1: The White Musketeer

By Christina Roberts

There's only one thing Erik Seeton wants in his pathetic teenage life: to be left alone to wallow in the superficial miseries of his rejected love. But that's not what destiny has planned for him.

One blisteringly cold December morning, Erik's friend Nate dares him to find the fabled French musketeer François Beauchamp's mansion in the woods. No one's ever seen it and most people think it's only a myth. When Erik and Nate actually find The Haunted Mansion, Erik discovers a breathtaking 17th century French rapier and claims it as his own.

However, taking the rapier awakens Mystic Art, a powerful form of magic passed down through DNA, thrusting Erik into the heart of millenniums of strife and the ongoing war between two forgotten brothers.

At first, Erik thinks he's the victim of circumstance. But he's quick to realize his friends and family are the ones in peril if he doesn't accept the magic forced upon him. Erik must confront and defeat an unleashed evil set on destroying the things he holds dear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387751457

Book preview

TheLibertasLeague.com

Prologue

"I am discovered. In the bleakest crevasses of humanity's hopelessness, of the divisions of strife built from foundations of malice and misunderstanding, I am discovered. In this corner do I write; in this darkness, lit by a single thread of Light, do I pen my sorrows and hopes. That light, Dear Reader, is not the light that you are most likely thinking I refer to. It is the inner light of Knowledge. Humanity knows nothing of it. Beyond the scale of twenty thousand years, even when the ancients of Vitalonia and Vlamira built structures still admired in a world we flatter ourselves to define as modern, we are yet living in darkness. What is this current reality of Time, but of a saddened people yearning to return to those times? We dream of rebuilding the Classic Time, by constant surveying and reproducing those grand Ideals, those glorious civilizations built on towering Morals. But humanity was, even then, in darkness. We have done nothing to enlighten ourselves. Actually, in this present atmosphere, we are ever more drowning in Ignorance and Vanity. And when a flicker of that glorious light dares show itself, we blow it out.

For humanity still prefers to suffocate with ignorance, to destroy and to maim those who possess this light of not simply knowledge, but Wisdom and Strength. Because I failed to understand the magnificent responsibility this light requires, it dissolved within the cords of my flesh. I was—I am—undeserving to inherit this Nobility. Therefore, I give it away now, to you, Dear Reader. I know not how, when, or where exactly you shall seek out my light, but you shall; and when you, the Cursed and Blessed, reveal me from the seal in which I hide from those who have sought me out, I shall aid you in what capacity I can.

Read my words. Contemplate them. Such a road as you have never imagined has been pressed onto you. Now that you have touched this light, you can never return to the darkness of ignorance. You are forever forced to break through the chains of every mistake society—and I—have ever created; for if you do not, the Safety of the world shall shatter, intellect shall yield itself to madness, and, thus, shall humanity suffer to repeat the destruction of its strongholds of civilization thousands of years ago.

As cryptic as this first note is, be courageous and patient. I have written for you a Guide, the explanations being the papers you hold in your fingers, to a past that is now yours and to a future you must unlock in order to bring Light once more to the world.

Be strong. Be steady. For there will always be an adversary seeking to steal from you the secrets of the light. You must, at all costs, defend this Inheritance; not only for yourself, but for all others who possess this light. You are now their only Defender and Beacon. It is your requisite; it is your Royal Duty.

~~~

Her eyes traveled down the chubby arms and legs of the child cradled in her arms. The newborn was everything lovely to her, and yet completely different in bodily attribute than herself: cheeks pale and rosy, fingers so small and soft that she could hold them inside her large hands.

To touch her baby's little feet and tiny belly brought delight to her aching muscles and fatigued breathing.

My little Shirina, she ran a single finger down her daughter's tiny head. The newborn kicked feebly, expressing her discomfort with strangled cries, eyes shut tight.

Victoria recalled the difficulties of the pregnancy with a sigh as she lay against the soft pillows. The doctors had said she wouldn't be able to carry to term. The first time she and her husband had tried for a child, the pregnancy had ended with grief. She could still see the swirling, bloody liquid of the fetus. The emotional grief had been far worse than the physical pain she'd experienced when she'd lost her first pregnancy.

She opened her eyes, staring up at the white tiles of the hospital room and was grateful that she had two healthy children.

That's all I ever needed, she exhaled.

Victoria kept telling herself that she was completely satisfied and content with her life. But she felt deep down in her bones, that she was being dishonest with herself. The disquieted churning of fear in her chest was starting to seep up from the deep hole in her heart. She'd been filling her mind with reasons justifying that she'd not truly betrayed her husband, and that she was continuing to do nothing wrong by keeping her secret.

There was a possibility that the little curly-haired girl Victoria had just brought into the world was not her husband's daughter. Becoming pregnant had been a mistake, but now that her child was here, Victoria promised to defend the innocent life to the best of her ability. After all, she'd made the choice to cheat on her husband of her own free, conscious will. If anyone had to pay in the future for her unfaithfulness, it should only be her. However, if Gerome ever found out—

Victoria swallowed. Her husband was as tender as he was savage and unforgiving. No—she would never tell him. And she'd make sure he'd never discover her sin and punish her baby for it.

Even with her self-vow, the pulling of guilt yanked ever harder as slumber pressed down upon her. Victoria knew, just as the last white spot of consciousness popped and faded before her closed eyes, that something harsh, stretching far beyond the end of her life, would determine the future for her children.

