A STITCH IN TIME
by Amadeus
r_amadeus@hotmail.com
Philippe lay beneath the branches of an enormous tree, only half aware of the play of light and shade on his upturned face and the rustle of the early afternoon breeze in the leaves high above. Most days he enjoyed the still unfamiliar sensations and allowed himself to be lulled for a while into a half-doze by the lazy hum of the bees. Not today, though. Today he had other things on his mind. He shifted restlessly on the soft grass, trying to marshal his thoughts.
What he had just heard in the kitchen filled him with anxiety. His mind raced back over the conversation. A mistress? Half the women in Paris? The others had been talking about Louis in the offhand way they affected, but their contempt had been clear. This time it had gone right over Philippe's head. All he could think about were the women and what they meant for the future.
The plan to substitute Philippe for Louis was risky at the best of times. Now, thanks to him, it was over before it had really begun. Athos could drill him in fencing and dancing, history and etiquette as much as he liked, but there was something he hadn't thought of, and Philippe couldn't bring himself to mention it. He knew nothing about women, had never had the chance to find out. But Louis, he'd been told, had a roving sexual eye. No woman was safe from him; he considered it his right to take whoever he wanted, and thought she should be grateful for the honour. If the switch succeeded, people would expect that to continue. How could "Louis" suddenly not know what to do with a woman? There was no way Philippe was going to be able to carry it off in bed. He closed his eyes, imagining different scenarios, wincing at the thought of all the things that might go wrong.
"Philippe?" The voice was quiet. "Are you asleep?"
Philippe hadn't heard anyone come out the kitchen door and walk across to where he lay under the tree. He started in spite of himself, jerking half- upright, hand held above his face as if to ward off a blow, then relaxed as he recognised Athos. It embarrassed Philippe that he could not yet control this reflex; he worried that his friends would take it as an affront to their care. The instinctive gesture, had he but known it, never failed to move Athos to compassion. And to anger, on Philippe's behalf. In time, perhaps, Philippe thought, the reflex would disappear, as the prison pallor and the dark circles under his eyes were diminishing little by little with each passing day. Clearly not just yet, though.
Philippe sat up properly and looked up at Athos. In the gentle afternoon sunlight, his friend looked tired. The afternoon held a couple of hours of fencing and riding practice yet, and the dancing lessons would continue after supper. The pressure on all of them caused by Aramis' deadline was intense. Sometimes Philippe came across Athos dozing on a window ledge, or caught him passing a hand across his face in a weary gesture, and guilt washed over him. He knew that Athos was tired because his sleep was so often broken by Philippe's nightmares. Night after night, shifting pastiches of sounds and faces and memories that jerked him awake screaming, drenched in sweat. Athos was always there, never abandoning him to the dark, sitting with him until his eyes closed again; sometimes, if sleep would not come, talking till dawn of other things to take his mind off the terrors.
A kind man. Philippe's heart sank as he wondered how he was going to tell him about the new problem. Despair filled him. For a while there, under Athos' careful tutelage, he had begun to think he might just in the end be useful to them, repay them somehow for the risks they had taken to secure his freedom. In the short time he'd known them, he'd come to respect them, over and above the natural bond of gratitude. He didn't want to be diminished in their eyes. But the others were all worldly men in their different ways, even Aramis the priest. He shrank from the thought of their looks of disappointment when they discovered that in this, as in so much else, he was still a child. Aramis, he knew, would affect understanding, but his impatience with this latest obstacle would be clear.
Athos was waiting. He held their fencing gear. "Time to get on with it. Are you ready?"
Philippe didn't answer. Athos looked puzzled. He leaned the swords against the tree and sat down beside him, resting his forearms on his drawn-up knees. They sat for a moment in silence, gazing out across the fields on the other side of the stream which ran through the estate. A splashing from the direction of the deep pool where currents eddied around the embankments of the old stone bridge reminded Philippe of the day he had sat there, looking out over the stream, wrestling with the decision of whether to throw in his lot with theirs. It had all been new to him then. He remembered what had finally carried the day with him: Athos' plea that the success of the plan would give meaning to the death of his son. His heart twisted at the thought of how disappointed Athos would be.
