This is the second chapter of the "comfort" part which was originally supposed to be one scene - after more than 14,000 words I realised it had got away from me a bit! (I know that won't surprise any of you, not being known for my brevity or forward planning!) Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 20: Fantasy
After the emotional morning and Athos' visit, d'Artagnan had slept for much of the afternoon, but by nightfall he was on his feet, pushing himself to walk as far as the well in the centre of the square. In the morning he did it again, this time without a stick, took a short rest, then walked to the chapel. It was only a hundred paces or so, but it felt like a marathon to d'Artagnan as he hobbled, trying to put equal weight on his leg and ignore the tugging pain in his thigh every time he lifted it.
By nightfall his thigh was hot and swollen and he was nearly crying with pain. Ninette did not have the heart to scold him or remind him that you cannot rush the healing, but sat patiently draping cloths soaked in cool water endlessly on the abused muscle, trying to cool it down, while d'Artagnan clenched his fists and turned his head away to hide the hiss of pain which escaped his gritted teeth at every movement.
When the children had finished eating in the other room she called Celeste to take over, and rose to prepare a herb paste which she hoped would work to draw out the heat overnight. When it was ready she smoothed it directly onto his skin, avoiding only the wound itself which was still red and oozing in several places, covered it in a dry cloth and bandaged everything tightly in place, then sat watching d'Artagnan's face as he tried to relax his hands and ride out the pain from her ministrations.
Eventually he turned to face her. "I'm sorry. I've made more work for you."
"You have to work with your body, d'Artagnan. You can't force muscles when they are torn. It's – "
"I know." He cut her off, angrily, and she sat quietly knowing the anger was not for her. After a moment he spoke again, more softly. "I'm not good company tonight, Ninette."
She took the hint and rose, tidying away methodically as she always did then turning at the door and wishing him a good night. He nodded once without meeting her eyes, and turned his head back to the window and the dark night outside.
In the morning he looked awful, and she guessed he had not slept well. He stayed in bed to eat his porridge, as she instructed, and spoke only to thank her when she checked his dressings and replenished the cooling poultice on his leg. The children were subdued around him, picking up on the waves of suppressed despair and frustration he was radiating. She readied them for church and left a bowl of hot water by his bed without comment.
When they returned they found him in the living room looking marginally better. He'd obviously washed, and changed his clothes, and was now scraping the mud off the root vegetables she'd dug earlier for today's soup.
"I used the stick," he said, before she had a chance to question him, and she smiled, relieved that he'd got his head sorted again. The children ran to help him and were soon chatting to him about church and Celeste's idea of plaiting grasses into Nuit's mane in honour of the Sabbath, and things slowly returned to normal.
It was another day before his thigh was strong enough to walk without pain again, but he'd learned his lesson and didn't rush it. She knew he was anxious and unsettled after the visit from his captain, but he kept his worries to himself and worked on his fitness as best he could. Under instruction, Norbert wrapped rope around a couple of logs, making loops on top, and d'Artagnan sat on the edge of the bed and used them as weights for his arms and his uninjured right leg, hooking his toe through the loop and lifting it with a straight leg. Norbert also made him a second stick, and he used both diligently when walking about the house to ensure he gave the wound on his thigh more time to heal.
He progressed to the bench outside again, even though it was full winter by now and the days were chilly, the cold wind from the mountains occasionally bringing the first flurries of snow. Norbert ran up and down with Nuit at her slowest trot in an attempt to exercise her, and d'Artagnan even gave him a leg up so he could perch on her back while Celeste walked alongside, the young boy grinning from ear to ear. Nuit was surprisingly calm and patient with the children and Norbert could probably have ridden her alone, but d'Artagnan didn't want to risk him falling off her if she stumbled – she stood 17 hands at the shoulder and it was a long way down for a five year old.
Towards the end of the week he was walking unaided again, and even began to do the simpler training exercises. He couldn't lunge yet, or use his left arm extravagantly because of the pull on his ribs, but if he kept his back straight he could at least do some of the sword movements. Norbert was fascinated, rushing to finish his own wooden sword so he could copy d'Artagnan's movements. He watched their mismatched shadows in the winter sun, their elongated swords twirling and slashing through the air, and grinned at how they must look.
