Book 2: The Queen's Musketeers, #2 by R. A. Steffan

Author:R. A. Steffan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: historical fiction on France, d'Artagnan, musketeers, historical fiction novels, historical fiction plague, historical fiction series
Publisher: R. A. Steffan
Published: 2015-06-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter VIII: July 5th, 1631

"RIDE FOR YOUR LIFE, d’Artagnan!" Athos said, and spurred Aramis’ mare to a gallop, d’Artagnan following close behind. A shot rang out behind them as they scrambled around a tight turn onto the main road, heading south. A second shot followed, but fortunately for the pair of them, it was too dark for accuracy. Both men urged the horses into a flat gallop, knowing their only chance was to outdistance their pursuers.

Without benefit of saddle or bit, d’Artagnan gripped the mare’s slick hide with his knees and gave the horse her head, feeling her powerful, compact muscles bunch and explode beneath him with every stride. A fall at this speed meant almost certain death—either from the impact or at the hands of their pursuers—and was all too likely, riding bareback as they were. D’Artagnan’s fear was all for Athos, though. His friend had undergone hours of torture and could barely remain upright under his own power.

He risked a glance to the side through watering eyes and received the impression of a figure bent nearly double; hands tangled in the Spanish mare’s extravagant mane, clinging stubbornly to the animal’s broad back. Both horses’ breath came in deep, rhythmic snorts as they settled in for a sustained run.

Their saving grace was that these horses had rested in the barn during their captivity, while their pursuers’ animals had been out on patrol during that time. Additionally, though the lack of tack made their headlong flight ridiculously dangerous, it also meant that their captors’ mounts were carrying upwards of fifty extra pounds apiece in saddlery and supplies. D’Artagnan refused to think about how they would manage after their escape with little more than the clothes on their backs—and barely any of those, in Athos’ case. Instead, he focused on the way that the hoof beats behind them were fading almost imperceptibly as they gained ground.

The moon had set, and Rosita’s light gray hide was a faint blur beside him under the starlight. D’Artagnan split his attention between his injured companion, the pursuers now far behind them, and the labored breathing of his own sweat-lathered mount. He squinted. The dark shapes off the road on Athos’ other side were almost certainly trees, he decided.

"Athos!" he hissed, receiving no response.

Sitting back, he allowed his exhausted horse to slow, which she did gladly. He was relieved to find that Rosita kept pace with him in the apparent absence of any direction from her passenger. As quickly and carefully as he could, he eased close to the other horse and grabbed her rope. Closer inspection showed Athos still bent over her neck, hands tangled tightly in the horse’s mane.

"I’m taking us into the woods to hide," d’Artagnan whispered, unsure if the other man was even aware enough to understand.

He directed the horses off the road and down a gentle incline, letting them pick their own way in the dark. Not until the large boles closed around them, hiding them from view, did he release a tense breath.

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