The Legend Of Two Rogues

---

The Legend Of Two Rogues - book excerpt

Prologue

God has given us free will for a purpose.

Batiste de Brangelton - 1685

Glasgow, Scotland – 1687

Before James VII of Scotland was anointed James II of England, Bruce Dunbar was just a humble merchant, but James’ reign brought prosperity to Bruce. He became Laird Dunbar, and his influence and credit increased tenfold, enabling him to greatly enrich himself by transporting other people’s cargo. So what if he withheld tiny portions of their goods for himself? His clients always haggled about the price, but no one dared to question him about small discrepancies in the ledgers. Laird Bruce Dunbar delivered as contracted; he was endorsed by King James II and it was a fact that minor losses always occurred at sea.

Bruce walked to the window to admire his recently built Pride and Glory, which was moored in the river Clyde. The window was closed, but the breeze was strong and the cold air seeped through the cracked frame. The landlord of the inn charged a fortune for the location, but the comfort of the guests was of less importance. Bruce pulled the curtains closed and stoked the fire. He no longer had to tolerate such inconvenience and discomfort, but he liked the view of Pride and Glory from his window.

The fireplace belched a cloud of black smoke, forcing Bruce to wrap himself in a blanket and open the window to a gust of freezing air. He prided himself on his political foresight and business acuity; the former whispered to him that troubles gathered on the horizon for James, and the latter encouraged Bruce to expand his ventures into the New World, where the New West India Company mined emeralds from the Portuguese Empire and diamonds from New Granada.

Bruce could neither eat nor sleep thinking about a chance to establish himself in the gem trade. If only he had capital or contacts to raise money and thus to gain a foothold in the gem trade. The men in power refused to commission the Pride and Glory unless he invested his own money in the cargo. Bruce loathed the thought of a partner or an outside investor, but he had no choice.

A glass panel splintered and fell out when he slammed the window shut. A large piece of glass cut his hand. Cursing, Bruce straightened his wig and went downstairs to demand more comfortable accommodations.

Paris, France – 1687

Helene de Seveigney, the Duchess de Montmurrant, had started to consider expanding her business ventures to the New World. Vague but ambitious ideas were dancing in her mind tonight as the conversation at the salon centered around exotic imports from across the ocean – sugar, tobacco, cotton, cocoa, furs, and rum. The demand for these goods grew; it seemed to be a worthwhile investment. Helene listened to M. Speirs with rapt attention. The intricacies of the trans-oceanic commerce were unknown to Helene, but he spoke with the conviction of a man who was familiar with all aspects of business in the New World.

Helene sought him out before the night was over. “May I ask you a mercantile question, M. Speirs?”

He fiddled with his buttons. “Yes, yes, of course, Your Grace. Please ask anything you wish.”

“What is the most profitable merchandise from the New World, M. Speirs?”

“If I had to choose, I would say tobacco,” he said after a moment of consideration.

Chewing and smoking tobacco might be disgusting habits, but these vices provided ample business opportunities. Helene placed her hand on his sleeve. “Is it? Are you brave and confident enough to invest a small sum of my money in it?”

He unconsciously leaned toward her. “Most certainly, Your Grace.” His wide-set eyes lit up as he enthusiastically nodded.

“My friends address me as Duchess Helene, M. Speirs. May I consider you among them?”

He raised her hand to his lips. “My given name is Roy. I will be greatly honored to become your most devoted servant, Duchess Helene.”

And he probably aspires for more, Helene thought contemptuously.

St. Domingue, New World - 1687

The Lieutenant Gustave de Brissot’s idea of a military career was an overabundance of looting and plundering. He had not anticipated a post on this Godforsaken, hot, humid island populated by the uncouth and uncivilized colonists whom he was assigned to protect from the Spanish, Dutch, and English – not to mention the pirates. With disgust, he eyed the house he had purchased upon his arrival. Others had made their fortune in sugarcane, but his parcel of land was small and the soil was, as he found out afterwards, unsuitable to grow any profitable plants. He swatted at swaying green branches and entered his humble dwelling.

