Historical Adventure Fiction Series Set In 17th Century France
For The Love Of Adventure Chronicles by Z.A. Angell
Series Excerpt
La Tour-du-Pin – May 1693
“This is madness,” Henrietta said to Snow. “I barely know these men.” The qualms about the wisdom of her decision had occurred quite belatedly; she had already ceded her lodgings and arrived at St. Jean’s Cathedral to meet up with the Musketeers. “This de Brangelton is so persuasive. Nothing seems impossible or outrageous when he is present.”
With a graceful twist of her long neck to glance at Henrietta, Snow huffed. The white horse with long black mane and tail had been shy and stubborn when they first met, but Henrietta had patiently coached and coaxed the intelligent animal into becoming reliable and responsive.
The bells tolled the hour just when three riders appeared across the square, and Henrietta caught her breath at the sight of the distinct blue cloaks with silver crosses.
“What a beauty,” de Brangelton complimented Snow. His mare was mouse-brown with an ashy mane and tail. She was bartering mellow neighs with Snow. “Well-behaved, too. Shall we move on?” He sidled up to Henrietta’s side while Snow exchanged airy scoffs with d’Ornille’s unassuming gray mare and traded derisive snorts with de la Fleure’s bay gelding.
Henrietta was convinced that the animals communicated among themselves and did so without equivocations. If Snow’s behavior was any indication, Henrietta was in good company. Besides, de Brangelton’s maneuver urged both horses forward. It was too late to courteously bow out now.
De la Fleure rode on her left. “Your mare is an Arabian breed, isn’t she?” His assessment was correct. “If you ever need a buyer for her, start with me.”
“I hope the need to sell Snow will never arise,” Henrietta said fervently. “Only the most severe hardship could force me to part with her.”
“I would have named her Dancer.” De Brangleton reached out to pat the arched neck.
“Did I hear you correctly, Francis? Did you just suggest a suitable name for a horse?” d’Ornille asked wryly. “Are you well?”
A rude gesture was the response. “You have no imagination, Paul. His fickle mare is named Prancer, and he is envious of my steadfast Tobacco.”
“It fits,” Henrietta concurred.
“And it is better than Fidelis, don’t you think?” De Brangelton pointed at de la Fleure’s gelding.
“No,” the rider replied.
The ensued inconsequential exchange convinced Henrietta that she had nothing to fear, but the habit of caution prevailed.
The road to La Tour-du-Pin took the travelers through the hilly countryside and toward the stately Alps looming ahead. Fresh greenery and flowers contrasted the somber attitudes of the travelers and troubled frowns of people living in towns along the route. The fighting might be sporadic and conducted on a small scale, but the front lines were close and skirmishes still occurred.
The Musketeers’ uniforms ensured speedy service and right-of-way for the men on Royal business, but unlike de Brangelton, the horses needed to rest. He had engaged d’Ornille for a fencing round at one stop, insisted on “Henri’s” lesson at the next stop, and persuaded de le Fleure to cross swords in the afternoon.
The men brought two lanterns to ride in the darkness, and they arrived at La Tour-du-Pin late in the evening. To Henrietta’s dismay, the Musketeers did not stop in town but proceeded directly to the camp bonfires a mile away. She contemplated turning back when sudden blares of a horn, drums, and musket shots sent the Musketeers galloping toward the encampment.
“Stay with me!” de Brangelton shouted.
The horses thundered toward the tents, where groups of men discharged shots into the tents. Henrietta’s new friends plunged into a group of men re-loading their muskets; swords flashed. Screams of pain rose as the horses trampled over the fallen bodies.
De Brangelton ran a blade through one man in a foreign uniform, then another. A man from a different group charged at Henrietta. With horror, Henrietta watched her own arm striking forward with the sword, and recoiled when the man collapsed. Snow reared in panic at the sickening smell of blood, then buckled. Henrietta jumped off and used her entire body weight to punch a man who was poised to strike the man emerging from the tent. She parried a thrust by another soldier, attacked back without thinking, and froze when the tip of her sword found its mark in human flesh.
