The Parthenay family was tucked comfortably in their coach, heading north toward Versailles in the early morning, happily anticipating their visit with the King. Sebastian, the patriarch, was an aging yet handsome warrior; his wife Francoise a demure beauty with flaxen hair. Their sixteen-year-old son and twelve-year-old daughter were bright and inquisitive, full of energy that both exhausted and charmed their parents.

Charlotte, the daughter, caught her mother’s hand and smiled. “Are we nearly there, Maman?”

Francoise looked out the window and peered at the winding road ahead. “I cannot tell, dear, but –”

BANG!

The carriage shuddered, rattled, and drew up short.

Exasperated, Sebastian put his hand on the door handle. “A wheel has come off, I fear,” he said. Climbing from the coach, he joined the driver and the guard. They examined the coach but none of the wheels were gone or damaged.

“I don’t know what that was,” said Sebastian as his guard took a step toward the trees to have a look.

Then two deafening cracks exploded from the trees, one immediately after the other, slamming into the guard and the driver, blowing holes in their chests. The men fell like axed trees.

“Get down!” Sebastian cried to his family in the carriage. They crouched low, terrified. And in the next second a third shot tore into him and he dropped to the road.

The men who had fired the shots rode up on horseback. One ordered, “Take their money and their clothes.”

Inside the coach, Francoise gasped. “I know that voice!” Montcourt! The moment she spoke, she knew she had sealed her family’s fate. Montcourt peered through carriage window, beckoned Mike to join him, and they shot the terrified mother and son at close range.

But then he looked closer into the carriage.

Where is Charlotte?

Montcourt glanced about anxiously for the Parthenays’ young daughter. She was not in the carriage, not under nor behind it. Damn it to hell! Then he heard faint panting, rustling, and turned to see the girl racing into an open field past the woods. Montcourt raised his pistol, leveled it, and aimed. But then he hesitated, watching her run, seeing her youth, innocence…

Boom!

Charlotte fell in the tall grass. Mike lowered his smoking musket and looked at Montcourt with a satisfied sneer. Done.

“With speed, then,” said Montcourt. “Begin.”

Mike and Tomas began snatching up clothing and valuables from the coach as Montcourt tucked his pistol into his coat and strolled out to the field. Needing to see the child, to rob her corpse, yet feeling a twinge of regret. So young. He reached the place where she’d fallen.

And she was gone.

Alive? Oh, God. Is she alive still?

Mike whistled and waved anxiously. “Hurry!” And Montcourt raced back to his horse.

At the palace of Versailles, Annaba hugged his brother warmly. “We’re going now,” said the new King.