Gustave threw his jacket on the chair and loosened his cravat. Damn this heat. How much longer would he have to suffer in this hell? He poured water over his head. A cracked mirror above the basin reflected the face of a man unenthusiastically approaching middle age. The ungainly lines had started to show on his face, but he was still of noble birth. He wanted his old life back: the evenings in the rooms with marble floors and gilded furniture, light-skinned women in embroidered gowns, red wine and sophisticated dishes. He wanted the life he had lost at the gambling tables. Others cheated worse than he did but, unlike him, they were never caught. He was the unfortunate one.

He wanted to go back to France and find a pliable rich woman to marry, but his petitions to transfer back to France had so far gone unanswered. He was doomed to languish in Cap-Haïtien, while gold, precious stones, and fortunes in sugar and tobacco and rum sailed past him. Gustave despised the honest fools who held fortunes in their hands and delivered it to the New West India Company. The obscenely rich investors would hardly feel a financial hardship if one consignment disappeared. Tortuga was but a short sail away and the island was a festering haven for pirates; raids frequently happened on the high seas …

Gustave forgot about the heat as a thought occurred to him. Could he orchestrate a heist on his own?

Ferrand – 1689

Sympathetic distant relatives, kind landladies, and nuns took care of Henrietta from birth until the happiest day in her young life, when she finally went to reside with her father, Christophe d’Arringnon of His Majesty’s Royal Musketeers.

Henrietta and her father lived in a small rented room several miles from Versailles. Father’s duty demanded him to be away for long hours and sometimes for days, but Henrietta became accustomed to his absences. She read the books that her father borrowed for her, and she practiced her penmanship. She was confined indoors because there was no maid or governess to accompany her outside their humble home. With a growing concern for her isolation, her father had the idea that Henrietta might venture outside if she would pretend to be a boy. Henrietta happily agreed.

As “Henri”, she now had freedom to stroll anywhere she wanted. She idled on the hill overlooking the travelers on the road, she visited stables to learn about horses, she watched a candlemaker and a blacksmith at work. Her father began to instruct her in the art of swordsmanship because all boys were taught it. She mastered the skills quickly and basked in the glory of her father’s praise.

Henrietta’s father took her to visit Paris and Versailles. She learned to ride astride, and her father brought “Henri” along on his occasional travels, when they stayed in military garrisons and encampments. As she grew older, she realized that she led a most unconventional life for a young noblewoman and privately wondered if she would ever wear a dress or put up her hair. Then, an unexpected inheritance of an old ancestral home swept away Henrietta’s worries and brought her and father to Ferrand.

M. de Paulet was a distant cousin; his wife was happy to fill in enormous gaps in Henrietta’s education befitting a young noblewoman. Henrietta mastered the intricacies of fixing her hair and wearing corsets and skirts. She learned to curtsey, to dance, and to ride sidesaddle. M. and Mme. de Paulet’s son, Louis, and Constance from a neighboring estate, became Henrietta’s best friends.

Henrietta’s father never complained about their finances, but Henrietta understood that money was tight. The food on their table was simple. Her outfits were re-made from old gowns found in the attic, and her father’s clothes had started to show signs of wear. A chandelier was taken down and never seen again. Fewer and fewer candles were lit in the evenings.

Then letters without senders’ names started to arrive; a cloaked man came to speak with her father and left the same day. Soon after that, her father had rented out their house and arranged for M. de Paulet to become Henrietta’s guardian.

Henrietta went to live with the de Paulet family. Her father left on an expedition to the New World.

Chapter 1

Young Man in Paris

You will obey orders? You don’t know what that means.

Paul d’Ornille to Francis de Brangelton to - 1690

Versailles – March 1690

Six years ago, the Sun King had summoned Laurent de la Fleure, the young Comte de Chatreaux, to gossip-infested, malice-filled Versailles. Joining the Musketeers meant he had a chance to escape the intrigues and backstabbing that plagued the Court, so Laurent put on the gray-blue coat with a deep sense of relief. Even then, the brand-new Palace of Versailles was packed and bursting at the seams.

Laurent’s accommodations in the barracks were spacious by comparison. As a military man, he was excused from suffering through (what passed for) intelligent discourse in salons. And, incidentally, a certain duke had promptly abandoned his efforts to marry off his hare-brained daughter to Laurent. The duke violently disapproved of a young Comte taking a military post designated for younger sons without prospects.

