Chapter Thirty-The Battle at Saintonge, by Corso

Lucien cannot feel his feet anymore. He moves woodenly, arms aching from the hours held over his head, fingers frozen and gripping his sword wrapped in burlap.  The freezing cold has penetrated deep through skin and muscle to the very marrow of his bones, moving up through his body to his chest.  He pushes through tall marsh reeds, recoiling to slap and sting his face. A heavy marsh stench of rotting eggs coats his nose and mouth. The freezing water is as black as night, something alive slithers against his legs, he shudders, grimacing hard to force down the memory of the pit in the Chatelet where the walls were streaked with the blood of men before him, oozing muck seeping in … he glances over his shoulder.  Aramis is behind him with his sharpshooters. With only two days between Raoul’s revelations and now in this frigid sodden marsh, he and Aramis had picked the best marksmen they could find among the mercenaries commanded by Martin and Gasparo.  He cannot see their expressions, but that is probably best.  Yusuf is there too, his face turned to him and it comforts him. His eyes sweep across the marsh.  The men are spread out in single lines, one with the night, their faces blackened with marsh mud, glittering steel weapons muted in burlap and carried over their heads.

Wraiths from hell.   He pushes on.  

He can now see the shape of the chateau, a monstrous dark shadow looming up into the sky, wings on two sides creating an awkward flying creature.  It was as his mother and Athos described.  He imagines the interior, capacious rooms and galleries, a broad staircase leading to the upper floors all silent and waiting.  The yard is unencumbered with groomed parterres.  No gardener will mourn their unlucky blooms when Porthos and his men assault the house.  He looks up. The moon and its gray halo are shrouded with cloud cover.  In that they are lucky.  It will be difficult for sharpshooters to see them.   Or perhaps there will not be any sharpshooters along this part of the wall.  Why would anyone risk wading through waist high frigid marsh water to reach the stone wall surrounding the estate when there are gates to be blow open. He has lost track of time. He glances back to where they started, hours ago, the tall trees where they left horses growing shorter the farther they traveled until swallowed whole by the darkness.  He thought they would be closer by now, estimating the distance at half a league, but the cold dictates their slogging pace.  He worries about Athos, seeing him as he left him, pacing, eyes aflame with constrained impatience to blow open the gates and storm the house.  He grits his teeth and forces himself to move faster.  He must get back to Athos before the gates are blown.

A horse whinnies, Lucien stops, squinting to see any moving figures on the wall.  The men scattered through the marsh also stop.  Aramis moves up behind him, carrying his musket over his head.   Aramis raises two fingers.  Lucien nods, he has seen the two guards on the ramparts.  Whoever commands the mercenaries inside the wall does not think the rear approach to the house is vulnerable.  They counted on that.

Lucien glances past Aramis. His men from the Aigle are on his right.  Lucien signals Loup to start moving again and the lines advance with silent stealth.  The ground is starting to rise, the water now at his hips and then above his knees.  They are a few feet from the base of the wall, a looming wooden watchtower overhead.  The two guards, innocent of the danger at their feet, are slowly walking a distance away from the watchtower, along the rampart.  It is an odd construction as the rampart does not circle the entire wall but is broken into segments.  The height and design are more a decoration than an instrument for proper defense. The guards will soon turn and walk back. Fou moves to the wall and turns his back to it, lacing his fingers together, bracing his feet.  Lucien taps Loup’s shoulder, the pirate sets his dagger between his teeth, his foot into Fou’s hands, and is lifted to the top of the wall, followed immediately by Crotte, who grins, happily malevolent, at Lucien, sets his dagger between broken teeth and disappears over the top of the wall. They wait, the only sounds the quiet lap of water, rustling of reeds, the song of night birds, the loud ‘ooka-wee-wee” song of the yellow headed blackbird, the repetitive rasp of the corncrakes, the moaning growl of the potoos.  Where are the nightingales Lucien wonders idly.   Within minutes, Loup peers over the wall waving Lucien up. Together, they lower the bodies quietly to the ground below.  Lucien sets the rope around the base of the watchtower and throws it over the wall. Fou is still boosting men, the rest of his crew scamper up the rope.  Aramis is already on the rampart, issuing quiet orders as his sharpshooters flow up behind him and run silently in both directions, jumping the gaps between the rampart segments to the wooden watch towers to take up positions. 