When Norbert ran off to see to Nuit he turned and found Ninette watching them from her front doorway, an odd expression on her face. He stammered an apology, thinking her angry that he'd been teaching sword-play to her young son, but she waved off his concern and went to sit on the bench. He joined her, stretching his left leg out to ease the muscle and watching Norbert in the distance, standing on the field gate to feed Nuit some pilfered carrots. He tipped his head up to the sun, feeling a surge of contentment at their peaceful surroundings, but after a moment he became aware of her silence and stirred himself to look at her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I was just ... I was just watching you two together and thinking..."
She stopped, and d'Artagnan waited, puzzled. He was used to her being poised, calmly in control, and this uncertainty was new for him. Eventually he prompted her. "What were you thinking?"
She hesitated, then looked straight at him, and carried on in a rush. "I don't want you to go."
There was a silence; this hadn't been at all what d'Artagnan was expecting to hear, and he was confused. "Go ... back to the war?"
"No, d'Artagnan." Her voice was more confident now. "I don't want you to leave. I want you to stay here, with us." She paused, watching his face as he struggled to work out what she meant, and smiled. Men were so slow sometimes! She leaned towards him and watched his breath stutter at her closeness. "I am in love with you, d'Artagnan." Close enough to breath in the warm, musky smell of his skin, the stubble on his cheeks, the moist lips so close to her own ... She moved her head another inch and touched his lips with her own.
For a second he didn't move, still reeling from the suddenness of her declaration. She must have taken his lack of reaction for permission, for she turned her head more, pressing her lips more firmly on his, and suddenly his body took command where his head was still in chaos. He jerked his head away from hers so fast that he cracked the back of his head on the wall, letting out a yelp.
"What's wrong?" Norbert ran up, looking puzzled. d'Artagnan put a hand to the back of his head, managing not to look at Ninette but aware that she was standing, fussing, reaching out to check his head. "I'm fine, just banged my head. How's Nuit?"
He barely listened while Norbert chattered about what she'd eaten that morning, until Ninette shooed him indoors. In the sudden silence they sat mutely on the bench, and he looked across the square to where the priest was sweeping out his church, and wondered if anyone had seen the abbreviated kiss, and what on earth he was going to say to her.
Eventually he got the courage to look at her and saw she was twisting a handkerchief in her strong fingers. Acting on impulse he put his hand over hers and squeezed, hearing a tiny exhalation. Quickly, before she could misconstrue his action, he started to speak.
"When you... before then, I was thinking that Constance would love it here." He paused, and found her eyes searching his face. Only then did it occur to him that he had not talked of his wife in this place. He had long ago tucked his feelings for her deep inside, wanting to keep her untainted by the horrors of war, even in his mind. His yearning for her had nearly destroyed him in the first few weeks of the war and he'd learned his lesson then; better not to think about what he was missing, what he might not have again. He had become so accustomed to the privacy of his memories that he had not thought to explain his status here. "Constance is my wife." He saw her eyes drop instantly to his left hand where he held hers. "They took my ring off when they were treating my burns. Athos probably still has it; I forgot to ask."
He watched her eyes close in understanding, and the flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. She made to pull her hand from his and he stopped her. "Ninette, there are many different kinds of love." She frowned, and turned her head away, but he persevered. "I was lucky, so lucky to have found her. I knew as soon as I saw her that I would never love anyone else in the same way. And it wasn't easy, especially for her, but eventually we were together, and we married, on the same day war was declared." She inhaled sharply. Even in her own distress she could imagine the sweet pain of that moment, when instead of sheer happiness he was faced with the prospect of leaving his new wife within days. "But the love of my brothers has deepened and sustained me through this war. And everywhere I go I find beautiful people, amazing people like you and your family, who have offered me your home and your hearts... If we are lucky, friendships and family sustain us where love is out of reach."
She bit her lip, and nodded, shakily, and he hoped she'd heard what he was trying to say. She was so full of love, and life, and she needed someone to love who would love her back. He didn't want to patronise her by putting it into words so bluntly, but he hoped she would work it out for herself in time.
He closed his eyes and rested his head gingerly on the wall; his head was thumping now, but more from emotion than the knock he'd given himself. How was life so bloody complicated?
It passed, as these things do. At the evening meal she'd been silent, speaking mostly to the children, and he'd pleaded tiredness and escaped early to bed. But in the morning she was able to look him in the eye again, and when the children were outside doing their chores she turned to him as he helped her to dry their breakfast dishes, and thanked him, and he knew she was referring to more than his help in the kitchen.