Laurent had considered himself fortunate in his decision. He appreciated the comradery of the elite regiment, but he also carved out time to enjoy small bits of peace and quiet away from the court chaos. With a copy of the latest newspaper in one hand, a meat pie in another, and a flask of spiced wine in a pocket, Laurent strolled through the wide-open space of Water Parterre.

The sun was peeking through the clouds, but a soft breeze was preventing most of the courtiers from venturing outside, allowing Laurent to feel undisturbed on this rare mild day. Laurent turned right, and sat on the stone bench by the trees. He finished eating, took a refreshing sip from the flask, and opened the newspaper to peruse the articles of human follies.

“M. de la Fleure, may we implore you to settle a dispute?” Paul d’Ornille was one of the best and brightest new recruits to the regiment, and he was approaching with a stranger in tow. The stranger’s swagger reminded Laurent of privateers and, observation assisted by personal experience, warned him that this young man was, despite his tender years, an accomplished cutthroat. It was easily deduced from his self-confidence, his apparent lack of respect for decorum and authority, and his arsenal of weapons (a sword, a pistol, and a dagger – and those were just the items on display). His somber dark clothes were plainly cut, his black boots were stained and scratched with age, and his leather gloves had been vastly repaired, but the hilts of the sword and dagger were brightly polished. When he took off his maroon hat, the broken nose and the nasty scar across the forehead added the final touches to his appearance.

“With all respect, I apologize for intruding on your solitude, but I hear that you are a man of wisdom and order, M. de la Fleure,” the young brigand said as he gracefully bowed. His address was unpredictably cultured. “Will you please settle a difference of opinions between Paul and me?” He did not pause in case Laurent meant to object. “When a sightseeing visitor in Paris catches another man's hand in his pocket, and the visitor’s purse is in that pocket, does tossing the would-be thief in the Seine constitute an act of justice? Or is it a disturbance of the peace?"

Laurent considered it. "Did the would-be thief drown?"

"No. The ungrateful swine climbed on shore to bray obscenities at the visitor from a safe distance, and that's after the visitor had gone through the trouble of arranging a bath he badly needed." The stranger clearly had a unique perspective on life.

Laurent suppressed a chuckle. "Did you assist in that spectacle of reforming a would-be thief, d'Ornille?"

"No. Meet Francis de Brangelton. I would not dream to intrude on his performance."

"He is a friend of yours?" Laurent inquired.

D’Ornille nodded. "Since he learned to walk and talk."

"Denounce me, Paul. If your comrade-in-arms condemns your association with me, I am just a disreputable neighbor." He deftly dodged a friendly kick by d’Ornille.

"What brings you to Paris, de Brangelton?" Laurent asked.

His smile was disarmingly innocent. “That is a long and convoluted story.”

Laurent folded the unread newspaper. He had a feeling that no composition there would be as amusing as de Brangelton’s tale. “I have time.”

D’Ornille and de Brangelton fell in step with him as they walked down the stairs and along the wide path toward the Grand Canal.

“I abandoned the town of my birth before I was blamed next for all the sins of any renegade neighbors. The local former judge is a lunatic – he believes my father’s ghost haunts him,” de Brangelton begun his chronicle.

“You don’t say,” Laurent scoffed at the last sentence. “Pray tell, on what grounds would anyone accuse such a fine young man as you of a crime?”

“Will you do the honors, Paul?”

“No.”

“My older brother was once accused – and later acquitted – of a murder. The people in Poitiers whisper that I destroyed the prison to save him from the noose, and somehow, I managed to almost murder a man while I was traveling miles away. They imagine that I sailed with Barnaby pirates while I resided – peacefully, for the most part - in Marseille,” de Brangelton cheerfully expounded. “Not to mention that one sweet damsel caught me in her clutches, but then another claimed me for herself."

D’Ornille’s jaw dropped and shut with a snap.

"So, there I was, standing in front of the glorious Notre-Dame-La-Grande Cathedral, respectfully conversing with one of these charming women, when the other joined us." De Brangelton theatrically shuddered. "I quite admired the accusations and insults that these beautiful creatures passionately and loudly exchanged - until they came to blows. I took them apart, and they turned on me. I escaped with a bite on my hand, a scratch on my face, and a torn sleeve."

