Chapter One: Laws of Attraction
Charles de Batz, the senior d'Artagnan, stood at the head of the rise a long while he watching as the queen's entourage diminished in the distance. Duval and his men were barely a smudge on the horizon, soon to be swallowed by forest, but still he stood watching…wishing he were beside her yet. The captain could still feel Anne's lingering touch on his arm, and he could still detect the subtle fragrance of her perfume in the air. He closed his eyes and latched on to the memory of her final words to him. "Protect our boys," she told him in a hushed whisper. She leaned so close he could feel her breath on his neck.
Even after so many years, his heart still quickened within him. Oh, how he longed to take her in his arms. But he was no longer a reckless recruit, and Anne was not a hand-maiden…able to sneak away from court to take a tumble in some secluded hayloft. She was queen, and he was the captain of her guard. It was enough that she entrusted him with the one thing more valuable than her virtue—her children. "Our Boys," she had said, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. How he wished it were true! His son, d'Artagnan, was not too old to want a mother, and Louis and the other boy needed a father just the same. Life would be so simple if a crown were not tangled in the mix. One does not risk destroying a nation over a single wondrous night spent in each other's arms. Charles' breath caught in his throat; for all his boasts, he was a pig-farmer's son, and he had no business even imagining such things.
As if summoned by his father's musings, d'Artagnan, the younger, approached from the tent village below. "Father," the musketeer began, "word has come that the Bourbons are in Paris. The king has agreed we are to drive them from the city and harry them into the midlands. The king expects them to attempt to take refuge with his uncle in Anjou, where we can lay siege on the city and prevent them from laying waste the countryside."
It was a veiled comment. Charles was well aware that any such 'intelligence' was the product of that scheming Emris's spy network…Still, his son was polite enough not to remind him of the fact…and for that, the man was grateful. In fact, he was a bit surprised by how savvy the boy's pronouncement had been, making sure that he knew the order had come directly from the king and from no other. Dart left him no cause to find fault with the source. His son was becoming quite a diplomat…Still, the captain regretted the necessity that made d'Artagnan dance about so. "I'll be down shortly." He told the young musketeer and left it at that.
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Amid a teeming sea of military discipline that was the focus of the life of the blade-bound was a simple blue and white pavilion. This unremarkable cloth shelter served as base camp to four young musketeers. D'Artagnan was frowning when he returned to his companions Jacques Lepont and Ramón De la Cruz lounging outside the tent. Siroc was apparently elsewhere. "Any improvement?" Ramón asked; referring to the young man's assessment of his legendary father's current mental state.
"No, he is just as prickly as ever." D'Artagnan sighed. "I'm afraid I don't have much hope that he'll just sit down with Uncle Emris and talk things out." The dark-haired young man flopped down on the grass beside his friends. Thoughtlessly he remarked, "This stress between them is just torture."
The Spanish musketeer winced at the word 'torture.' Physically, he had almost completely recovered from his sojourn in the depths of Mazarin's dark citadel. Even so, memories of the horror of that place still haunted his waking dreams. Jacques Lepont, now known to her companions as the fugitive Jacqueline, stretched out her hand and squeezed Ramón's in wordless reassurance. And he returned the gesture with a smile, confidant he was not alone. They had not left him in that place and now he was free once more. Even better, the once powerful cardinal, last they had heard, was running for safety somewhere in Austria.
Just then Siroc strode up with a noticeable spring in his step. His companions knew this was a clear indication that the usually taciturn inventor had come close to uncovering something he considered particularly groundbreaking. "Guess what…" he began.
"Siroc, just tell us," d'Artagnan teased the blond gently. "You know very well we mere mortals are quite incapable of matching your superior intellect." It was his way of proving that their situation would not become like that of his father and Emris.
Ramón and Jacques shared a private smile with their blond friend. Nothing would come between the four young musketeers, least of all their companion's origins. After all, at present, they were the minority, not Siroc.
"Very well," the inventor said with a long-suffering sigh that was pure affectation. He knelt before them and placed a small chess board on the ground and then removed two small horseshoes from his belt pouch.
"Those must be from a very small horse my friend." Ramón observed, noting each one was no more than the length of his fore-finger and just about as thick.
"Just watch…" the blond musketeer told his friends. "D'Artagnan, this one is your father—" he indicated to one metal 'U' "—and this one is Emris." he indicated the other. He positioned the shapes so that the open ends faced each other. Slowly, he nudged the 'Emris' horseshoe toward the other, and the other figure inexplicably slid away. The inventor then tried to push the 'U' representing 'de Batz' toward the first, and again the metal seemed to recoil from contact. "You try," the inventor challenged.
The Spaniard went first, attempt to use both hands to try to encourage the ends to meet. But they would not; each repelled the other. "It is Magic," Ramón gasped astonished at the trick. "How does it do that?"
"It is not magic…I kept them in the same pouch as my loadstone and now they exhibit the same properties," Siroc said flipping one of the metal pieces end-over-end, and immediately, the two objects connected securely as if of their own accord.
"Amazing!" Jacques grinned and found that, once joined, it was equally difficult to pull the two pieces apart again.
"What do you think?" Siroc asked, gazing expectantly through his long bangs.
"Very pretty demonstration, Siroc," d'Artagnan said slowly. "But I don't see what good it will do us. Unless you intend to turn my father on his head…and I don't think that is likely to improve his mood."