A day or two later he noticed her chatting to her neighbour, Geraint, and saw how she enjoyed his company. When she wandered back to finish unpegging her washing, he went to help her, and said quietly: "There are many kinds of love," making her jump. She tutted, frowning at him, but he noticed her looking speculatively across to Geraint's house before she turned to follow him inside.
His fitness improved. A week after Athos' visit he was able to complete four circuits of the square without undue pain, and was contemplating saddling Nuit for a trial ride. His ribs still hurt all the time, and sometimes pain flared up his side sharply enough to make him gasp, but Ninette assured him that it was a sign that the nerves were reconnecting so he supposed it was a good thing.
He knew it was only a matter of time before Athos would return to see if he was fit enough to ride north with them, so he began to prepare. He collected Nuit's tack and spent a whole morning stripping the bridle down, scrubbing her girth and saddle-cloth and oiling the leather until it was supple and gleaming. He retrieved his weapons from under the bed and spent an hour cleaning his pistol and sharpening his sword. That evening he also made sure to chat casually with the children about returning to his unit, telling them he was looking forward to sitting around a campfire with his friends and sleeping under the stars again. He wanted them to see it as a positive thing and not something to regret. Ninette smiled gratefully at him, knowing he was doing his best to prepare them for his imminent departure.
After breakfast the next morning Norbert begged d'Artagnan to show him some more moves, swishing his wooden sword madly in the air. d'Artagnan could see Ninette's anxious face peering at them through the window so he hid his smile at the boy's antics, and patted the seat next to him. Norbert's face fell and he glared through the window at his mother. "You'll be gone soon and I want to be a good fighter!" He stomped his foot for emphasis, but sat anyway, looking surly.
d'Artagnan thought for a moment. "The thing is, Norbert, being a good soldier isn't all about fighting." Norbert swung his legs vigorously but said nothing, still looking rebellious. "It's a lot more than that – and I'm not sure if you're old enough to understand it yet."
That did it: Norbert's head snapped up and he turned big blue eyes on d'Artagnan earnestly. "Of course I am!" he cried indignantly.
d'Artagnan managed a dubious look and allowed Norbert to persuade him to give up some more secrets. Ninette smothered a smile and turned back to her chores.
He told Norbert about guard duty and patrolling, tracking and stalking, and how to assess for dangers. "Head over heart. That's what Captain Athos always told me when I was training."
"What did he mean?"
d'Artagnan considered. "Well, like not rushing headlong into a fight you can't win. Say you come across half a dozen bandits, and – "
"Bandits?"
"Yes. Baddies."
"Don't you mean Spaniards?"
"The Spanish won't always be the bad guys, Norbert. Once the war is over they'll be our friends again. A 'baddie' is – um, well, anyone who tries to use force to hurt other people." He paused, watching while Norbert processed this.
"Like a bully?"
d'Artagnan nodded. "Exactly that. And most of the time we try not to kill, unless there's no option. Mostly we arrest people, put them in jail where they can't hurt anyone again. But the point is that if you're on your own against big numbers, there's no point trying to fight them. Better to get help than get killed. Do you see?"
"Have you had to do that – to sneak off and get help?"
"Yes, often. Porthos is the best at sneaking mind you – he's one of the biggest Musketeers, but he can move so quietly you wouldn't know he was there, half the time."
"What about Aramis? What's he good at?"
d'Artagnan laughed. He'd told the children all about his closest friends and they loved hearing more. "Aramis is good at everything. He's got the best eyesight, he's the best marksman in the unit – probably in the whole army. And he's a wonderful medic."
"What about stalking, is he good at that?"
"Pretty good. And he's great at whistling."
Norbert's scoff showed what he thought about that as a talent, and d'Artagnan hastened to explain. "He invented our signals, like the danger signal." He gave a short, fluting whistle which sounded exactly like a bird's trill. Norbert tried, and failed, to replicate it.
"Try again. Listen!"
Once Norbert had mastered an approximation of the call, d'Artagnan explained it further. "We use that if one of us sees something out of place. It's a kind of 'alert' message, really."
"What else?"
"Well, there's this one." He gave a short, low whistle with a downturn at the end. "That means something like danger - get down, now!"
Norbert found that one easier to copy, and practiced it enthusiastically. "What else?"
"This one." d'Artagnan gave a single 'peep'. "That means eyes on me, or leave it to me."
"What else?"
d'Artagnan laughed. "That's all really. You can use those three calls for pretty much everything."
