting carefully, "There were more than twenty men who attacked us in the forest. They were determined to finish us then and there; they won't have prepared a second attack."
"You can't know that for certain!"
"No, sire," Aramis agreed, sounding calm even though he looked pale and spoke through clenched teeth, "but right now, we're out of options. We must get you safely back to Paris before sundown; Elancourt is not only the shortest route, but also the only village with an inn for miles. It is a risk we have to take."
"But what if they've taken the horses we've put there, like they did in Orsay?"
"In that case, we'll push the animals harder and make for Versailles. It's a half-hour ride from Elancourt and the safest place for His majesty outside of Paris."
That was the course of action the four Musketeers had agreed upon prior to their departure from the chateau, and with Athos and Porthos having fallen behind, it was imperative that they stuck with it. General Toussaine offered no comment of his own, seemingly content to let the Musketeers take charge of the situation, although, looking every bit as dishevelled as the rest of them after the fight and the chase in the woods, he was still as observant as ever, the silver-grey eyes leaving no doubt that the man would interfere the moment he felt the need for it. The king himself, thankfully, couldn't seem to find anything more to object, so after a moment of consideration, gave his nod of consent.
"What of Athos and Porthos?" he inquired then, "Should we not wait for them?"
d'Artagan and Aramis exchanged a quick look before d'Artagnan replied, almost curtly,
"We can't linger here out in the open. Our priority is getting your Majesty to safety; the captain and Porthos know the route we're taking. They'll catch up with us soon." Without waiting for a response, he turned and followed Aramis down through the path to a grove by the roadside.
They had ridden hard through the forest for over an hour after they'd managed to cut through the assailants that had descended on them. The two Musketeers fighting at the front had taken on the horsemen blocking the path in one-on-one duels, busying them to give the king an opportunity to escape; General Toussaine, right behind them, had fought assiduously to keep the monarch safe, guiding Louis effectively through corridor Aramis and d'Artagnan had cleared towards the front. Dispatching of their respective opponents, they had then followed the trail of Louis and Toussaine, but more assailants had given chase; pistols spent in the initial fight, they'd had to engage in sword-fighting once more. When they'd felled their final attackers, d'Artagnan had almost yelled at Aramis to return to help Athos and Porthos while he rode on after the king, but the dangerous angle of the marksman's posture in the saddle, the tense lines on his face and, even more decisively, the glaring absence of his hat, had convinced him otherwise. Knowing their priorities, the two Musketeers had caught up with the king and the general shortly thereafter and ridden at full canter until they'd cleared of the forest.
Now leaving Toussaine and the king on their own for a few moments, d'Artagnan walked over to where Aramis was easing himself down on a rock, and helped his friend loosen his doublet to peer at the wound at the back of his shoulder.
"Aramis, this is bad," he reported, frowning concernedly at the amount of blood soaking his friend's once-white shirt. The gash appeared long, though he couldn't yet discern how deep; what was immediately clear was that it required stitches, and the sooner they could do it, the better.
"Yes, I can rather feel that," Aramis sighed as he bent over, cradling his arm in his lap, "Can you put something on it to stop the bleeding?"
"Of course - take off your sash; we'll use it to support your arm until we reach the inn." He hurried to his saddlebags to retrieve a spare shirt and folded it into a pad of cloth; returning, he leaned over to insert it through the marksman's collar. "Aramis," he confided quietly, "I don't think those men were intending to kill the king."
"No," Aramis agreed readily, "No, neither do I."
"Not a single shot was fired on us beyond the initial one. They had the high ground; they could've taken out at least one or two us before moving in on the king, yet instead, they risk descending on us with swords and clubs?"
"Which makes me think they didn't intend to kidnap him, either."
"How does that make sense?" He quickly tied off the knot over Aramis's shoulder and adjusted the sash-sling around the limb. "Why would anyone lay an ambush for the king's company if they didn't intend to kill or kidnap him?" But even as the words left his lips, d'Artagnan's fingers slowed. His eyes sought Aramis's as the marksman raised his head to look at him – unless -
".. unless the king wasn't the target," Aramis finished the thought. As one, the two friends turned to look towards General Toussaine.
"Right. What are we thinking?" d'Artagnan pulled Aramis to his feet, keeping a hand on the marksman's arm as the latter caught his balance; his face pinched in discomfort, Aramis shot him a look of gratitude before speaking.