~~~

Sixteen twenty-seven. The height of a kingdom crafted by power-hungry monarchs had yielded a grand fruit of lavished individuals dispassionately floating above the poverty of millions. Such a class of nobility enjoyed escalating their self-importance to a level of pomp that had long past become ludicrous.

The hills of devastation rolled with hungry citizens. The cities clattered with the hooves of greedy noblemen and perfumed ladies who bought, sold, and bartered those starving souls amongst each other.

A life was to them cheap, nothing but a trophy. The prettiest people they could buy aided in elevating their status among their fellow courtiers.

Each lady's dress consumed enough fabric for three, sewn with silver threads, clipped into fashionable bunches by golden berets. Their hair rose sometimes as tall as their arm, powdered and puffed and pricked with color and foliage until they nearly swooned with aching neck.

For the men, their conceited desire for fashion above sense was not much improved. They sought out the ladies to help them emphasize their powdered white cheeks with bold, red blush, to redden their lips with scarlet hypocrisy as they feasted past the circumference of their garments.

The grounds about their palaces and townhouses were carefully tended to by the common citizen. Though the institution of serfdom had been waning for a good two centuries, the rich still clung to their self-imposed right of ownership over the people; and the people, with only a handful of sympathetic nobles, knights, and rich merchants to defend their harsh treatment, were left to fend for themselves.

Amidst the rise of King Louis XIII and his scrumptious, but often unloved, barren wife (the people were quite fickle, and their feelings for Her Majesty shifted like the tides) Anne of Austria, pockets of a different breed of people that had long been abandoned by society continued to live and hope for days when they would not be persecuted.

These few families were of a noble, but very mysterious bloodline that had no borders within courtly walls or peasant halls. For this reason, virtually every sect of civilized society, not just in France, disdained these families, even feared them. These despised people experienced a few short periods of popularity brought on by war or famine. Such horrible events forced their native societies to depend upon them. But, riches and peace reviving, they were not needed, and their neighbors were quick to spurn them again.

By the early seventeenth century, most of Europe considered themselves quite worldly and scientific. The rise of ancient technologies and educational principles from the Classic Time had brought a vanity that further elevated the rich above the poor.

This self-glorification, however, was of a different type than the pride of old when the Vlamirians considered themselves as equals to The Deities. Only select wisdom of the ancients was respected by modern cultures. As with any other time, humanity cleaved to what it wished and forgot what was inconvenient. The secular philosophy and science that fit into a Christian mold was widely studied and debated, while the warnings and teachings of the Mystic Artists were snubbed by royalty, mocked by nobility, and forbidden to be discussed by the peasantry. Mystic Art was added under the categories of witchcraft and sorcery, spit at as a dirty, evil practice.

Mystic was a title that referred to a class of people, gifted through mysterious means, with special abilities that differed from person to person, even within families. Since even before the oldest retrieved record that the Church had kept filed away safely for thousands of years, Mystic Artists had been written of, with an aura of fear. The Church, too superstitious to burn such records, shoved them far back beyond, hopefully, the reach of posterity. But the future found them, yet failed to realize what the words meant.

