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The wind was howling in the trees and dark shadowy clouds loomed in the distance hiding the ghostly moon, allowing only a sliver of moonlight through, lighting up the winding road on the hill. It was this road that the highwayman rode upon, with all the haste in the world.
He had a French cocked hat on his forehead, and was dressed in fine claret velvets with a bunch of lace at his chin. His rapier and pistol twinkled like the stars in the sky in his belt as he rode to the small inn which stood at the foot of the hill.
It was dark when he reached the inn, and all the doors and windows were barred. He knocked on the door and cracked his whips at the shuttered windows, but there was no answer. Then he whistled, a sweet sharp sound and a smiling face appeared at one of the windows.
D’Artagnan opened the window quickly, and stretched out a hand. Athos climbed up on his horse, and kissed his lover’s palm. The young man’s dark eyes burned with the intensity of a thousand suns as they asked him to stay the night but he shook his head.
“Just a kiss, my love and I’ll be off,” he said. “There is a pot of gold that is making its way to the king’s treasury right now and it has my name on it.”
D’Artagnan’s lips curled into a small sad frown and Athos wished he could lay the world at his feet. “Then promise me you will come back later?” the young man asked.
“I’ll be back before the first morning light,” he promised, twining their fingers together and kissing their locked hands reverently. “But if the king’s men keep on my trail, then I’ll come back by the moonlight.”
D’Artagnan nodded and tried not to sigh. He knew that Athos had a duty to fulfill, to help those in need with the money he stole from the cruel king. Yet his heart clenched painfully. He would rather that Athos stayed with him, safe, than face the dangers he did every day.
“Smile for me, my love,” Athos asked tenderly. D’Artagnan’s face lit up beautifully when he smiled and that was the last thing Athos wanted to see before he rode away again.
“I can’t. I have an ill feeling that I am going to lose you,” d’Artagnan whispered, giving voice to his fear.
“Fret not,” Athos assured him. “I promise I’ll come back to you. You can watch for me at this window and I will ride to you with the moonlight.”
D’Artagnan smiled, his heart finding solace in the promise and with one last lingering kiss, Athos got back in his saddle and rode away.
XXX
He did not come by the dawning and d’Artagnan knew the King’s musketeers must be hard on Athos’s tail. He prayed for his lover’s safety and waited for noon. Yet Athos did not arrive.
Evening passed and still there was no sign of him.
Then with the sunset, a smartly dressed troop of the King’s Musketeers could be seen marching down the hill. The group consisted of some twenty people who burst into the inn and without a single word to his father, the inn keeper, they made their way to d’Artagnan’s room.
They grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and shoved him against the wall, tying him up to cease his struggling.
“Stop squirming, you filthy whore,” a beefy soldier struck him across the face and he saw stars.
“He has a pretty mouth doesn’t he?” another said, tying a musket in such a way that it’s barrel was pointed right at d’Artagnan’s chest, and kissing him roughly on the mouth.
“We are going to get that thieving scum that you have for a lover, you wait and see,” their captain promised, sending a man to set post with musket ready at each window.
The young man could do nothing but look on helplessly. He could see the glistening road on the hill that Athos was going to ride on through one of the windows and tears came to his eyes as he remembered the doomed man’s promise: “I will come to you by the moonlight.”
All the musketeers had their attention towards the road, and d’Artagnan tried to test the knots tying his hands together. He writhed his hands, rubbing at them as hard as dared, while trying not to catch the attention of any of the men. The hours crawled by like years and still he continued to rub at the rope. His hands grew slick with sweat and the blood from his wrists, and yet he continued.
It was after several hours of agonizing silence that he finally managed to loosen the knot enough that he could reach the trigger of the musket pointing at his chest. He dared not try to do anything else for in the silence, over the pounding of his own blood in his ears, he heard the clatter of hooves in the distance.
T-tlot, T-tlot, had they heard it?
T-tlot, T-tlot, the horses hooves rang clear.
Several heart beats passed and he could make out the tiny figure of the highwayman galloping over the brow of the hill. The Red Coats stood straight and took aim. D’Artagnan watched his lover come nearer, and he could make out Athos’s smiling face, shining like a blessed light. His eyes grew wide for a moment and he drew one last deep breath. With the image of Athos’s face etched in his inner eye, he pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The shot echoed over the hill and the galloping horse reared at the sudden noise. Athos’s breathe hitched. It was a trap! Thanking the heavens that the shot had not gotten him, he spurred his steed towards the west.
He made his way back over the hill, unaware that his lover lay head bowed over the musket, drenched in his own red blood. He made his way to the tavern at the nearby village and decided to wait until morning to meet his love.
It was several hours later, when the first few rays of sunlight had started filtering into the musky tavern that he heard a few men talking.
“Did you hear about the innkeeper’s son?”
“The one with the cheeky tongue and the pretty mouth? What about him?”
“The musketeers had laid a trap for his lover and the poor sod shot himself to warn him away.”
All the blood drained from his face as Athos stood up abruptly and rushed out. He jumped on his horse, blinded with rage and grief, shrieking a curse to the sky. He rode furiously towards the inn, his rapier brandished high, intent on finding out for himself if his lover was indeed dead.
If he was, he knew he was going to take as many musketeers with him as he could, before following d’Artagnan into the silent land. He had made him a promise, and Athos was nothing, if not a man of his word.
He encountered the troop at the foot of the hill and one look at the grief stricken face of the weeping father was enough to tell that it was true.
These dogs had killed his love.
He wailed as he struck down one of them before getting down from his horse and attacking. He slashed and swung his sword at every man in his way, and it wasn’t until a shot was fired that his frantic movements ceased. He stood still for a second, his sword falling from his grasp before his knees gave out.
A wine red stain appeared on his velvet coat.
He fell to the ground and did not move again.
Still on a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.