"You were right about what you said last night. Whoever those men were, they waited for the right time to attack. They let us reach the chateau and allowed the meeting to go ahead before making their move. What that tells me," he glanced again at the general, who was running a hand down his horse's flank to check for injuries, "is that unlike you and me, they knew precisely well what that meeting was about."
"You are thinking that the General is the spy."
"On the contrary," Aramis shook his head, "I think it's more likely that he was the real target, not the king."
Now that was a sharp turn in their suspicions regarding the events surrounding this mission since the previous day. d'Artagnan, therefore, looked suitably sceptical.
"I don't know, Aramis.. The same logic holds: if they wanted to kidnap either of them, why wouldn't they take us out first - eliminate the immediate threat before moving in?"
It took Aramis only a moment to find an answer to that. "They wouldn't risk opening fire on us if they were ordered not to harm the king."
Now they were taking shots in the dark.
d'Artagnan's eyes narrowed even more as he considered that, obviously not yet convinced, but even as Aramis looked at him, something shifted in the Gascon's face. "You think they wanted to capture Toussaine to learn of the details of that meeting," he said in an odd voice, making the marksman frown.
"In either case, Toussaine falling into Spanish hands would spell disaster for France. Why?"
d'Artagnan's eyes were full of worry, as was his voice when he spoke. "Aramis, Toussaine was not the only one present in that meeting."
As the full implication of those words hit him, Aramis felt as if the earth fell away beneath his feet.
Athos.
Athos, too, had been in that meeting.
"We're jumping to conclusions," he said with enforced calm, no qualms about backtracking on his own words, "It's not been that long. What's more probable is that they're buying us time to get away. They should catch up soon." He did not spell out what he hoped was the lesser probability.
"I pray to God you're right, but frankly?" said d'Artagnan, shooting him a pessimistic look, "Nothing about this mission has gone our way so far. Why should they start doing so now?"
On that sour note, he marched up to the horses and called for the company to move out. Unbeknownst to them, somewhere near the western border of the forest, a group of Spaniards were lowering the unconscious captain of the Musketeers down from the back of a horse, and crowding around him as they waited for their leader to arrive.
The diminished company rode hard for the small village of Elancourt, encountering, thankfully, nothing more than sheep and the odd shepherd on the way towards Versailles. The road from Rambouillet was all but empty even now in the fresh hours of the day; the area between the village and the forest, a largely uninhabited, open grassland rarely taken by travellers. As they passed through the wheat fields and neared the village just short of noon, d'Artagnan signalled the others to hide in a copse of trees at the foot of a bridge that traversed a small creek, and rode on by himself to scout ahead. Unlike La Couronne d'Or, Elancourt's single inn was a less-than-kingly one, so to speak, but so long as it was safe and their stationed mounts secure, the company would have what they needed.
Few people milled about along the main road as d'Artagnan rode his weary horse through it at an easy trot, watching for any sign of trouble ahead of the king's - the marquis's - arrival. The mid-day sun had chased most folk to the cooler shades of indoors, and everything in the sleepy outdoors appeared as harmless as it should be; less than three minutes after passing the village's first house, d'Artagnan was stopping in front of the two-story, modest building that served as both the tavern and the occasional inn for the wayward traveller, and throwing down an assessing gaze at the red-nosed, lanky lad that clambered to greet him.
"You're the stableboy?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"How many guests are there at the inn?"
The boy frowned at the strange question, hesitating about answering; impressed by the display of caution, d'Artagnan shrugged his cloak aside to reveal the Musketeers' pauldron. The insignia immediately produced the desired effect.
"Only two guests, monsieur, staying overnight."
"How many horses in the stables?"
"Six."
"Six," d'Artagnan repeated, "I assume two of those belong to your guests."
The boy nodded.
"What about the other four?"
"One of them is ours. The others..."
"Yes?"
"Well, we were brought six horses the other day, monsieur. We were told men would come to claim them early this morning, but no one came. Did you come for them?" he asked with sudden insight. d'Artagnan ignored him.
"Where are these horses now?"
"Three of them are here. We don't have enough room here for so many horses, so we stabled the other three with M. Fulbert down the road."