King Louis XIII whiled away his time with his mistress, as Anne of Austria mourned the loss of her Spanish maids. The court gossiped about the Queen's barren chambers as the peasantry toiled and slowly became rich, agitating the nobility. As cities filled with gossip and hatred, the unwanted, cast aside Mystic Artists walked secretly in the midst of them all.

Amid the everyday social tension, there rose a special class of guards for the suspicious French king. They were called The King's Guards or The Musketeers. Their uniforms shone richly blue with broad, silver fleur-di-lis—French lilies—stitched across their chests. They were buoyant, loved a good duel and a hearty laugh, and their popularity among the court only rivaled their idleness. Life for them was a succession of love and campaigns, but otherwise hollow.

By sixteen thirty, dissidence between the king and his friend and adviser Cardinal Richelieu had risen to new absurdities. The cardinal, thinly hiding jealousy, produced numerous excuses to have crimson musketeers designed for himself. This incited new gossip in the French state.

The king and the cardinal battled their growing dislike of each other through chess, debate, dance, and, indirectly, by allowing their guards to duel. Dueling was prohibited, but being bored and discontent, the king sometimes overlooked the event. Such apathy infuriated the cardinal so deeply, that at times he could do nothing but indulge on wine and read Revelations to comfort himself.

It was hard to find a musketeer who was not masterful with his sword, light on his feet in dance, or beautiful in the face. They all primped excessively before oval mirrors, to gain a glance from a lovely, rich lady who could very well be their next mistress.

However, there was one man who didn't inspect himself for only vanity's sake. He kept his talents and his looks about him for one lady whom he'd recently taken to the altar. Lady Aimé was an enchanting young baroness with a simple taste in fashion. She piled her hair slightly and powdered her cheeks but lightly, and yet, François Beauchamp loved her the day he saw her.

He lived for her and for the child she birthed, his daughter Zoëë. The three lived in Paris where he and the other musketeers maintained easy access to many avenues in and around the palace. François was so fervently beloved at court, that he was often invited to dinners and dances alike, accepting graciously with his wife draped across his arm at every appearance.

He was slender, with a chiming tenor voice and thick, chocolate curls tumbling out from beneath a broad, black leather cavalier hat which complimented his pale cheeks and curled mustache. He was the perfect courtly image, for, indeed, François was a knight in every proper respect of birth, education, and ceremony.

Having perfected the art of complimenting others, he gained favor so quickly and ascended the courtly hierarchy with such speed that some noblemen could only catch a glance of him. Within one year of befriending nearly everyone at court, the king personally requested an afternoon of chess with him.

Yet beneath these favors, François carefully buried the secret of his family with shame and fear.

Whatever society claimed, no matter the point in time or the vain supposition of social enlightenment, the citizens remained the same in their hearts. Out of their hearts he knew could come no good thing. He'd read of the torture his people had suffered through the ages. But only when he'd personally witnessed some of the most horrific, barbaric punishments by cultured, civilized European states against Mystic Artists, he had decided then to cease from the practice his family had taught him to revere.

When he felt guilty, François told himself that, in his modern world, Mystic Artists were an antique neither needed nor desired. Allowing his gift to freeze dry was no sin at all. Yet he knew, when he happened past a scene of flogging, the tearing apart of someone's flesh, or of a woman being abused, that though it was not his business, it was his duty as a Cherub of Mystic Art to stop such acts.

But he strolled by, swallowing another piece of his soul to choke down the guilt. If only the courage he displayed to the gluttonous court was not simply a façade!

The seasons passed with his favor among the court continuing to increase until François was invited to a grand winter ball by Their Majesties. The date of their social affair also happened to be the date in which the Captain of the Guard announced his retirement. He nominated François as his successor. None clapped so loudly for the young musketeer than the captain, and no one was as proud of him as his wife, Aimé.