Laurent could no longer keep a straight face. "That should teach you to play with the affections of two women!"

"He never learns." D'Ornille noted.

“Oh, faithless friend of mine, I am neither foolish nor reckless, although I did attempt to reconcile them.”

D’Ornille’s eyes almost popped out of his head. "Have you succeeded?"

De Brangelton flashed a predatory smile. "No. I left Poitiers. Being caught between two women is more dangerous than fencing against two opponents, and I am one of the best swordsmen in France. Bet you a bottle of rum you will lose a round with me." The last sentence sounded like an afterthought to Laurent, tacked onto the same breath as de Brangelton’s bragging.

“I respect your confidence,” Laurent said with a well-deserved touch of sarcasm. “We shall see about it tomorrow-- nine o’clock in the morning in the fencing hall by the arsenal.”

He belatedly realized that was exactly what de Brangelton wanted to happen: a fencing round with Laurent would make the young reprobate known.

The news of a provincial newcomer challenging the famous de la Fleure spread like fire. When Laurent arrived at half-past eight o’clock, the viewing gallery in the fencing hall was full. De Brangelton swaggered in at quarter to nine and calmly observed the crowd.

“I am astonished that men of Paris crawl out of bed so early.” He greeted Laurent. “It is obviously not for the wagers. From what I have heard about you, no one would bet on me to win.”

“They envision a figurative slaughter.”

De Brangelton wrapped a black-and red kerchief around his head in the style of sailors and pirates. Exhibition rules required fencing barefoot, but it said little, if anything, about fashionable headgear. “They will be greatly disappointed. Shall we raise the stakes, de la Fleure? When I win, you will offer me a commission in the Musketeers.”

During their exchange, the crowds had hushed, and the last sentence was heard by all. Laurent checked his temper at being so skillfully manipulated. “I have no authority to offer you a commission. Here is my counter-offer to you, de Brangelton: if you win, I will recommend you.”

De Brangelton went for the first attack. Laurent was one of the elite fencers, but the speed of his opponent stunned him into retreat. His counterattack was met with a solid defense, and the riposte came immediately. Laurent parried, and their blades met again and again; the steel-on-steel clash was the only sound heard in the fencing hall.

Laurent blocked his mind and vision to anything but his opponent’s blade. He delivered a minor blow to his opponent’s upper arm, and the covered tip of de Brangelton’s blade grazed his upper arm. His next attack came from an unexpected angle. Laurent abandoned caution and used a two-handed grip to slam his sword into his opponent’s blade. De Brangelton reacted immediately, but his step faltered and Laurent was able to follow through with another light touch to the ribs.

Despite the cool air, both were covered in sweat. After what seemed to be a million parries, time was called. The deafening sounds of applause, praise, and excitement erupted among the audience.

De Brangelton wiped his face with his head covering. “I almost became a Musketeer!”

“Could have happened if this bout lasted longer,” Laurent hollered over the uproar. “You are a devil with the blade!” He weaved his way through the crowd.

De Brangelton followed him to the wash closet. “When shall we have a rematch?”

Laurent gulped cool water and poured some over his head. “I don’t want to deal with you for at least a week. Why do you wish to become a Musketeer?”

De Brangelton held his look. “It seems to be the best way to establish my connections at the Court.”

“It seems to be the best way to keep an eye on you,” Laurent responded just as honestly.

The young man’s blue eyes took on a disconcerting, opaque glint. “I must warn you that my older brother sailed to the New World to escape his self-imposed responsibility for my well-being.”

“Your older brother is a man of excellent judgment. Unfortunately for him, I am able to arrange for you to join him there if you stir up any trouble here.”

“Trouble? I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I suppose you do not quite comprehend the meaning of the word ‘trouble’”, Laurent replied.

It was probably a mistake to bring Francis de Brangelton even within a mile of the Musketeer’s Headquarters. The young man seemed reckless, manipulative, and ambitious. However, even more than with many of the younger recruits, dealing with him would provide both a challenge and entertainment. Then again, de Brangelton would probably resign as soon as he had to follow orders, Laurent consoled himself.