by Alex Archer
“D’Artagnan,” she said with gasp of glee.
Roux understood her enthusiasm, yet at the same time, felt pity toward anyone who could only imagine the past. He had lived it. And holding a piece of it in his hands brought it all back as if it were only yesterday.
“Why, Annja, you’ve given me a tickle. You said this was a self-serving quest. You have a passion for the musketeer?”
“A certain geeky fascination, yes. Fiction glorified d’Artagnan, but in real life, he wasn’t quite so famous. Certainly, he had been the king’s right-hand man for a time. But history wagered that Paul, his older brother, may have actually received more military glory than Charles.”
Roux nodded, considerably impressed. “Yet Charles was the one who received this gift.”
“From the queen. I doubt Louis XIV would have shown the same generosity. He kept a tight hold on items of value,” she said.
“I thought your expertise was much earlier than the seventeenth century?”
“It is, but this particular historical figure is irresistible. It’s an obsession. Life can’t be all about danger and demons, can it?”
“I should hope not. Er, meet any demons lately?” he asked.
“None I’ve wished to converse with.” She traced the rapier blade, still held in Roux’s hands. “You knew him well?”
“Charles? Drinking buddies, actually. I did once play against him in a match of tennis. Boisterous idiot. He was awful. I won, as usual.”
He tilted the sword, noting the pommel. A coat of arms. Likely Castelmore’s, but he was not up on the history of heraldry. Hell, keeping his own family crest to mind was oftentimes a challenge.
“Castelmore was gifted this rapier by the queen for his service to the crown. I recall him mentioning the ceremony was held in the king’s chapel. A small to-do. Only musketeers and family invited. Of course, I wasn’t there.” He twisted the pommel and noted the tiny thread, or rather…“Is this a hair?” he asked.
He carefully unwrapped the thin strand from around the base of the pommel.
“One of d’Artagnan’s hairs, do you think?” Annja leaned in, observing as he unwound the six-inch specimen. “Or it could be mine.”
“It isn’t dark, as yours. It was so tightly wrapped about the grip, I had to break it to get it off. None other than your illustrious musketeer, I’m sure.”
“Is there an intact root?”
“A—what?” He studied her face from over the blade.
“If there’s an intact root you can do DNA testing on it. That would be cool.”
“Annja, dear.” Roux set the sword down and carefully placed the hair to the side. No root on that little bit of history. “I’ve never before seen you so excited about a dusty old piece of history.”
“Old stuff always gets me excited. You should spend more time with me.”
“Perhaps so.” He marveled at the exquisite spirit of her. “Musketeers and DNA?”
“I’m no expert on the DNA bit. In fact, the little I know was gleaned from Scientific American, a magazine. Though I do have experience in ethnography—genealogical research—I don’t often utilize what I’ve learned out in the field. What I do know is, genetic archaeologists are using DNA testing more frequently these days to date artifacts and determine lineage. The DNA would not tell us who the hair belonged to unless there was a living maternal relative to compare to.”
“Really? That’s quite interesting. So if you’ve DNA evidence of a historical figure, you could match their genetic, er, code to a modern-day relation?”
She shrugged. “I’m going to have to bow out of this conversation. Dead civilizations are my thing. Not genes and DNA and all that current science stuff. Though, either way, this sample has been contaminated, so it’s probably useless.”
Roux nodded, and again lifted the rapier. He recalled what he knew.
The tavern had been ablaze with candlelight that evening. One of d’Artagnan’s cohorts had just announced his engagement to a Russian princess, and had bought ale and candles for the entire room. Poor fellow. He could have had no clue about the Russian winters.
It was that evening that Roux and d’Artagnan had leaned over the table to inspect his newest prize. They hadn’t wanted anyone else to witness their curious inspection. Captain Treville had arrived but moments after their secretive endeavor, and d’Artagnan had put away the rapier. Roux had never seen it again. Nor had he spoken to d’Artagnan about the map.
He forgotten about the secret of the sword until now.
