Prologue

 

WINTER, 1637 — PARIS, FRANCE

“You’re not even curious?”

Cocking the heel of his gloved hand upon the hilt of his rapier, musketeer of the King’s Black Guard, Athos spread back his shoulders and lifted his chin. He matched Lieutenant D’Artagnan’s curious blue gaze with a bemused look of his own.

How this young man had matured in the few years he had known him. He’d transformed from a naïve Gascon youth to one of the king’s most valued blades. As well, he was now lieutenant of the household troop of the king’s musketeers known as the Blacks. Athos claimed a portion of pride in knowing he’d guided the man toward such an esteemed goal.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos started slowly, measuring his words—for words were like coin to be used sparingly. And yet, he could not disguise a fanciful tone. “Am I not the least curious man you know?”

“Oh, indeed. Intrigue does not turn your head unless it steps forth and strikes you across the jaw. You are a man who heeds orders and fulfills them to an excellent degree.”

“So long as it serves the king.”

“Long live Louis XIII,” D’Artagnan agreed. “And” —a waggle of the lieutenant’s dark brow cued a playful secret— “our beloved Queen Anne. But know, I understand you have plans, Athos.”

Moments ago, Athos had served D’Artagnan his resignation from the king’s Blacks. His service to Louis XIII had stretched well over a decade, but he’d had enough of intrigue and royal command. An estate south of Blois waited his arrival. And the flask of hard ale tucked inside his doublet required tending.

As expected, D’Artagnan had expressed shock at his desire to leave the king’s service, but also, understanding. What remained unspoken was that both men knew Athos craved a hiatus from service. Time to renew.

He wanted to closet the ghosts of a life lived for the king’s command, for swashbuckling adventure, and the glorious moment. To drag himself up from the soul-wrenching heartaches of his past. Remnants of chagrin d’amour—heartbreak from an unhappy love affair—yet clung to his bones.

Athos needed once again to breathe the unsullied air of peace. To take back his soul.

Though, truth be told, he wasn’t sure his soul worthy of salvation.

“One final mission, and you will be free to pursue your heart’s desire for the rest of your life,” D’Artagnan assured.

Athos gave a sigh of resignation, and stroked his Van-Dyke style beard. “What is this mission you believe I should be so curious about?”

D’Artagnan strode purposefully around the desk to stand toe to toe with him. “It regards le Pacte des Justice.”

Athos winced. The Brotherhood of Justice, a cabal of spies, rebels, and traitors who had spread their twisted brand of justice throughout France for nearly a decade. After a confrontation with one of their suspected members, Athos had personally tracked the Brotherhood. Once, during a duel, he had seen the brand of an arrow burned onto his opponent’s wrist—the mark of le Pacte des Justice.

Athos had put forth much energy and many a long night riding the dark and perilous highroads in search of the band of criminals. Frustration, all of it. He should never have begun the investigation. But she had once mentioned an interest in the group. That woman from his past—the reason his soul yet ached. He could not doubt she had been tied to the nefarious Brotherhood in some way.

“I have no interest,” he stated.

D’Artagnan stretched out a leg, slyly preventing him from turning to exit the office. “After all the time you have spent investigating the Brotherhood, you would now so easily walk away?”

Athos eyed the lieutenant. He owed D’Artagnan much. Just the fact that the man had tolerated him as a friend these past years—deadly secrets and a passion for drink tended to make friendship with him a trial—offered reason enough at least to listen to what he had to say.

“The Brotherhood is in Paris,” D’Artagnan offered.

It was no use. Athos could not summon curiosity. He had given his resignation! He stood but two strides from the beginning to an end. The end to mysterious missions served without question. The end to war. The end to pain. The end to heartache.

He gripped the brass door pull. “Good day, my friend. You have my resignation in hand. I will write from Blois. I pray you will visit?”

“Please, Athos,” D’Artagnan said. “One final mission. You are the only man for the task. You know every detail regarding le Pacte des Justice. We believe la Belle Dame sans Merci is involved.”

That gave Athos pause, but he would not react. His decision was made.

“Where is your thirst for adventure?” D’Artagnan persisted. “For the king’s command? What of that motto of yours—j’y suis, j’y reste?”

Here I am, here I remain.

“I shall remain here in my heart, mon ami.” Blood hardening in his veins, Athos nodded once. Decisive. “Au revoir.”

He wished him well, truly, but a happier and more peaceful future awaited.