"So all six horses are here and accounted for?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Very good." Satisfied, d'Artagnan nodded in relief. If, as the king had feared, they had lost the horses like they'd done in Orsay, that would have proved a much bigger problem now than it had done yesterday. He was just about to dismount when he caught sight of the two dark horses tied at the side of the inn, tethered to a window shutter and grazing peacefully in the shade. His forehead creased again.
"Whose are those?"
"Ah, two men came about half an hour ago. They..."
"They what?" he asked impatiently.
"Well, they asked about the horses, too, monsieur. They said we would have been brought six horses, and that these horses would be collected today, and asked if they were. Collected, I mean. I said no, they're still here. I asked them if they were going to take the horses but they didn't say anything, so.. They're still here."
"Understood," d'Artagnan declared, not rudely as he dismounted, "horses still here."
"No, no - I meant the men, monsieur. The men who asked about the horses - they're at the inn."
d'Artagnan stopped, one hand arrested on the pommel of the saddle.
Who were these men? Were they friend or foe - how did they know about the horses? Did they pose a threat to His majesty? And could one thing please go smoothly on this mission?
Making his decision as quickly as he was wont to, he passed the reins to the lad and told him to wait there, that he would only be a minute. He checked his pistol to make sure it was loaded, crossed the patch of greenery leading to the inn with long, purposeful strides; one hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw, he pushed the door in and entered.
Six heads turned to him as the door bell pealed.
Two elderly men nursing drinks in a corner, a lone man standing by the window, and two others at a table near the stairs.
No one jumped him.
"Welcome, monsieur, I am Mme. Guido. How can I be of service?"
"d'Artagnan?"
"Berger?"
The men at the table rose to their feet in a loud clatter and one of them was indeed none other than the Musketeer Berger, in full uniform, now rushing to the Gascon's side with his companion at his heels.
"Thank God – we'd begun to fear the worst!" He dropped his voice to a hush. "The king?"
"Safe, waiting with Aramis and the General for my signal. Berger, what are you doing here? Where's the rest of the patrol?"
"In Versailles, where they're supposed to be! When you didn't check in with us hours ago, we thought something must have happened; Duval sent me and Girard –" he tipped his head towards the other man, who wore the Guards' uniform –"to check if you'd touched base here. What in God's name happened?"
"It's a long story - we were ambushed." d'Artagnan shoved his pistol back onto the belt and pulled his cloak to hide it -rather belatedly-, then turned to the woman who had managed to introduce herself as Mme. Guido right before being promptly ignored by the three men. "Madame, we need a room if you have one; water for washing up, bandages, and wine for six, please."
"Bandages?" Berger frowned, alarm growing.
"Aramis took a cut to the back."
The woman blinked, closed her open mouth, nodded and scurried away. "Berger, we can't linger here - the king was supposed to have returned to Paris several hours ago. I told him they - whoever the men who attacked us were – though were heard them speak Spanish – they wouldn't have prepared a second ambush, but that doesn't mean-"
"d'Artagnan, slow down," said Berger, raising up a hand to stop the flow of words that obviously made little sense to him; he could see the battle rush that still lingered around the younger man, the anxiety beneath the ever-present defiance in his eye. He circled a grounding hand around d'Artagnan's arm, and the other man was immediately grateful for the contact. "First things first." said Berger, holding d'Artagnan's gaze, "You said the king is with Aramis and the general. Where are the captain and Porthos?"
"You don't understand - we got separated." Madame Guido arrived with keys in her hand and cut the hurried explanation short; the three men followed her into a second-story room just at the end of the stairs and no sooner than the door was closed on the woman that d'Artagnan continued, hands perched on his hips as they stood in a group in the middle of the room. "We arrived too late at the castle last night. The king's business took longer than any of us expected, so we had to depart at first light instead of three hours before, as we were supposed to. Not even an hour after we entered the forest this morning, we were ambushed - merde!" he swore suddenly, smacking his forehead so hard it was a wonder he didn't fall over - "That's why they took the horses in Orsay! They delayed us, so we would have to ride through the forest in daylight – they couldn't have laid an ambush at the dead of the night!"
Berger was looking at him as if trying to determine whether or not he had suffered a blow to the head, but d'Artagnan did not notice, lost as he was in his second moment of epiphany in as many days. His stomach sunk as he now fully realized how well-planned the entire scheme had been - and they were still three hours away from the safety of Paris, three hours in which anything and everything could go wrong. He had to get to the others - Aramis and the king were waiting – if the circumstances would have allowed, he would have laughed at the thought, the king of France and the top general of his armies hiding in the bushes in the middle of nowhere.