“On your right!” de Brangelton called out. He remained in the saddle, swinging his sword and urging his horse to kick wildly.
Henrietta was only half-aware of a half-dressed stranger with a sword in his hand standing back-to-back with her. De Brangelton again plunged Tobacco into a cluster of attackers; he brought three men down and left the remaining three for Henrietta and the sword-wielding stranger to finish.
“To my right!”
The voice sounded distant while Henrietta fought her adversary. Her mind froze; she was only dimly aware of her own movements when her opponent dropped to his knees. She kicked the sword out of his hand. She no longer heard musket shots. A fire had started in one tent. A man was swinging a shovel against an enemy’s sword. Henrietta’s arrival distracted the foe, and he fell from the stroke of the shovel on his head. To her left, d’Ornille was slashing and stabbing the attackers without slowing down.
“Behind you!” someone yelled.
Henrietta dropped onto one knee just as the blade pierced the empty air above her head. The half-dressed stranger charged at her assailant. She fought another man; he fell when her blade pierced his body. She averted her eyes and backed away. Her breathing was labored, blood pounded in her head, and her vision blurred.
The stranger who had come to her aid lay on the ground, clutching his side. She dropped down on the ground next to him, but he waved his hand. “Carry on.” So, she did.
The fighting seemed to last forever as time stood still. Henrietta was only vaguely aware of her actions. With the hilt of her sword, she hit one man on the head; she ran toward a scream for help and pulled a man away from a burning tent. Then she crossed blades with another enemy.
She barely scrambled away from a falling fiery post and shouted a warning to a man in a French uniform. The flames of fires rose higher; through the devilish illumination, she caught sight of de la Fleure still on his horse.
A weaponless man in a foreign uniform ran past her, then another. Henrietta barely had time to consider pursuing them when a cry for help spurred her to join two outnumbered French soldiers. She brought the hilt of her sword down on one enemy’s head, and her sword sliced the leg of another. The others loped away; her compatriots did not pursue them, and neither did she.
She stumbled forward, watching for a possible attack. She had lost her sense of direction and ended up on the edge of the camp, on the road leading to Tour-de-Pin. She went back with a hollow detachment from the reality around her.
Fewer men seemed engaged in the combat; the fires had started to burn out. The flag post was straight ahead, where a group of men were gathered under the French flag.
“D’Arringnon!”
Henrietta blankly stared at the man covered in soot, dirt and blood. “Is it over?”
“Yes.” De la Fleure took her sword and stuck it into the ground twice before wiping it on his sleeve. “De Brangelton!” he called out, pointed to her and disappeared among the charred remains of the tents.
Henrietta’s whole body shook and her teeth chattered. ”No. No. Never again.” She leaned against a tree and collapsed on the ground, hugging her knees with her arms.
De Brangelton held a water flask to her mouth. “Don’t think about it. You had no choice. You fought for your life. You saved the lives of our men and protected the town. You did not have to fight, but you did.” He capped the flask and sat down next to her. “You are a brave man, d’Arringnon.”
“I had no quarrel w-with any of these men, but I – I …” she stammered. “I think I … killed one.”
“Wars are fought to satisfy the ambitions of the rich and powerful - leave the casualties to their conscience. We only struggle to survive. When a stranger attacks you with intent to kill, he might be a hoodlum full of base bloodlust. You live, d’Arringnon, much to the joy of your family in Ferrand, even if they are unaware of the perils you conquered.”
“I pray they will never find out.” She could not even begin to imagine Louis’ and Constance’s horror if she narrated even a tenth of what she had endured this night. hock and fatigue caught up with her and she burst in tears.
De Brangelton left, probably in disgust at her weakness, but she did not care. She quietly sobbed until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Have a drink.” De Brangelton unceremoniously pulled her hair to turn her face up. A bitter liquid cascaded down her throat. “This will calm your nerves.” He ignored her gagging and administered another doze. “Take a hundred deep breaths – count them! – and report to de la Fleure.”
“One. Two. Three …”
A piteous neigh sounded above, and a soft muzzle touched her bare head.