Norbert looked unconvinced. "What about if you find some bandits and need to surround them, or you're going to go in first, or..."
d'Artagnan cut him off, guessing it was going to be a long sentence otherwise. "We can't have too many different whistles or the baddies would notice them. Those three are usually enough, especially if we can see each other – we can use hand signals too." For the next few minutes, Norbert plied d'Artagnan with scenarios and together they worked out signals and whistles to deal with each situation.
Eventually Ninette rescued him by sending Norbert in to get changed. d'Artagnan saw she had put on a pale brown dress that he'd not seen before, and he looked enquiringly at her. "We're going to the church to help decorate it for Christmas."
d'Artagnan was startled. He hadn't considered what time of year it was, beyond noticing that winter was taking a firm hold. "What's the date?" he asked. Ninette came to sit beside him. "It's Christmas Eve. We'll be going to the crib service this afternoon – you are welcome to join us. The men are in the bottom field; they're slaughtering a pig and dressing it, and preparing the fire pit, then we all eat together after the service."
"I hadn't realised."
He looked miserable and she effortlessly identified the reason. "d'Artagnan, if you're worried about gifts, please don't. None of us have much to spare so it's mostly about spending time together, and eating well. I've made new clothes for the children, and we've been given some toys by older children who've grown out of them, but that's it. And anyway, you've given us so much." She saw his face screw up in puzzlement, and tried to explain. "You've been – like a breath of fresh air. The children have loved having you around. And you mended my chair..." He laughed, thinking of the chair with the wobbly leg that he'd sorted out by fashioning a tiny plug of wood to secure it more firmly in the base of the seat. It had taken him all of two minutes to fix. She patted him on the knee and rose. "And you woke me up."
He looked up, surprised, and she smiled. "You know what I mean. Come on, children."
He watched as they crossed the square together, and noticed her neighbour change trajectory to escort them to the chapel door. A nice man, Geraint. He smiled, and gathered his weapons to stow them back in his room, deciding he would have time to carve some new drying hooks for her herbs before they returned.
He was startled therefore, to hear the sound of panting sobs coming rapidly closer less than half an hour later. Rising stiffly from the table in the main room he moved to the door but before he could open it Norbert had burst in and barrelled straight into d'Artagnan, nearly knocking him off his feet.
"Whoa! What's up little one?" d'Artagnan peeled Norbert's skinny frame from his leg and peered into his tear-streaked face. Silently the boy held up a small object in his quivering hand, his eyes brimming with tears as d'Artagnan bent to inspect it.
It was a beautifully carved donkey made from a dark wood, its long ears pricked forward, its head slightly lowered as if looking at something; delicate knife-strokes suggested the thick coat and scruffy mane. d'Artagnan was so impressed by the exquisite workmanship that it was a moment before he noticed that one of the legs was broken, leaving a ragged stump of wood.
"What happened?" he asked gently, drawing Norbert to him for a consoling hug.
"He was helping to place the figures in the stable in the church, ready for the arrival of the baby Jesus, and he tripped." Ninette had caught up with her distraught son, and came in, holding out the missing leg. "I don't suppose...?"
d'Artagnan picked the leg from her outstretched palm and considered it. Norbert looked up, his hiccoughing sobs ceasing for a moment. The break was ragged, not smooth, but that could be of benefit. He turned the limb carefully until it fitted snugly against the stump, and nodded to himself.
"I'll need something to stick it. Norbert, could you go to Nuit and ask her very nicely if you could pull one of her hairs? One from her mane should be long enough. Can you do that?" Norbert nodded, his eyes wide, and shot off.
Ninette came forward. "Can you fix it? My husband carved it so it's a bit special to us."
d'Artagnan was already heading for the log pile, examining each one until he found what he wanted. "I'll have a go. Can you spare an egg?"
By the time Norbert returned, carefully holding one of Nuit's long black hairs in his fist, d'Artagnan had set a small pan onto the fire and was melting some pine resin he'd scraped from one of the logs. He'd put a few drops of linseed oil into the pan from Ninette's medical supplies, and took it off the fire to add a little egg yolk, mixing it carefully with the point of his knife. Then he blew on a tiny ball of the sticky mixture to cool it, and applied it to the donkey's stump with his fingers, before carefully fitting the broken limb into place. Then he wrapped the horse hair tightly around the break, overlapping it like a miniature bandage, twisting the loose end into a loop and gently pulling it so it tucked neatly under the wrapped hair, then trimming both ends with the blade. He held it up to the light, then smoothed a little more of the mixture onto the join and held it in place, smoothing it with his fingers while it cooled.