Berger, however, had different plans.
He shook his head in exasperation. "Start talking sense," he said in a voice that brooked no argument. "Athos and Porthos: you said you were separated. When? During the ambush?"
d'Artagnan dipped his chin in the affirmative, gaze dropping to the floor for reasons even he did not understand. "Aramis and I were at the front; Athos and Porthos were bringing up the rear. We lost sight of each other during the attack. There's been no sign of them since."
Berger thoroughly cursed. "What of Vérde's patrol? They were supposed to secure the forest for your passage."
"No sign of them either. Although," he glanced at the Guard, "we found Dominique and a Guard within the forest yesterday. Both dead."
"Blimey, lad," Berger breathed, rubbing the back of his neck, "Do you have any good news for us?"
D'Artagnan arched him an eyebrow. "The king's still alive?"
Berger snorted. "Hallelujah." He squared his shoulders again; thought for a few moments, then looked up at both men. "Alright. Here is what we're going to do. Girard, ride back to Versailles, my friend. Round up the Musketeers and the Guard so they'll be ready to escort the king to Paris. I will ride for the forest and look for our comrades. I'll send Aramis and the others along when I pass by them – d'Artagnan, where are they waiting?"
"I'll come with you," d'Artagnan said instead of answering, nodding as he followed through his own rapidly-forming thoughts, "If Girard rides ahead and readies the escort, Aramis and Toussaine will be good to protect the king from here to Versailles. You and I will return to the forest and search for the others together."
"That's not what's going to happen."
d'Artagnan immediately took a breath to protest but Berger was adamant. "d'Artagnan," he emphasized, putting both hands on the Gascon's shoulders, "listen to me. For whatever reason, both our lieutenant and our captain are missing. Aramis, you say, is wounded; right now, as His majesty's chosen guard, it is your duty to get him back to Paris in one piece. So you are going to see this mission through, my friend, and I will ride to the forest alone."
"Berger, don't be insane, you can't go there on your own! We don't know how many more of these men there are in this area, we don't know how they're organized! They've been ahead of us every step of the way; there'll be none of us around to help you if you, too, get yourself captured –"
"Captured?"
Slamming both fists onto his brow, d'Artagnan tipped his head back and groaned.
He had to get a grip on himself.
Trust Aramis and his wild conjectures to get under his skin - they were jumping to conclusions like a pair of worrying housewives. They were talking about Athos and Porthos here - it was more likely that they'd dispatched of the Spaniards and were rounding up the ones they'd left alive to take prisoner. It must be taking time to drag a group of would-be kidnappers on foot through the woods.. wild conjectures!
"Lad. Sit down."
Resuming charge once again, Berger pushed him down onto a chair even as the door opened and Mme. Guido entered without ceremony, carrying a tray with wine and the other requested items. "Drink up." He filled a cup and handed it to d'Artagnan, who drank without fuss.
"We're wasting time. Where is the king waiting?"
"At the foot of the bridge over the creek, just outside the village." d'Artagnan looked up at Berger with an unyielding gaze. "You are not going into that forest alone. Girard," he shot a glance at the silent Guard, "can tell Duval to send a group of men back to Rambouillet to catch up with you. We'll manage with a smaller escort for the king."
"That's not -"
"Don't argue with me about this, Berger. How many men have we already lost to the Spanish in attacks like this? It's simple common sense."
At that, a small smile curved Berger's lips, accentuating the scar across his jowl. "Charles d'Artagnan... advising common sense. The captain would be proud." He sobered again. "Don't worry. Get the king back to the palace. We will find our brothers and see you back at the garrison." He held out a hand and d'Artagnan grasped it firmly.
"God speed, Berger."
"All for one," said the older man.
With departing nods, the two soldiers turned and left.
Fifteen minutes later, d'Artagnan would be stitching the slash across Aramis's back in the same room, the king –ah, the "Marquis de Harcourt" - and General Toussaine would be waiting down in the inn's common hall to avoid witnessing the procedure, and in less than an hour, under the early afternoon sun, they would once again be riding on the road to Versailles.
... Sorry. I feel very guilty. x