The tranquillity of the scene contrasted sharply with the turmoil in Philippe's mind. What to do? Say something now? Say nothing, and hope for the best? How could he hope to get away with it if he did? But then, how could he even begin to broach the subject with his three rescuers? Either they'd look at each other incredulously and shrug, or they'd laugh at him for making too much of it. His face burned at the thought.
"What's the matter?" The response was swift.
"Nothing." He shifted on the grass. "Nothing, I ... I just lay in the sun a bit too long, that's all. I'm not used to it yet."
"You haven't been out here long enough. Besides, you're under a tree, remember?" Athos' voice was full of laughter, but he couldn't quite keep the concern out of it. Damn, Philippe thought, didn't he ever miss anything?
"It's nothing. Really." He couldn't tell him, not even Athos. Panic filled him. He would have to go ahead with the farce and trust to luck. But sooner or later, in some gorgeous bedroom, the whispers would start. It wouldn't be long before the truth was out, and then Athos and Aramis and Porthos would be in as much danger as Philippe himself. At the thought, he felt the cold, never far away, start to steal through him. He couldn't let that happen.
Athos glanced sideways at Philippe, noting the strain around the eyes and the mouth. The boy seemed unusually subdued. The flush had died away; now he just looked tense. Athos sighed inwardly. Stupid, really, to think that so few days of nurture and exercise, of good food and fresh air, could exorcise the demons of years. Still, he had to try. He owed it to Philippe to do the best he could for him. Philippe had not asked to be pitchforked willy-nilly into the situation in which he found himself, although no doubt he was glad to be free. Sometimes Aramis could be so damned pigheaded. He couldn't see that all his grand plans depended on human beings, just barged ahead with little thought of the effect his demands would have on others, impatient if they raised obstacles. He moved people around as if they were chess pieces and expected them to fall into line without demur. Athos shifted a little closer to Philippe, and put his hand on his arm.
"There is something. First you froze in the middle of lunch, then you took off without a word." A gentle question. "What's wrong?"
Philippe moved away a fraction. Athos dropped his hand and pushed himself back until he was leaning against the tree. He patted the ground beside him. Philippe looked at him doubtfully. For a moment Athos thought that he would get up and walk away. Then he seemed to change his mind and moved back too, not too near. Tense fingers picked abstractedly at the grass beside him. He seemed to develop a sudden absorbing interest in a small brown caterpillar wriggling past on its way to the tree trunk.
"Philippe?" Worry pricked at the corners of Athos' mind. His voice was urgent, rougher than he'd intended. It was as if he had some sixth sense where Philippe was concerned. From the look on Philippe's face, that was more of a trial than a comfort right now. He looked across the stream to where a lamb bleated, its tiny staccato only emphasising the stillness around them. The old chateau lay becalmed in the drowsy warmth of the spring afternoon. The others were nowhere in evidence; except for the lamb and the rustling of the leaves in the breeze, there was no sound.
Athos looked back at Philippe, his concern growing. All of a sudden, Philippe seemed to come to a decision. He took a deep breath and squared his thin shoulders, as if bracing himself for something. Athos wondered what it could possibly be. A thousand possibilities, each worse than the last, flashed through his mind as he wondered what was wrong Philippe cleared his throat and appeared to be searching for a voice suddenly missing.
"Before?" He was clearly deeply troubled, Athos thought, the fragile confidence that had begun to develop at such cost over the last few days nowhere in evidence. Athos wanted desperately to reach out and comfort him, but instinct told him to keep his hands at his sides. Philippe swallowed hard, then with an effort summoned up courage to continue. "In the kitchen. When you were all talking about Louis." Athos nodded. "You said he had a lot of women. And that he had a mistress. Well, I've never ..." His voice trailed off miserably. "I don't know how to ..." Silence. He could not finish the sentence, would not look at Athos.
Nothing broke the silence for a moment. Athos stared at him, uncomprehending. To Philippe, it seemed a small eternity. Then it dawned on Athos what he was trying to say. Relief flooded over him, almost painful in its intensity. He fought down a wild desire to laugh, but his eyes were kind as they rested on Philippe. Resisting the impulse to reach out and ruffle his hair, he chose his words carefully.