François raised his glass with a hearty blessing to the health of the captain and Their Majesties. Not a single saddened heart filled the ballroom that enchanting evening of fireworks and lavish displays of wealth. Spiced pork and glazed sweets energized the dancing guests who continued to make merry and leech off the fruits of other peoples' labor.

~~~

In my initial note, I informed you, Dear Reader, of letters in which I have penned the more significant tribulations my family and ancestors have endured. Perhaps, I hope, by reading these troubling accounts, you may come to a bit of sympathy and understanding that will create within your bosom a tiny crack of pity for me.

I leave these letters more so for you as warnings and instructions, because, as this was not your natural lineage, your road of learning to understand it will be more difficult and taxing. You cannot disengage from it. You cannot run, hide, or forget. You cannot do these things, because if you pretend nothing has happened, you will be pierced through with such guilt and self-loathing that you will wish you were gone from this earth.

Read my words. Heed them, I beg, for they will not only save your life, but those whom you love. Is not every person responsible for their deeds and decisions? Is not society the whole of its parts? Indeed, both are. And therefore, the talent you have been given, though a grand responsibility it is, is one you must now accept. For, as we must breathe, we must perform our duty. Duty makes us what we are, both of value to others and substance to ourselves. If we have no duty, we have no purpose. If we have no purpose, we are less than dust.

Do not fret if this note perplexes you. It is a mere introduction to the material in my following letters. I will begin, and leave you, in this letter, with the first few lines of my family's history.

My family's lineage began five hundred years after the fall of the Classic Time. I do not know how your society may refer to this, but it was a brutal time of rebuilding when most of Europe had fallen from the greed of war. Only a few cities such as Istanbul remained strongholds of knowledge.

My family's significant history begins four hundred years after the aforementioned date, summing to around nine hundred total years from the fall of the Classic Time. A horrible plague had fallen upon France, killing low and high without discrimination. My ancestor Larue Beauchamp begged a holy entity for the power to save his family. The entity presented him a deal: his soul in exchange for theirs. My ancestor agreed so selflessly to this ultimate sacrifice, that he impressed the holy entity. The being bestowed Mystic Art upon my family line as a reward.

Thus began the legacy of my family's acts. Most of my ancestor's kindnesses were rejected. The few times their Mystic Art was appreciated gave them comfort and strength to endure the abuse they absorbed throughout the ages.

In my next letter, I will relate some details concerning Larue Beauchamp, for he is the designer of everything I am and have become. Through him, and therefore through me, the foundations of your being have been crafted, for you are grafted into my family; though as unnaturally as a lily to a vine, I hope you are the purest of us all.

~~~

The dark room popped suddenly with the sterile whiteness of the overhead fluorescent glow. Her slumber was cut short by this interruption. She writhed a little, groaning, trying to open her eyes, having to blink several times just to be able to squint.

At the side of the bed, a little soggy, brown head peered up at her.

Victoria noticed the figure and relaxed, Erik. I should've known. I've told you not to turn the light on like that—how many times?

His face was lit with slightly widened blue eyes, lips set nearly horizontal across cheeks splattered with freckles.

She couldn't stay angry, It doesn't matter. You want to come up on the bed with me?

Do you hurt? He rose up on his tiptoes and she noticed a trail of water leading from the doorway to where he stood. Victoria looked out the window and saw that spring had started raging with windless, heavy rains.

She looked down at her son, No, but you shouldn't have come in here like that. Take off your shirt and shoes and get in here with me. You must be freezing!

Her son obeyed without remark, kicking off his jeans and socks before hopping up to join his mother under the thin hospital sheets. His toes were as cold as ice and his skin was nearly as white as marble, but she was used to this and wasn't the least bit shocked by the unpleasant sensation as she brought his skinny frame to rest against hers.

She shut her eyes, So, how'd you sneak back here?

Didn't sneak, he responded simply. Just walked. They said I could see you. How is she?

Shirina's fine.

Did Dad come yet?

Uh— Victoria paused. Her husband hadn't yet returned from his business meeting. Explaining Gerome's even-lengthening absences to Erik in a positive way was always becoming more difficult. No, he hasn't, honey. But he told me he'd come as soon as he's done with work.

Her son's expression retained the same passive thoughtfulness as it had when he'd peeked up at her a minute ago.

Erik rolled over so that his back pressed against his mother's stomach, still swollen from her pregnancy, What does she look like?

A lot like you, Erik: brown hair that's got a curl like yours; blue eyes and freckles all over her face. Victoria slid her arms around her son's stomach to hold him closer, She's simply beautiful.

I knew she'd be pretty, since she's not from him, he mumbled loud enough for her to hear.

What do you mean, Erik?

Cold to her core, not wanting to move or breathe, Victoria knew. She tried to hold the second a little longer, so she wouldn't have to hear the soft, half-whisper of his innocent, yet brutally truthful response. She was afraid of her son, that he knew.

She doesn't have any of Dad in her, he whispered.

