Greetings on a sunny Saturday afternoon!

Thank you for reading and leaving comments yesterday.

WARNING to those of you whom I know are animal lovers: this chapter involves a vicious battle and one short paragraph does make reference to the death of horses.

CHAPTER 115

I

Later, the men involved in defending the King would boast that the battle with the rebels was an anti-climax, that their victory was never in doubt given their supremacy of numbers and the fact that God was on their side. No-one hearing the claim would rebuke them for remembering it that way, for that was their choice.

It was, admittedly, a brief conflict but there was no denying the terrifying brutality involved and the horrendous casualties that resulted, the vast majority from among the rebel forces. Too many were inadequately trained, their only instruction given on the route to Versailles; they were merely requisitioned from the estates to make up numbers, their carpentry tools and farming implements taken from their hands and replaced with unfamiliar weapons as they were ordered to stand beside the men of their lord's local militia.

Those hapless individuals were amongst the first to fall, sacrificed as they were cut down in the open by the combined barrage of fire from the Red Guard and Musketeers. Screaming with fright, others dropped their weapons and desperately threw themselves on the ground in miserable surrender without drawing one drop of the opposition's blood, only for some to be trampled by those who followed or, after that, by the rebel horsemen who rode into the fray.

Still more turned in panic to run and found their escape route blocked by a wall of men bearing down upon them and driving them backwards towards the soldiers. The grim choice was between a shot to the back or being stabbed by the swordsmen who marched forward relentlessly.

The terrified men who were still on their feet ran north and south for their very lives, caught between the King's men and the obstinately advancing rebels. The soldiers let them go, preferring to concentrate their last pistol and musket fire on the next ranks, before throwing their weapons aside, drawing their swords and leaping from their cover with blood-curdling roars at Tréville's signal to charge.

Those still trying to evade the hand-to hand fighting that ensued were turned round to the north by the allied horsemen and to the south by the foot soldiers of the loyalist nobles. Traumatised into submission, some rebels sat down to demonstrate that they were no longer a threat, begged for mercy and prayed that they would not be indiscriminately slaughtered.

The rebel leaders and their men on horseback attempted to circumnavigate the fighting men to the south, very few of them prepared to take on the large contingent of the loyal nobles who had suddenly ridden into view to the north but their way was obstructed by the violent clash on foot.

Men bellowed in rage in a mix of intimidation and the venting of pent-up fury as they fought for survival. The inexorable sound of clashing swords and the screams of the dying filled the air, only to be punctuated by the continuing musket fire of Aramis and the other hidden marksmen as they attempted to find their range to bring down the mounted rebel leaders.

The men were hard to hit at that distance, the horses offering bigger targets and as much as it pained Aramis to slay an innocent animal, it meant that the riders would be rendered more vulnerable and they would be reduced to joining the fight on their feet. He and his comrades met with some success, until the men in their sights realised what was happening and moved back out of range.

The damage was done, however, and although it was impossible for any shouted order to be heard in the melée, there was some sort of awareness as the rebels began to pull back.

Only to be met by Gaston's men riding in behind them! Menier's rebels were effectively trapped, surrounded in all directions.

The battle was over.

II

Athos was breathing hard as he stood and surveyed the carnage around him. His dark curling hair was matted with sweat and grime; blood smeared his face and spattered his doublet, but he had already reassured himself that none of it was his. It had been a necessary check as he struggled to regulate his breathing and overcome the fiery pain that had ignited in his side in protest at his actions. Several men lay dead around him and he thought he was probably responsible for their demise, but he could not recall their faces.

In the heat of battle, as he channelled his fury and skill to become a ruthless killer, his opponents ceased to be individuals. They were, quite simply, the enemy; when one fell, another took their place and he had to go on with the fight to survive. He could not think of them as anything else until afterwards for he had to abide by the maxim 'kill or be killed.'

He had not progressed too far across the battlefield, preferring in this instance to stand his ground, conserve his energy and let the foe come to him, as they had done. Early on, he had felt the reassurance of the close proximity of Grenouille and Porthos and he had even registered the presence of d'Artagnan fighting beyond the big Musketeer.

It had fleetingly occurred to him that, together, Porthos and Grenouille must have presented themselves as a formidable duo to their enemy and he caught glimpses of their unremitting onslaught.

Taking deep breaths and still steadying his pounding heart, his eyes swept the battlefield, trying to gauge how the Red Guard under his command had fared and reassured to see many of them on their feet to his left. To the other side of him, d'Artagnan was standing, looking up at the windows of the lodge and suddenly waving wildly. The wave then became a frantic beckoning gesture. He must have seen Aramis and was summoning him urgently.

Porthos! Where was he?

Now it was Athos' turn to panic, his breath catching in his throat when he could not see the big man on his feet anywhere. He turned his attention to the fallen, a sound akin to a sob of relief breaking from him when he realised his brother was kneeling, head bowed, with his back to him, the dark leathers dust-covered and making him indistinguishable from so many others.

Tiredness forgotten, he covered the ground in quick easy strides and saw, to his dismay, that Porthos leaned over another soldier on the ground.

"No, no, no, no!" Athos groaned as he dropped beside Grenouille and reached for a callused hand, gripping it tightly.