A/N

This is the promised sequel to The Hunt, but it can also stand alone. Our Musketeers and Constance are recovering at an estate that has been given to the Crown, but is too modest for the King's taste. Somewhat AU. Takes place after season 1.

Treville

The shot took him by surprise. Not because the bullet had hit his body-that was not unexpected during such a skirmish. It was that source of the bullet that had been so shocking. It had come from the pistol of a Red Guard. A man who should defend the Queen at all costs, not try to kill her protector.

As he struggled in vain to remain in the saddle, the Musketeer Captain heard Anne cry out his name, her voice desperate.

He fell heavily next to Henri, one of his men. The musketeer lay motionless in the muddy road, his sightless eyes still expressing his shock at the realization that his life had been extinguished by an ally.

"Traitors!" one of the other men cried in anguish.

"Protect the Queen!" Treville's voice was too hoarse to be heard over the clash of swords and the cries of the wounded. The bandits had obviously been well acquainted with their conspirators among the Queen's guard. The entire operation had been carefully planned.

The King had declared himself too ill to attend the traditional Ash Wednesday service at Chartres Cathedral, and had insisted that Anne travel there instead. Treville thought it more likely that Louis simply wanted Anne out of the way so he could spend more time with Milady. Anne had suspected the same thing. However, as she could barely stand the presence of her husband's mistress, she had swiftly agreed. She had wanted to bring the Dauphin, but the King had immediately objected, citing the unpredictable weather.

Had someone planted the idea in the King's mind?

Had it been Rochefort?

Treville was well aware of the man's disdain for him and his musketeers. However, he also knew that this was no grounds for accusing the nobleman of high treason.

The attackers were probably the "True Musketeers". The group had never been completely eradicated. The men that had attacked them had all been wearing masks. The Captain could swear that he had caught a glimpse of their fleur de lys.

The Captain tried to heave himself up to a sitting position, but pain seared through his body, forcing him to remain motionless on the road. A horse jumped over him. He heard the Queen's screams, and it gave him the necessary strength to get up and rush in the direction of her coach. He never knew what it was that sent him into dark oblivion.

Pain.

He touched the edge of consciousness, and realized that he could barely breathe. His chest seemed to be caught in a vise, which was slowly and ruthlessly squeezing the life out of him.

No! He could not just die here on the road and leave the Queen without any hope of being rescued. She was not expected back in Paris for at least a week. No one would even think to search for her until that period of time that elapsed. The thought of a defenceless woman at the mercy of her captors forced him into action. First he wiggled his fingers, then curled his hands into fists. After a few moments, he hauled himself into a kneeling position.

The pain in his chest almost overwhelmed him. His head throbbed unmercifully. He slowly opened his eyes, wincing when he saw his lifeless men lying on road. He had failed. Once again, he had failed his soldiers. He had failed Her Majesty. He had failed his King.

A shadow came over him, followed by the touch of a silky nose. His stallion nuzzled his face, then nibbled his hair, urging him to get up.

If only I could haul myself into the saddle…

But what good would it do? He could not pursue the bandits. He would never be able to catch up with them. Even if it were possible, there was no way he could take them on in a fight.

He doubted he could make it to Paris. But his best men were not so far away. In the last letter that Philippe had delivered, Aramis had mentioned that even though Athos' condition was still a bit of a concern, he thought they would be be fit to return to full duty in two weeks. Treville had decided to give them three weeks before they he would ask them to report to the garrison.

But in this situation, they were his only hope. The Queen's only hope. If she has not already been murdered.

He did not see her any sign of her dress, so he assumed that she had been taken. He hoped that was the case. Obviously, it was quite possible that the King would execute him if a demand for ransom reached him. Ransom would be the only reason to kidnap Anne rather than kill her immediately.

Treville fastened his doublet more tightly, hoping that it would prevent further blood loss. He feared that if he tried to loosen it in order to fashion a makeshift bandage, he would lose too much blood in the process.

He whistled for his horse, and grabbed its reins the minute the animal lowered his head towards him. Slowly, he began to pull himself up by the reins. His stallion waited patiently. Finally, the Captain managed to stand up, leaning heavily on the animal. He lowered the stirrup in order to put his foot in it more easily. He braced himself for the pain, then seized the horse's mane and hauled himself up into the saddle. There was no way he could adjust the stirrup at this point, so he used his heels to urge his horse forward. The animal obeyed, but seemed to sense his master's instability, and kept his pace slow.

Treville directed it through the fields, hoping to find the road he vaguely remembered. Each step of the horse resonated through his body, renewing the agony. He could feel his broken rib (or ribs) shifting, sending out new spikes of pain. Sweat bathed his face, while rivulets of it trickled down the skin under his doublet.

He should have written a message and tucked it into his doublet. Then the Inseparables would have found it on his body. He doubted he would remain conscious for much longer.

Alive much longer.

I doubt the bullet passed through the lung, as I can still breathe… but my shifting rib may puncture my lung before too long. However, it is more likely that I will die from blood loss. God, please grant me the opportunity to send my men to the Queen's rescue...

When he slumped over in the saddle, his forehead met the horse's mane. The stallion's ears flicked back and forth, communicating his uneasiness. It would not be the first time the faithful horse would have to to carry his unconscious master.

Treville was surprised when the horse whinnied, but even more shocking was that a response was heard. The sound of approaching hooves thundered through the air.

The Captain's hand reached for his gun in a vain attempt to defend himself. He placed his elbow on the horse's neck, trying to ignore how badly his hand shook. Dark spots were dancing before his eyes. Each time he blinked to disperse them, he found it increasingly difficult to reopen his eyes.

Two horses.

Two riders.

They saw him, and urged their animals into a gallop. They were shouting something, their horses devouring the distance that separated them. He still could not identify their faces or voices. The foggy wall between them became darker and darker. Then it swallowed him completely-at the exact moment that the muzzle of his weapon touched one of the newcomers.