Norbert was watching every movement with wide eyes, and when d'Artagnan held the donkey up for inspection he crowed with delight.
"Careful with it; it'll still be fragile until it's completely hardened," cautioned d'Artagnan as he placed the figure in Norbert's hand.
Ninette smoothed her son's hair with her fingers, then guided him towards the door. "You go on my love but don't run! I'll be back up there in a minute."
They watched him walk carefully across the square, then suddenly veer off to his right and start running along the path leading towards Nuit's field, quickly dropping back to a guilty walk when he remembered his precious cargo.
d'Artagnan laughed. "It looks like he's going to show Nuit."
Ninette nodded, smiling her thanks at him as she started to tidy, putting the egg shell by the hearth to dry ready for crushing and feeding back to the hens, and taking the linseed oil bottle back into d'Artagnan's room. d'Artagnan poured hot water into the pan he'd used to heat the make-shift glue mixture and melted it again. "You go on. I'll clean this out then I'll come up and have a look at the decorations," he told her.
He followed her out and tipped the lumpy contents of the pan into the ditch to the side of the house, then plucked a tuft of grass to clean it out. Heading back inside, he saw Ninette disappearing into the chapel and Norbert returning from Nuit's field. He waved as Norbert headed right towards the chapel, and turned to go back in with the pan, but stopped as he heard hoof-beats approaching from the track leading down into the village. His heart leapt as he realised it could be Athos returning, and he waited, seeing Norbert do the same on the other side of the square.
He frowned as the horse appeared over the crest of the hill and started down the track towards the village. It wasn't Athos: he would recognise both man and horse instantly. Nor was it Porthos, or any of the Musketeer regiment, he thought. A prickle of unease settled in his stomach and he moved by reflex back into the shadow of the house as he saw a second horse breast the horizon, then a third, and a fourth...
The first rider was already half-way down the track when he spotted the flash of red on the man's uniform and knew for sure that he was looking at a Spanish patrol. "Putain!" he swore to himself. Why were they here? What did they want, riding brazenly into a French village in broad daylight?
Even as he thought this, taking another step backwards into the open doorway of Ninette's cottage, he picked out the double-silhouette on one of the horses and realised he was looking at an injured man, held on his horse by a second rider.
Everything seemed to happen very quickly then. He heard the chapel door creak open and saw Ninette reappear, looking around for Norbert then noticing the approaching horses. He saw her close the door behind her, smooth her dress and start towards the lead rider, clearly ready to greet him. The first horse stopped and the rider dismounted, watching as Ninette approached.
d'Artagnan's heart was pounding and thoughts raced through his head. He had to stay out of sight: as soon as they saw his wounds, his clothes, his boots, they would surely recognise him for a soldier and he was in no fit state to fight so many. But he couldn't leave Ninette to deal with them alone, and he had to warn Norbert to stay out of sight. He didn't think the rider had noticed the small lad yet, but couldn't call out without drawing attention to himself...
Inspiration struck and without hesitation he whistled the thin, downwards call he'd taught Norbert only an hour or so earlier. It meant 'Get Down!' He could only hope Norbert heard him, and remembered it.
Norbert had started to walk towards his mother but was still a way down the track on the other side of the square, for now out of view of the soldiers. d'Artagnan repeated the whistle and this time Norbert looked over to the cottage. d'Artagnan risked a sharp hand gesture, waving at him to get down, get hidden.
Norbert's mouth dropped open and he froze. The other riders were slowing now, coming to a halt in the centre of the square, near the well, where the first man stood talking to Ninette. d'Artagnan saw her look over to her cottage and he instinctively pressed himself further back into the dark interior. Just in time, for the leader followed her gaze and then barked a sharp order to his men. d'Artagnan felt his stomach clench at the sound of the language he had come to hate so much during his captivity. He glanced back at Norbert, desperately hoping to find the boy pressed to the ground or running away, but he was still standing staring stupidly at d'Artagnan, his hands cradled carefully in front of him.
They were pulling the injured man off the horse now and Ninette was leading the way towards the cottage. d'Artagnan was out of time. He risked a final call – this time the fluting whistle followed by a single note, meaning 'Leave it to me!' and then he stepped quickly backwards into the living room. Where were his weapons? He raced into the bedroom, keeping low in case he could be seen through the window. He could hear their voices getting louder as he grabbed his belts, pistol and sword, then checked quickly around as he backed out of the room. His doublet! It was folded neatly on the chair, the pauldron clearly visible. He dived to snatch it up then scrambled out of the room, dodged through the living room, wrestled briefly with the window latch and hurled himself through it without hesitation.