Her fingers, softly grazing his thin belly, froze like ice. You can't tell him, Erik, she felt ashamed to admit he was right and to force him to keep her secret, but it was for Shirina's sake. If you tell him, he'll be angry and may want to hurt your sister.

I promise I won't tell, he simply responded.

Victoria didn't ask why Erik was so ready to participate in her deception. It was too good to be true to have such an obedient, loving son, so she kept her peace and decided to be thankful and not suspicious of anything. Yet, stroking her son's hair, she felt overwhelming guilt and could only whisper, Thank you, Erik.

~~~

Eight months after Andrew and Rebecca McBeth consummated, she was born; their only child, because they only desired one child. With one child, they still had time in the evenings to clatter along the urban thoroughfares of Downtown, attending plays, movies, and dances. Gambling and tinkling glasses of false merriment beckoned them into the clubs. With friends and enemies, they passed the hours of the night, kissing their chips for luck.

They were quite well off and lived in the suburban upper hills of Zoë Dominique's Soirée Street. Whenever they drove out for some late-night fun, they left their baby girl with a house maid, a typical young woman of trimmed qualifications.

Yet one night, in particular, was not as kind to the couple as the others had been. In Downtown, they progressed up the block, stumbling, the smell of wine on their breath. Winter had come. Feathered rime crusted over the silhouetted, old-fashioned lanterns of the early times, reminiscent of men fluttering down alleys in long trench coats and tall hats. It was just another night, which was not just another night, when, from the shadows, two policemen raced forth after a man.

The couple pressed themselves against a wall, their fright leaving as the steps of the officers faded. Rebecca laughed; he laughed, but then she gasped, slipped from his fingers like satin, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Laying atop a sidewalk completely blanketed with crunchy, fat snowflakes, her white coat hid most of her slender body. An unearthly aura emitted from her tumbling black hair and crimson red lips. Blood pooled beneath her in the snow. The moment was surreal. With no one about and a husband with a faculty too eroded by alcohol to aid her, he could only scream incoherently up at the soft falling flakes over the accidental murder of his wife.

The police report stated that the man they'd been pursuing had been aiming at one of the officers, but accidentally shot his wife, instead. The man was caught, charged, and sent to many years in prison. Though Andrew received justice, his heart remained heavy and broken.

After that night, Andrew stopped drinking. He no longer visited clubs or casinos, either. His joy of living for the moment had died with his wife, leaving him a man that worked too many hours and hardly ever laughed.

For two years, he lived in an emotionless fog. Only his daughter redeemed his soul. The innocence of her tumbling gold curls, tiny toddler fingers pressed against his knee one winter afternoon, opened his eyes.

Andrew wept at last. His tears loosened his heart and enabled him to begin the slow, hard process of mending. He tried his hardest to love his daughter in all the ways he had neglected her until then.

However, Andrew found it impossible to close the distance that had risen between them. It was his fault. When Rebecca died, he'd treated Elaine like a thing to brush and polish, instead of a child he cherished. He was sadly inept. Try as he might, he found that he did not understand what it meant to be a father.

And no matter how he strained to bring himself closer to her, Elaine scorned him and his advice. He watched his daughter grow up and take on a personality much like people of old; she was like those who trod upon the poor, who snubbed the weak and the paralyzed. Andrew mourned as she grew to love the lifestyle that had killed his wife.

~~~

Zoë Dominique, a grand, old metropolis which was dubbed The Winter City, had been founded several hundred years ago from the myth of the Mystic Musketeer who had chased his brother across the ocean to kill him. As the story related, the Mystic Musketeer had repented of his evil, but too late: he had already cast a curse on himself and his brother, which had killed them both. Settled within a valley against Musketeer Mountain, the forests seemed to rise about Zoë Dominique, holding her safely within them.

Snow bedded the city several months out of the year. Summer was sadly short and overly mild. It was a city of old grandeur on the east side, full of Victorian museums, with Italian architecture of the High Renaissance that attracted tourists; but also of modern taste, with twisted skyscrapers in the northeast Uptown business section, where men in ironed black suits drifted in, out, and about the corporations like shadows.

Within the walls of the skyscrapers, rich men conducted international business, enriched by the toils of the needy. Honest businesses were often consumed by enterprises that were willing to compromise their corporate morals down to a level that gave them a competitive, profitable edge.