“Snow.” With a sour taste in her mouth and her insides on fire, Henrietta pulled herself to her feet and embraced her horse’s warm neck, seeking comfort for herself and the animal.
“D’Arringnon, your mare is unscathed,” de la Fleure assured her. “Your saddlebags are undamaged. Follow me.” He handed back her sword.
Henrietta’s head was spinning. Why was it so difficult to sheath the sword? And why was the stirrup evading her foot? Henrietta persevered until she climbed into the saddle. Which way did the Lieutenant go?
“De la Fleure?” she called out.
“Pay attention, d’Arringnon.” His voice came from her left. “We are short on time and I am short on patience.”
“Understood.” She trotted after him in the night.
Henrietta woke up sore, thirsty, and addled. She opened her eyes to meager light. The straw mattress rustled when she slowly sat up. Plain white-washed walls surrounded her and a small window high overhead had no glass in it. Where was she? Her head ached. She almost tumbled off the bed at the thunderous sound of bells. She reached for the water jug and froze when she noticed a simple crucifix on the opposite wall. She covered her ears until the clamor subsided.
Last night – this morning – Henrietta had accompanied de la Fleure to where? Did she ride Snow? … Yes. De la Fleure requested – demanded, insisted – that the men dressed in black robes must shelter the wounded. Was she sleeping at the monastery?!
She recollected mumbling her gratitude to a tonsured man who had escorted her to this room. She inventoried her person – she was still fully dressed and buttoned and wearing her boots. Her sword belt was buckled on. She sat upright and regretted the motion when the room spun around, and closed her eyes.
The images from last night invaded her mind like a nightmare from hell. What devilish potion did de Brangelton inflict upon her? Where was Snow? What happened to her saddlebags? … Oh, they had been placed against a coarsely built wooden stand.
“No, no, no.” Henrietta slowly rose to her feet and held out her arms to shuffle her buckling feet toward a clay water pitcher on the stand. She quenched her thirst and splashed cool water on her face. “I cannot possibly stay here,” she murmured to the empty room and attempted to clean her jacket with a wet handkerchief, but abandoned the task when the room spun.
Henrietta carefully opened the door into the empty corridor. She found her way to the courtyard. Plain long buildings surrounded it on three sides, and a chapel stood proudly in one corner. The countryside lay beyond a low fence and wide-open gate. The green hills seemed safe and peaceful, but a faint smell of smoke reminded her of last night’s purgatory.
A dozen bandaged men reclined on the mats and blankets. The half-dressed stranger from last night was among them; he greeted her with a crisp salute.
A rotund monk in a black robe stepped into Henrietta’s path. “M. d’Arringnon. I was hoping to see you at prayer this morning.” A scowl of disapproval was plastered on his ruddy face.
They must have been introduced, but Henrietta could not remember his name. “I apologize, monsieur.” Her voice was coarse.
“I am the Abbot here.” He leveled an accusing finger at her. “Have you been drinking vile spirits early this morning, M. d’Arringnon?”
De Brangelton’s arrival at the gate saved Henrietta. He had taken care to clean up his clothes and his boots. His eyes were bright, but the dark circles underneath indicated a sleepless night.
“Pardon me.” Henrietta shoved the Abbot out of her way and marched toward de Brangelton through a flock of cackling hens. “What did you get me into?”
“A Benedictine monastery.” De Brangelton and the Abbot studied each other with mutual skepticism, and both decided to forgo acknowledging each other. “You aren’t tempted to waste your life here, d’Arringnon, are you?”
“No, I …” Henrietta fought dizziness. “What happened yesterday?”
“The scouts entered the camp and fired shots into the officer’s tent,” he explained in clipped tone. “The main force just started to file in when we arrived. Our arrival confused them. They did not expect cavalry.”
Henrietta shivered. “How did they know what to expect?”
“They knew the layout. There must be a traitor in our camp.” He dismounted. “None of the prisoners confessed to knowing the damn bastard.”
Henrietta leaned on the fence. “How many men perished?”
“I don’t know.” His lips set in a grim line.
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