He landed hard on the log pile stacked against the rear of the cottage, grunting as the wind was knocked out of him. Logs slithered and rolled as he twisted his body painfully to the ground, gathering his weapons under him and getting onto hands and knees. He looked up as a hand reached out of the open window, expecting to see the Spanish soldier pointing a pistol at his head and cursing that he'd cleaned his own pistol but not re-loaded it.
To his utter relief he caught a flash of Ninette's outline as she casually closed the window, instructing someone to lay the injured man in the chair by the fire while she got her medical bag.
d'Artagnan scrabbled past the log pile and pressed himself against the side of the house, his heart pounding and his limbs trembling with adrenaline. Would they leave the injured man and head off? French patrols had been checking this part of the border thoroughly; surely they wouldn't risk being caught in this area in daylight? But it might depend how badly the man was wounded and whether he was an officer; they might stay with him while she was treating him, in which case it was entirely possible the villagers would be at risk. They might hold the women and children hostage in case of discovery, and certainly the men would be in danger when they returned from setting up the hog roast.
He fumbled on his belt for ammunition and gunpowder, then cursed again as he remembered putting both pouches on a high shelf this morning to make sure they were out of reach of the curious children. Merde! Viciously he shoved his useless pistol behind the logs, stuffed his doublet after it, and peered cautiously around the side of the cottage.
From here he should have been able to see Norbert, but there was no sign of the lad. Had he finally got the message and hidden?
He inched around the side of the cottage, trying to ignore his aching shoulder, the pain from his thigh and ribs and the soreness of the new skin on his forearms and hands as he dropped to a crawl on the dry gravelly soil.
In the square all the men had now dismounted. Some were drinking and washing in a bucket drawn from the well; others had spread out and were starting to investigate the other houses, their pistols drawn.
The door of the cottage was still open and he could hear the man barking questions at Ninette about where everyone was, and her soft voice answering calmly. She didn't mention the chapel and d'Artagnan silently praised her, but knew it would not be long before the Christmas preparations were finished and the children and women would emerge to find their village overrun with Spanish soldiers.
He peered around the side of the cottage again, counting ten men as well as their leader and the injured man. He sat against the wall, leaning his head back, and tried to think. Could he get down to the field where the men were working, without being seen? He could warn the men and come up with some kind of plan. He slid back to the rear of the cottage, loath to desert Ninette but already working out a route even as he hid his sword and belt in the log pile where he'd stashed his pistol and doublet. If he was noticed, he hoped he would pass as a villager but if they found his sword they would know instantly that he was a soldier, and he didn't doubt they would kill him.
He'd dropped to his stomach and started to crawl towards the ditch running behind the cottage when he heard a commotion from the square and recognised Celeste's voice, calling for her mother.
There was a sudden silence in the house, then a barked command in Spanish and a muffled yelp from Ninette. d'Artagnan instantly changed direction and scrambled quickly towards the front of the cottage again.
Celeste was running into the square from the direction of the chapel, calling anxiously for her mother. The soldiers lounging around the well had stood up and one walked towards her; she slowed, looking at him suspiciously, just as Ninette and the Spaniard came out of the cottage. He had a firm grip on Ninette's arm and was clearly stopping her from going towards Celeste. d'Artagnan felt his blood boil as he watched one of the others catch Celeste by the waist as she tried to run past them, and yank her roughly off her feet.
Ninette called out to her sharply. "Celeste, don't worry! Maman's fine, I'm just looking after a sick soldier." But Celeste was clearly panicking, and struggling to get free, kicking out at the man's shins as he held her against his chest. He cursed as her foot caught him and to his horror d'Artagnan saw him raise a fist to strike her.
He was on his feet and around the corner before he'd had time to think. "Don't touch her!" he called, holding his arms out to the side, eyes fixed on Celeste, trying to keep his voice calm and unthreatening. "Celeste, it's fine, relax sweetheart, it's all good."
He stopped dead as half a dozen pistols swung his way and there was a volley of clicks as firing mechanisms were cocked. "I'm unarmed. Don't shoot," he called quickly, slouching to look as un-military as possible and turning slightly to face the man with Ninette. She looked surprisingly calm, her gaze flicking between d'Artagnan and Celeste, but he could see she was trembling from head to foot.