"You mean you've never been with a woman?" He spoke gently, careful to keep any hint of amusement from his voice. He hadn't thought it possible for anyone to flush even more painfully than Philippe already had. Apparently he was wrong. Again, he fought the urge to smile. Then his heart contracted as he remembered Raoul's first tentative forays into manhood, the doubts and insecurities which had beset him as he faced first the imperatives of his maturing body and later the physical implications of his growing love for Christine. What had seemed of minor importance to his father had bulked large in Raoul's young mind, as no doubt it had in his father's at the same age, however far back in the dim past that now seemed. With an effort, Athos forced his mind back to the present, away from Raoul, and considered the boy sitting beside him.
"Well." He made his voice matter-of-fact. "Of course you haven't. No shame in that. Not too many chances in prison. I should have thought of it myself". He stroked his chin reflectively. "It's not the end of the world, you know."
"But the plan ... How can I pass as Louis if ..."
Athos looked up sharply. "Is that what's worrying you?" This time he couldn't quite keep the affectionate humour out of his voice. " Relax, Philippe. We can do something about that. From what I hear about Louis, the only thing you'll need is stamina, and we're already working on that. Meanwhile, you've got a few extra lessons coming up. Should be more fun than fencing and history."
Philippe stared at him, his relief almost palpable. He wasn't sure what Athos had in mind, but the tension drained from his shoulders, and he slumped back against the tree. Athos stood up and brushed some grass from his clothes. "Enough lying about. Let's get back to work." He held out his hand and pulled Philippe to his feet, smiling. Philippe smiled back. It wasn't much as smiles went, but it was the first spontaneous offering Athos had seen from him, and his heart leaped at the sight. Together, they walked back toward the house.
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"I should have known," Athos thought with resignation a couple of hours later. The others were both so predictable. Aramis had returned late in the afternoon from the town where he had gone for provisions and information. Porthos and Philippe had returned about the same time from the afternoon hike which always followed the fencing bouts. Athos had briefed the others on the forgotten gap in Philippe's education while Philippe was upstairs, and had made a plea for tact. Porthos had been puzzled at first, seemingly unable to comprehend the gravity of the matter in Philippe's eyes. Then a huge grin broke across his good-natured face. "You mean he needs a roll in the hay? But what's the problem, old friend? Leave it to me, I'll take care of it. It's what I do best."
Aramis, his face a study in chagrin at having failed to think of this himself, had muttered an aside to Porthos which Athos could not quite catch. Before he could ask, he heard Philippe on the stairs. In truth, he hadn't been sure how best to proceed from there, but in the event it had been taken out of his hands. Subtlety was not a word in Porthos' vocabulary, let alone tact. Ignoring Athos' meaningful look, he gave a great whoop of laughter when Philippe walked into the room. When Porthos put his mind to it, his laugh could rattle the cups in the dresser. Since the night Aramis had prevented him from hanging himself, he had recovered all his old joie de vivre, as if the failure of his one great dramatic gesture had decided him to get on with life again. Now he was irrepressible, and Philippe was his target.
"Need a little sword practice, do you, Philippe? Nothing to it, Porthos will see to it. And we'll go tonight, no sense wasting time." One giant hand clapped Philippe on the back. Athos winced. He shot a furious glance at Aramis, who shrugged and looked away. Philippe barely had time to react before Porthos swept him into a bearhug and jigged him the length of the kitchen, nearly careening into the small side table where Aramis' precious papers were laid out and upsetting a small jug of wine which had been perched dangerously near its edge.
Resolving to give Porthos a resounding buffet the next time he got the chance, Athos closed his eyes in despair. Aramis raised his elegant eyebrows. Philippe seemed not to take it amiss, though. The hard part had been getting it out in the open; now he was waiting to see what would happen next, although he looked a little taken aback at the speed with which events were moving. Porthos and his startled partner fetched up hard against the dresser, rattling the plates and sending the kitchen cat shooting for the door with an indignant yowl. Philippe had no time for embarrassment. Athos wondered, not for the first time, if Porthos were at times perhaps not as obtuse as he seemed. At any rate, Philippe's education would be in capable hands. Best not to inquire too closely into the details. He busied himself clattering dishes around on the table, ready for their meal. Porthos released Philippe and, in response to a peremptory jerk of the head from Aramis, disappeared out the door.