‘Merde! That was cold,’ Aramis is stamping his feet to bring back the feeling to his legs and toes.  Your men are completely unfazed,’ Aramis murmurs to Lucien who smiles grimly, ‘they spend their lives in cold water.’

‘Like fish.’ Aramis chuckles quietly. Lucien glances at him, amused and then looks away.

‘More like sharks.’

D’Artagnan and Yusuf appear, each carrying a small crate pinioned against their bodies by one arm.  ‘That was easy,’ d’Artagnan murmurs, still shivering.  ‘I suggest we keep moving.’

Lucien grabs the watchtower’s support and swings to the front ladder going down to the yard below, instinctively moving to the shadows of the wall, his sword in his hand.  At this point, any killing must be silent, no noise to alert the enemy to their presence.  He reaches up to take the small crate, first from d’Artagnan, the second from Yusuf.  Aramis leans down, ‘try not to blow yourself up.’

‘Good advice,’ d’Artagnan mutters and looks up, ‘try not to shoot me in the dark.’  Aramis stifles a laugh and pulls back to the rampart.   D’Artagnan studies the house, practiced eyes scanning the windows for a moving curtain or a face quickly ducking from sight – evidence of their being detected.  The house is still, its occupants mostly sleeping and unaware of what slinks in the dark around them.  Lucien starts walking, searching for the entry into the cellars.  His pirate crew fans out in front and behind him, staying within the shadow of the wall, under the rampart.  Lucien’s boots crunch stone, to his ears loud and reverberating.  Someone must hear it.  But there is no movement from the house, no doors flung open, no shouts of discovery, no one rushes at him, pistols blasting, swinging a sword at his neck.  Ver is slowing his steps, he does not see what he is looking for…  Yusuf taps Lucien’s back and hisses.  The pirates stop in midstep.  They almost missed it.

A door is set in the ground close to the house.  They move quickly across the yard.  It takes two men to open the heavy door slowly enough to absorb the creaks and groans of the weathered hinges.  Stairs descend into a dark cellar.  They pause listening to nothing.  D’Artagnan whispers his orders to several men, who take a crate, scurry back to the wall and continue toward the side gate.  Cautiously, Lucien steps down the stairs, his men on his heels.  At the bottom they stand in a large cellar, neat shelves empty, no vegetables drying and hung from rafters, no barrels, crates, or baskets.  It is a testament to the abandonment of this house many years ago.  Within minutes d’ Artagnan and the rest of the men are in the cellar.  They explore together, probing the confines of the cellar and finding the steps upstairs to the kitchens and the first floor.  Loup nods to Ver who goes up the stairs silent as a cat, lifting the latch soundlessly.  The door is not locked. Ver is turning to signal when the door abruptly opens. 

Startled, Ver whirls back, exchanging looks of complete astonishment with a man, rumpled and yawning from sleep, his doublet opened, a stained shirt pulled from his breeches. A dagger is stuffed haphazard in his belt, a candle in one hand.  But Ver remembers his purpose first, quickly snatches up his dagger, deftly whipping it across the man’s neck, leaning away to avoid the stream of blood while thrusting his arms forward to catch the dead body before it falls to the floor.  He half carries the body down the stairs.

‘Merde!’  Ver swears apologetically, knowing the consequences to their plan of stealth. 

Lucien shrugs. ‘Bad time for him to go for a snack.’

D’Artagnan gets busy opening the crates and carefully removing the small iron balls stuffed with powder.  He and Yusuf carefully set the explosives in secreted places, positioning the fuses to be exposed quickly for lighting.  Lucien watches quietly and then … every man looks up at the ceiling.  Booted feet upstairs, men’s voices.

‘Ver,’ Loup hisses, ‘lock the door!’  They need every minute to prepare themselves.  Lucien takes Loup aside, ‘when its time to leave, the men have my permission.  But do not tarry here.’ 