The leader called out something to the men surrounding Celeste, and one of them answered by pointing at the chapel. Another sharp command sent four of the men running up towards the chapel, clearly intending to search it.
d'Artagnan's heart was pounding as he tried to assess the situation but he was distracted by Celeste who was now hanging limply in her captor's arms, tears streaming silently down her face. Ninette took a step towards her and was yanked sharply back, causing her to yelp in surprise which set Celeste off crying again. There was a sharp exchange of words between the two men and the man holding Celeste shook her impatiently, trying to shut her up. Ninette protested and d'Artagnan knew he had to do something before the situation exploded.
"We're no threat to you. Please don't hurt them. Ninette is a good herbswoman and she'll help your man, then you can be on your way. We can feed you – can't we feed them, Ninette?"
He was saying anything that came into his head in an attempt to turn their attention to him, and it seemed to work. The man holding Ninette dropped her arm and told her to go back inside and look after her patient, giving her a push when she hesitated.
"It's okay, Celeste will be fine," d'Artagnan reassured her as the man started towards him, still pointing his pistol straight at him. d'Artagnan tried to keep calm and look unthreatening but he could see the other soldier eyeing Celeste appreciatively as he set her feet back on the ground, still with his arm around her trembling figure.
"Where is everyone? Where are the men?" The Spaniard stopped a couple of feet away, the pistol unwaveringly pointing at his head.
"They're preparing a pig for roasting." d'Artagnan waved a hand vaguely in the direction from which he'd appeared, which happened to be in the opposite direction from the field where the men really were.
"Why aren't you with them?"
"I came back for my knife." Immediately the man issued a command and one of the few left at the well ran over, tucking his own pistol in his belt so he could search d'Artagnan, making no attempt to be gentle but finding no weapon.
"Where is the knife?"
"I haven't got it yet – I heard you, and – look, please, let the girl go. She's frightened."
The man hesitated, then a shout from those at the chapel drew everyone's attention. The men had been prowling around the building trying to open the doors without success and they were now shrugging and shouting down that there was no one there. d'Artagnan tried not to let his surprise show but his heart sped up as he tried to work out what was happening. Celeste had come running out, but didn't look surprised to see the soldiers: why had she come out? Did she know ... Norbert! Had he warned them, somehow? That might explain why the doors were bolted from the inside; Celeste must have slipped out to find her mother.
He'd taken his attention off the leader and now he paid for it as the man suddenly lunged at him, grabbing him around the neck and dragging him backwards, his feet scrabbling to keep up.
"Where are the men with the pig? How many men are there?"
d'Artagnan pointed again past the cottage, trying to remember what was in that direction. No houses, that was for sure; he thought it was safe to send them that way. "Down by the river – on the other side. There are about fifteen men, all ages. It's only a small village." Hopefully it would take them a while before they found a place to cross, searched, and realised they were in the wrong place. He hoped he wasn't making a horrible mistake by misleading them, but he couldn't imagine what would happen if they found the village men. They were tough farming folk and today carried knives; they would not take kindly to the treatment meted out to Ninette and Celeste already, but the soldiers were well-armed and tense, and he could see things turning nasty very quickly. Maybe, if he could keep the soldiers away from the villagers for a bit longer, he could come up with a better plan before anyone got hurt.
At another command five of the soldiers set off in the direction d'Artagnan had indicated, leaving the other four men wandering away from the chapel, poking around in the other houses.
"Please let the girl go. She's only eight years old – "
"Silencio!" He gasped as the arm tightened around his throat, and had to force himself to drop his hands. Every fibre in his body wanted to resist rather than acquiesce but he couldn't risk it, not with Celeste still so close.
The pistol was jammed against his temple and his spine was being bent backwards, which pulled horribly on his healing ribs. He could feel the sweat beading on his brow and tried to control his breathing. His captor leaned over his shoulder to hiss into d'Artagnan's face: "Where is everyone else? The women, the other children? Where did the girl come from?"
"I – don't know. They were collecting things to decorate the church..."
"Why is the church locked?"
"I don't know." He couldn't think of any plausible explanation and it wasn't enough; the man started to shove d'Artagnan over to where his compatriot was still holding Celeste so he could question her.
"Were you in the church?"
Celeste nodded, biting her lip.
"Who else is in there?"
d'Artagnan locked his gaze on her, willing her to keep quiet. His body was jammed up against the Spaniard's and he didn't dare to shake his head, but he narrowed his eyes in warning, and after so long without words when he first arrived she read his expression correctly; to his relief she shook her head mutely.