Curious, Roux twisted off the pommel from the hilt and handed it to Annja, who traced a finger around the circumference.
He peered inside the hollowed column of the hilt. “Gone, eh?”
“You know about the map?” she asked.
“Looked it over with Castelmore one drunken evening while we wagered on the value of the treasure. So it’s riches you’re after? Annja, are you in need of funds?”
She laughed and shook her head. “No, but thanks for the concern. The treasure was merely a bonus above and beyond the actual existence of the rapier.”
“But of course it exists. You had merely to ask.”
“Yes, well, good to know for future reference. And believe me if I had thought you might have known the man I would have sought to pick your brain a year ago.”
“Pick away, my dear. I welcome the conversation we could have.”
“Have you ever thought about writing a book?” she asked.
“Wouldn’t have the patience. Perhaps you could ghostwrite my history?”
“We’d have to publish it as one of those fictional memoirs. Anyway, I’ll have to take a rain check on that. I think I’ve stepped into something a little more self-serving than a simple quest for treasure. The map did exist. I held it in my hands. Half an hour later, it was stolen.”
“That’s curious.” Roux set the blade on the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “A stolen treasure map. Seems a very obvious outcome. Treasure tends to involve conspiracy, adventure and pirates. Right up your alley, Annja dear. So who took it?”
“I don’t know. Ascher’s home was invaded—”
“But you’re not giving me all the details. Ascher?”
“The man who invited me to the dig. Ascher Vallois. I’ve known him for some time online.”
“Ah, an online tryst.” He couldn’t resist a suggestive lift of brow.
“Keep your insinuations to yourself, old man. He’s a fellow archaeologist. Treasure hunter. I may have been a little uncertain on his actual profession. We share a fascination for the musketeer. We were followed to the dig site last night, and though I was able to fend off the thugs, later, back at Ascher’s home, they returned to steal the map.”
“But not the rapier.”
“The rapier is not the treasure. And we hadn’t expected the map to still be intact, let alone inside the sword.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted out one hip. Roux noted her eyes fell upon the collection of Egyptian scarabs he’d only recently received from Cairo. An exquisite find. But if she thought to question him on its provenance, his lips were sealed.
“Tell me this,” she said. “You spoke to d’Artagnan. You looked over the actual map. Did Castelmore have no desire to claim the prize? Do you think it still exists?”
Roux shrugged.
“He died in debt. So I have to believe he didn’t claim it,” Annja said. “Yet, why not? Or did he gift it to his wife?”
His acquaintance with the musketeer had been brief. Roux had known the musketeer’s exterior, but not his heart. Castelmore had spoken fondly of a nameless amour. Conjecture as to whether that woman was the one he married—or perhaps one of nobility—remained conjecture. Yet, try as he might, the life of a soldier did not allow for an easy, close relationship to any woman—Roux could vouch for that. It was the very reason he hadn’t been in the ranks at the time. Things such as e-mail and video conferencing did not exist centuries ago, which m
ight make things easier for today’s soldiers, but never painless. The ache of separation dug like a bleeding wound.
“I might suppose he left the rapier for his family,” Roux offered. “But it is only an assumption. I had no opportunity to learn if Castelmore had discovered the treasure before my path led me toward the Irish Sea.”
“That was Ascher’s and my guess, as well. We found the sword at the site of a former Augustine convent in Chalon-sur-Saône. The very convent where Charlotte-Anne de Chanlecy was reported to live before moving to a private family estate in her final days.”
“So one may assume Charles Castelmore gave the valued sword to his wife as a means to compensate for a love he could not manage,” Roux said.
“He was all about the adventure,” Annja offered.
“Indeed. Devotion to one’s king is a demanding position. It is the musketeer’s faith—all for the king.” Amused, Roux tilted his head. “Now what are your plans? Pursue the map. Find the treasure. Have a jolly time with the plunder?”