The rich became vainer as their wealth increased; their self-importance pushed them to manicure their appearance, which further fueled their self-righteousness. It wasn't long before large boardrooms filled with hateful comments of their disdain for everyone except themselves.

However, the greed and corruption of the business nobility was not the city's legacy. Zoë Dominique harbored an old story under the layers of ice that never melted. She tightly protected the rich heritage that she hoped would never be found. It was a secret which could be capitalized by the ruthless who were busy primping their bodies while their souls were full of death and cobwebs.

Chapter One

Mystic Art, the encompassing term for magic, was something that the world feared during that time. It was misunderstood, or not understood at all, which was why even the most civilized, advanced societies waged a war to silence it. Because it was an art the church had forbidden, it was considered sinful by the religious standards of the day. Those who practiced Mystic Art were thought to contain evil spirits, or to have made bargains with evil creatures.

This didn't deter the Beauchamp family; on the contrary, civilized society's fears of their talents encouraged them to explore Mystic Art, and to inevitably fall in love with it.

What the church condemned, the Beauchamp family praised. In the eleventh century, Larue Beauchamp found that Mystic Art offered advantages he couldn't ignore. The benefits were so great, that he required his children to study and practice the Mystic Art that they'd been gifted with at birth.

Although Mystic Art was outlawed by the church, and no one could truly understand its roots of creation, Larue reasoned that this didn't necessarily make it evil. He sought to understand the scientific qualities of it, discovering the limits to what it could accomplish.

Soon, he found others who considered themselves scholars of Mystic Art. He joined them in their quest to study it. Long hours, within a set of carefully insulated rooms, he and his colleagues researched and practiced their given Mystic Art abilities.

For several years, Larue and his colleagues were able to uncover many of the secrets of Mystic Art in peace. However, inevitably, an unsuspecting neighbor found their way to the Beauchamp house after hearing strange sounds coming from that direction. They crept up to a window and peaked in through a slit in the curtains. What they witnessed filled them with alarm and they quickly reported what they'd seen to the village church, who regularly sought out those who practiced Mystic Art.

Larue took his family with great haste, fleeing to the outer region of France to seek safety, but he found none. Word of his practices had reached the church authorities, who decreed that they'd scavenge the country until the devil's servants, as Larue and his colleagues were termed, had been extinguished.

Though Larue managed to keep his family hidden, he could not indefinitely contain them.

After he considered that he had learned enough Mystic Art, the eldest son ventured out. He was sheltered, didn't believe his father's warnings that the Christians would kill him, should they witness him using Mystic Art. Predictably, the son quickly found himself in trouble. He tried to flee, but was caught, brought before a hateful, fearful jury, and sentenced to burn at the stake as a public warning to all Mystic Artists.

After that tragedy, Larue feared even more for his family; but not willing to cease practicing Mystic Art, he continued to teach them the secrets that he hoped would protect them from prying eyes.

Even after two hundred years past the death of Larue's eldest son, the Beauchamp family lived in fear of society and jealously guarded their talent. They toiled and provided for themselves all that they needed. They conversed little with people who didn't practice Mystic Art and lived a generally cloistered, contented life.

During the early Renaissance, around fourteen hundred ATF (After the Fall of the Classic Time), the public literacy rate steadily increased; ancient secular Greek and Latin texts were continually studied, read, translated, and even applied in practical life by the populace.

Tolerance for other lifestyles began to rise out of the new enlightenment, and though the church still condemned Mystic Art, it was accepted in certain, more eccentric, circles. These circles encouraged the practice of it in the name of human benefit.

Even certain nobles of broad influence patronized a few Mystic Artists. The Beauchamp family fell into this fortunate circumstance.

Their patrons agreed to keep secret the details of the Beauchamp family's unusual service, as long as the beneficiaries followed their terms.

Up until the beginning of sixteen hundred, the Beauchamp family enjoyed this layer of protection. Generations of their bloodline had steadily increased their skills and had become one of the most powerful Mystic Artist families in France. Those who knew their secret revered and respected them.

But their unfortunate fall came in sixteen ten, when the Beauchamp's strongest supporting patron died. Their patron's wife despised Mystic Art and threatened to inform the church of her husband's treasonous secret. The Beauchamp family fled to Paris and there they settled, concealing their Mystic Art, but encouraging their sons, Jacques and François to live