Loup nods, ‘yes Captain, very good.’  He understands Lucien is giving them permission to take plunder if easily acquired.  That means silver plate, candlesticks or anything they can stuff into pockets or carry easily.   No hoisting upholstered silk settees back through the marsh.

Someone is trying to open the door. Yusuf is already at the top of the stairs with Fou and Ver.  D’’ Artagnan gives orders for the rest of the men to form up behind them.  Surprise is their best option, to throw open the door, their enemy momentarily off balance, and making a swarming attack.  Lucien watches, uncertain, raising his sword…perhaps he should stay…

‘Lucien, go now!’ d’ Artagnan urges, ‘you must find Athos.’   Lucien clasps d’ Artagnan’s shoulder, ‘I will see you inside.’ 

D’Artangan makes a short nod and quickly joins his men.  He gestures to Fou and Ver.  Slowly, Fou unlatches the door, slants a wicked smile at Ver, they lean back together, slamming into the door full force.  It bursts open knocking flat the men on the other.  The fight erupts, shouts and clanging metal.  Lucien leaps for the steps that rise to the ground. At the top, he drops the door over the opening and hears Loup throwing the latch inside.  At least the enemy cannot attack from the rear.   Lucien races for the stone wall and the side gate.

He does not have far to go. The rest of d’Artagnan’s men, are crouched in the shadow of a watchtower, ready to set grenades and light the fuses.  He skids to a stop.  Men are already trickling into the yard.  Their element of surprise is blown.  But the enemy is not organized, they are not a trained efficient mercenary unit as commanded by Martin or Gasparo.  These are Comminges street rats, effective killers, but poorly led. They look around for the size and scope of their enemy.   Men with muskets strapped to their back are climbing into watchtowers only to be rudely repelled – kicked, shot or stabbed, they fall back onto the ground.  More shouting, pistols and muskets blasting at the watchtowers and shots returned.  Aramis’ calm deep voice, ‘steady lads, see your marks… make each ball count.’   He and his sharpshooters are finding their rhythm – Layla explained it to him after a night of violence in the Irish sea, as she fired her muskets from a crows nest on a corsair’s ship … she entered a state of being where body and mind combine and actions flow without thought. Aramis’ marksmen are moving in staggered sequences to shoot, reload, and shoot again with practiced proficiency, a flash followed by booming smoke, fingers flying … powder, wad, ball, ram! They raise their muskets sighting their target with calm efficiency and men drop dead.

Clanging steel, men cursing, bolstering their fight with shouts and screams of battle.  He can hear the fight inside the house and the yard is filling with men.  Porthos will blow the gates at any moment.  Lucien curls his lip grimly thinking that Porthos’ grenades will take out a number of the enemy.  He starts to dive through the open gate, startling to realize a man is charging towards him, screaming with a raised ax in one hand, sword in the other.  Lucien takes a stance, sliding one foot back and judges correctly, ducking his head to avoid the swinging axe. Missing his objective, the man digs in hard to stop his momentum.  It makes no difference as Lucien has buried his dagger in the man’s back and he faceplants – dead. Lucien braces a foot on the dead man’s body and yanks his dagger free.  It is time for him to go … he must find Athos.  Another man blocks his way, he exchanges a few parries and makes a final thrust, leaping through the open gate and runs along the narrow path bordering the wall. He is being chased…bullets ricochet off the stone, he ducks but keeps running.  A bullet whistles over his head, a grunting sound. He chances a glance back, his pursuer lays dead on the path.  He looks up at the watchtower, touches a finger in salute to the marksman and keeps running. 

Men are congregating back from the gates.  Porthos is raising his arm, his men poised to light the fuses…Lucien running, scanning the men frantically … where is Athos …

A rolling booming blast, smoke and flames shoot up into the night sky … light flashes before his eyes and then only darkness…Lucien tastes blood and spits it out.  He tries to move his legs, astonished to find himself on the ground, two man leaning over him, worried eyes in faces contorted with anxiety and anger, one man is talking, but he cannot hear anything. It takes him a moment to realize Olivain and Raoul are gripping his shoulders and hauling him to his feet shoving him forward his ears ringing but his head clearing…cries of war from the men … Athos’ fierce eyes on him … he is  shouting … Lucien! …