Dying by the Sword

Начало книги

ATHOS was not used to being looked at with suspicion and hostility, much less suspicion and hostility from mere commoners-a confused rabble of women and children, servants and passersby, the dregs and crowds of early afternoon in Paris.

In fact, the oldest of the three musketeers and the guard of Monsieur des Essarts, commonly known as the inseparables-Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan-wasn’t used to being looked at directly at all. Though he had now, for some years, lived under a nom de guerre in the ranks of his Majesty’s musketeers, Athos normally got treated as the nobleman he was.

No matter how much blond and elegant Aramis preened, and no matter how many yards of lace and gold brocade the splendid redheaded giant Porthos draped himself in, Athos could make them all fade into the background simply by stepping forward and throwing back his head. In his much-mended musketeer’s uniform, his curly black hair tied back with a bit of ribbon, the gaze from his dark blue eyes guarded, he looked like what he was born to be: the scion of one of France ’s oldest and noblest families.

Читать дальше →