Chapter 8
Thorell dismounted, tossed the reins to his page, and walked with determined strides toward the battlefield. He stood behind it, out of reach of foot soldiers, and musket fire, and watched with the eyes of a man who had seen the images of war for far too long. The battle would rage on without question. He clenched his fists and jaw as anger wrapped its way around his spine. Frederick Henry was late and it was costing him and the others, the lives of their men.
General Sanchez had been a mighty enemy. His years of service to Spain and her king had given him the experience, determination, and desire to win. He fought like a man with nothing left to lose, a man who knew his time was short. However, he had not allowed for the knowledge and tenacity of a small group of musketeers who would stop at nothing to protect their king and France. Men, who, had they been greater in number, may have won the war.
Thorell turned, looked over his shoulder toward the chateau and the man that had led them, guided them, and helped them withstand an undeniable force. A man who knew what he faced, but kept the knowledge to himself to protect his men and bring out their very best. A man who had given his life in service to his king and to his men.
"General," his first lieutenant said as he approached from the battlefield. His armor was splattered in mud and blood coated the thigh of britches. It wasn't his.
"What is it?" Thorell said and turned to look at him.
"General Sanchez has been wounded."
Thorell frowned, looked critically at his lieutenant, and said, "What?"
"The Musketeer, Aramis, General. He had a shot and took it — I heard it from one of the men who returned from the battlefield. I've confirmed through my spyglass that Sanchez has indeed been injured… I cannot confirm his death."
"I want it confirmed," Thorell said and looked again at the battlefield. "And Lieutenant," he said and turned as his man looked at him, "if they fail to comply, let them know we will not be taking prisoners — this has gone on far too long."
The lieutenant swallowed, nodded once, and walked to his horse.
For a moment, the rain seemed to let up. The winds relaxed. The clouds parted and a blue sky appeared. And then suddenly, the heavens opened up, and the rain fell again amidst the harshness of stronger winds. Branches swayed and bowed beneath its force.
Horses shifted sideways to avoid the onslaught. They tucked their tails, lowered their heads, and yanked on their reins at the discomfort.
The men continued to fight.
"Captain Pruette," Thorell shouted as Pruette stepped backward and walked toward him.
Blood trailed down the side of Pruette's face from a cut to his hairline. He cradled his right hand next to his chest and wiped his nose and mouth with the back of his left hand.
"General?" Pruette said. "My men have taken the southern edge of the battlefield. The Spanish are retreating." He took a deep breath, spit, and then coughed.
"Your men?"
"Tired, but ready to continue, General." Pruette winced as he extended the fingers of his right hand. His knuckles were raw, his index finger swollen, and a long cut ran from his pinky to his wrist.
General Thorell nodded. "Prepare your regiment. Captain Fain's men can continue to push the Spanish northeast."
"General?"
"Surround the chateau," Thorell looked at Pruette. "The musketeers need to see to their captain."