The soldier holding her grabbed her chin and twisted it violently so he could see her face. "Tell the truth!" he yelled.
Her face crumpled, and d'Artagnan saw red. "Leave her alone!" he yelled. "You're hurting her!" Without warning, their leader loosened his hold slightly to give him room to swing the butt of the pistol at d'Artagnan's head, slamming into him with enough force to snap his head sideways. Pain exploded behind his eyes and then everything dimmed.
He came to his senses on his back, limbs sprawled haphazardly. He groaned, squinting against the watery sun, and brought a shaky hand to his head. Instantly there was a volley of words over his head, then something hard pushed at his shirt. He blinked and tried to focus. There was a booted toe flicking at the open neck of his shirt. He looked down and was filled with dread as he realised the shirt had flopped open when he fell, revealing the barely-healed wound in his shoulder which was all too clearly the result of a shot.
He looked up and found the muzzle trained unwaveringly on his face.
"What is this?"
"It's... " His throat was dry and his voice came out in a croak. "I was shot."
Abruptly the Spaniard produced his knife and slashed the rest of his shirt open, revealing the bandage that still covered the wound in his side. The knife sliced through the bandage, d'Artagnan trying not to flinch as he used the tip of the blade to push the ends of bandage aside. There was a silence, then another question.
"When did this happen?"
"A few weeks ago."
Suddenly the Spaniard stooped and yanked at d'Artagnan's arm, hauling him to his feet. He shot a glance at Celeste, still standing trembling, her eyes never leaving his. He had to get her out of their hands. "Please, let her go to her mother. She's scared."
"You are a soldier." It was not a question this time, and d'Artagnan barely hesitated before nodding. There seemed no point in dissembling.
Another pause, then something obviously occurred to the man; his breath shortened and he put the pistol back to d'Artagnan's temple. "Where were you fighting?"
Oh.
d'Artagnan suddenly saw the extreme danger he was in. Less than three weeks since the battle at Candanchú fort, with recent injuries, recovering within a few leagues of it: was there any point in denying his involvement?
He took in a long slow breath, met the man's gaze head on, and confirmed what he sensed the man already knew. "Candanchú."
The response was instant as the man swore and tightened his grip on d'Artagnan's neck. "Candanchú? I was there!" he spat. He called to his compatriot. The other man let go of Celeste, who ran straight past d'Artagnan, sobbing, and disappeared inside her house, but d'Artagnan had no time to feel relief as the man came around behind d'Artagnan and grabbed his arms, pulling them behind his back, then deftly wrapped a belt around his elbows and forced him to his knees.
d'Artagnan shut his eyes for a moment, then resolutely lifted his chin again. His heart was pounding now, as well as his head, and the position was making the barely-healed muscles in his side scream in protest, but all he could think was that at least Celeste wasn't going to have to watch him being executed.
The man stepped closer, removing the pistol from d'Artagnan's temple. Hope flickered for a heartbeat then vanished as he jammed the muzzle of his pistol viciously under d'Artagnan's jaw, tipping his head backwards. "I lost my brother at Candanchú!" he hissed.
"So did I!" d'Artagnan retorted furiously, anger and grief flaring in him as he thought instantly of Fouchard, who had been his friend and ally in looking after Athos ever since the beginning of the war, and of Metier, who had not particularly liked d'Artagnan but who had still taken his guard duty the morning of the flogging, and of all the other brave men he'd served with who had fallen in that place.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat and blinked rapidly to clear his eyes. He didn't want this man to think he was frightened. If he was to die here, after everything he'd been through, he would keep his dignity. So he composed himself to meet the man's eyes again. And saw a glimmer of something new: a look of compassion instead of anger; understanding instead of anxiety; humanity instead of fear. For a moment d'Artagnan dared to hope that their unexpected connection might stay the man's hand.
And then he saw the man's arm jerk as pain exploded in his jaw, and the sound of the shot was the last thing he heard before everything faded to black.
Oh. Yes. I'd forgotten about this one. I'd say I'm sorry but I don't think you'd believe me!
Egg-yolk and resin were used to make glue in mediaeval times. I have no idea whether there was a "crib service" tradition in the Catholic church then, but it's common in many churches so I thought, why not? It's very sweet; my son took part for many years and all the kids loved helping to put the figures into the stable so I could just see d'Artagnan's new best friends doing the same.