“I’ve no clue where to begin to find the treasure. Dumas’s references to it were vague. I’m surprised there was anyone else out there actively searching for it. For a while I had to believe Dumas might have claimed it. And yet the sword was found buried exactly where d’Artagnan’s wife may have left it. Two hundred years before Dumas was even born.”
“The Dumas thing doesn’t make sense,” Roux stated.
“But it can. Dumas uncovered information about the sword during his research for The Three Musketeers.”
“Didn’t the man work with various collaborators? Research assistants?”
“Yes, many. In fact, Dumas was criticized by his peers for operating a ‘ghosting factory’ of nameless writers who handed him stories, to which he then merely signed his name to the cover page. Auguste Maquet being his most lucrative and famous collaboration.
“And there were notations in Dumas’s journals that did not appear to be in his own handwriting.” Such as the notation that had led Annja on the quest for the sword. “Well, no matter. The treasure map was mentioned, but nothing beyond that.”
“Sounds like you’ve been relying exclusively on Dumas to find your way. Not that he doesn’t have a lot to offer, but he did turn our hero into a bumbling, sex-crazed fool,” Roux said.
Yes, while touted as a romantic, adventurous hero by those who read the modern-day, abridged version of the classic, the truth was, Dumas’s d’Artagnan jumped from milady’s bed to her maid Kitty’s bed, and then went gallivanting off to England to assist Queen Anne while his supposed true love, Constance Bonacieux, withered away in a convent, only to be murdered just when d’Artagnan remembered he had a girlfriend. Not the epitome of a romantic hero, in Annja’s book.
So many alliances, yet dedication only to the king. Had Ascher Vallois as many assorted alliances?
“Ascher has provided corroborating evidence found in Nicolas Fouquet’s journals,” Annja explained. “It’s not just Dumas I’m following. Do you remember anything about the map from looking it over with d’Artagnan?”
“If I recall, we had decided it was a map of the aqueducts beneath the Louvre, or perhaps the catacombs beneath Les Innocents. Well, I’m not positive. It’s been three centuries since the evening d’Artagnan and I looked over the map, and we were very well soused, I’m sure. Sorry.”
“Tell me again why I spend all my time sitting in libraries, surfing the Internet on quests for historical facts and details, when I’ve got you, a virtual living history book?” Annja asked.
He shrugged. “Some women never realize a man’s value. But I’m willing to forgive if you’ll have dinner with me.”
“I am starving. Can we eat soon?”
“I love a woman with a healthy appetite. Henshaw has prepared the patio for an afternoon repast. Let’s step outside, shall we?”
10
Seventeenth century
Three years of incarceration at Pignerol, and he hadn’t gotten any closer to learning where that damned sword was.
Any treasure found as a result of the map was owed to him. He’d been framed. Mon Dieu, that they’d made him to be a pornographer! Forced into prison by Colbert and Mazarin—yes, even Mazarin was instigating control over him from his very grave.
So he had diverted some funds from the royal coffers. Not nearly so much as Colbert had led the king to believe. And now to make him sit in this miserable estate that was nothing more than a prison waiting a trial. It had been three years! Would he never be given his due? The king merely shuffled him about the French countryside, from one prison to the other. First it was Angers, followed by Vincennes and then a brief stint in the Bastille, and now the dismal Pignerol.
And always at his side, his indomitable guard, faithful to king and country, Charles de Castelmore d’Artagnan.
Nicolas called him d’Artagnan, as most others in the musketeer’s company did. The man was a lieutenant of the king’s First Company of Musketeers, but he’d not served in any official capacity over his regiment since the day he’d taken Nicolas under arrest and began his duties.
It bothered d’Artagnan greatly that he could not be out and at the vanguard, active, defending his king. Instead he was forced to play nursemaid and sit about while the king ignored his former financier.
They had become quite amiable toward one another. Nicolas even went so far as to believe d’Artagnan considered him a friend. But he would make no doubts that the king was who d’Artagnan served, and if the king said to bring in Nicolas Fouquet to be hung, then d’Artagnan would do just that.
Easing his fingers about his neck, Nicolas tried for the hundredth time not to consider the pinch of the rope about his neck. But how could a condemned man not regard such things?
“You are thinking on it again,” d’Artagnan said from across the large cell that Nicolas had recently been moved into on the Pignerol estate. “How many times must I tell you it does no good to live in an uncertain future.”
“You appease me with your optimism, my friend.” Yes, he always used “my friend.” D’Artagnan would correct him if he believed differently. A small reassurance that was most needed. “Were you able to arrange a duel with the bailiff?”
D’Artagnan sighed. “You know how I ache to be active. No, Balmaroille would not agree to the match. He is rather staunch. I am not convinced of his effectiveness in running a prison. Though you must admit your quarters are rather luxurious.” He swept a hand to encompass the room.
Damask bedclothes hung from the corners of the four posts and encased pillows and mattress. A fine damask chaise, to match the fabric on the bed, held d’Artagnan’s relaxed frame. A marble washbasin matched the marble writing desk, which was outfitted with paper and ink thanks to d’Artagnan’s rallying for supplies to keep his prisoner from going completely lunatic.
“And the view.” The musketeer pointed out the barred window, which framed an idyllic verdant forest that hugged a narrow stream.
“Trees and grass. But never without the bars. A man’s soul requires fresh air and exercise. What of your soul?” Nicolas asked. “How fares it during my incarceration?”
“I am ever faithful to the king—you know that.”
“And the queen?”
“Anne appreciates my loyalty to her son.”
Yes. Anne the Austrian. D’Artagnan spoke of her in the familiar. As had Nicolas once. The queen had once trusted him with all her correspondence, and he’d learned early on to make copies of it all. For evidence. For blackmail. For his own safety.
Perhaps, for his future security. Pity, he could not access his files now. His wife, pray she kept them safe.
“That was a particular fine sword the queen gave you a few years ago,” Nicolas tried.
“You bring that sword up so frequently, I wonder if you pine for it yourself,” d’Artagnan replied.
“Who would not? I hope you’ve tucked it safely away while far from your home?”
“Planchet watches my home in
Paris. I’ve no worry to be robbed. There’s not much I own in this world of great value beyond the intangibles, such as honor and respect.”
“And a fine gold sword.”
D’Artagnan sighed and delivered that tired smile he so often did. He would not reveal where he kept it. But how to discover if he’d yet found the map in the hilt that Nicolas knew should be there?
But even more important, the key to the map.
That exclusion gave Nicolas no amount of wonder. Anne had been particularly elusive after he’d tried to tease it out of her. She did enjoy a good puzzle. Certainly, here in this prison, Nicolas did have the time for it.
Present day
ROUX’S SHOCK of bold white hair and white goatee did not lend to age, but rather life. A life well lived. He brandished a few wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes and some age spots on his strong, wide hands, but other than that, Annja would place him as perhaps midsixties. He was handsome, and a rogue of the finest water.
She did admire the old man. “Old” being a relative term, for he was well over five hundred years old, and still going strong. Though there was some question as to whether or not he was truly immortal. Since joining together the lost pieces of Joan of Arc’s sword—and that sword finding its way to Annja’s hands—it wasn’t clear if Roux, and his nemesis Garin Braden, possessed the immortality the curse of the sword seemed to have put on them. The mystery did not appear to bother Roux, though Annja knew Garin was desperate for the answer.
The salmon was grilled to perfection and laid upon a creamy lemon sauce speckled with white pepper that Annja promptly put down her gullet. Aware of Roux’s peculiar grin as he watched her eat, she finished the salad and the proffered crème brûlée before sitting back and closing her eyes to the high, warm sun that kissed the clear Parisian sky.
“Are you getting along well with the sword?” he asked. “Your sword, not the musketeer’s.”
“Best as can be expected.” Wincing against the sunlight, she blocked it with a hand over her brow and peered through half-closed eyes at him. “There’s an incredible emotional price that accompanies the wielding of it, I’m sure you know.”