Later, Athos reflected that supper had reminded him of the farces he had sometimes seen in Paris theatres. Porthos was full of ponderous innuendoes. "Philippe, more meat? Keep your strength up, you'll need it". He plied him with unwatered wine. Philippe, once he'd recovered from Porthos' initial reception of the news, hadn't seemed to know where to look, glancing sideways at Athos from time to time and refusing to look at Aramis at all. Trust Aramis not to waste any time, Athos thought angrily, and made a mental note to have a word to him about it later.
Despite Porthos' joviality, the conversation at the table had limped along, punctuated with awkward silences from time to time. Athos' best efforts at maintaining an appearance of normality and Aramis' determinedly jocular contributions had fallen somewhat flat. Philippe said little but followed the conversation with his eyes. He had about him, Athos thought a trifle wildly, something of the aura of a sacrificial lamb. But from time to time he smiled with the others at Porthos' lascivious stories, particularly when Porthos roared with laughter at some prurient memory. Athos was encouraged to see the faint beginnings of what looked suspiciously like a sparkle in Philippe's eyes now and then, and a better colour in his face. He seemed to relax a little as the meal wore on, although that might have been just the wine. Definitely stronger, Athos thought, stronger than even a week ago. Fresh air and exercise, good food, even if Philippe couldn't yet eat that much, were making a discernible difference - as were growing trust and hope. But was that enough to sustain tonight's project so soon?
Porthos had returned from his mysterious errand in time for supper. He had refused to disclose any details of what he planned, only laying a finger on the side of his nose when questioned. Then, the important ritual of eating finished, he looked meaningfully at his charge. A healthy dose of laughter and apparently uncritical acceptance of the problem had done a lot to dispel Philippe's nerves by the time the meal ended, Athos thought. Now that the hour was actually at hand, however, he looked far from confident. But the set of his mouth was resolute and he made no demur as Porthos clapped a massive hand on his shoulder and steered him portentously out the door. Aramis had of course not permitted Porthos to take Philippe off the farm for security reasons. Everyone but Philippe, however, knew that the loft above the old stables, some distance from the house, was the scene of a steady stream of assignations with willing servants and girls from the nearby village. Presumably that was their destination now. Athos noted that despite the excitement of this new task, Porthos did not neglect to fasten on his sword before they left the kitchen. It was clear that he remembered there were more kinds of swordplay about than the one he had in mind for Philippe.
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Going down the hill in the moonlight, Philippe had his work cut out keeping up with Porthos' giant strides, despite the training the two had put in around the estate. Porthos had been put in charge of his physical rehabilitation after the first day or so of catastrophic weakness. When Aramis had deposited him half-fainting on the beach after their escape and his cramped legs had refused to support him, it had been Porthos who had scooped him up in his strong arms and carried him, gently for all his size, to the waiting carriage. Since then, Philippe had developed a growing affection for Porthos, who had been assigned the task of taking him out walking almost every day, slow and short at first, gradually increasing both the distance and the time. He had grown used to the barnyard jokes, and to Porthos' uninhibited evaluations of the various physical attributes of the girls they passed on their hikes. Porthos was patient with Philippe's occasional bouts of weakness, with a bluff, hearty forbearance quite different from Athos' perceptive understanding or Aramis' pointedly clinical enquiries. Philippe was grateful for that at times.
The night air was cool after the warmth of the day. The occasional bird muttered a sleepy protest from within the foliage of the big plane trees as they passed. Philippe's trepidation increased the further they got from the house. Part of him wanted to be back in the kitchen with Athos; the other part, the more ambiguous part, was excited, reluctant, scared, a little embarrassed. He knew that he would come to no harm with Porthos; still, he couldn't help feeling somewhat as if he were being marched off to execution. Porthos, though he never stopped talking, gave no hint of his plans. He was immensely proud of his new doublet and was looking forward to showing it off tonight. He had prepared with gusto for the evening's entertainment, combing the luxuriant mustaches which were his pride and joy and fussing about with his hair. Philippe's own hasty preparations had been simple in the extreme: a quick wash and a comb through hair still showing the signs of its years of confinement. He had as yet no clothes worth calling his best.
Porthos, for his part, was hugely amused by the situation but with an innate kindness was doing his best to keep it from Philippe. It made him feel useful, to have his talents recognised in this practical way. Up until now, despite the pleasure of being with his old friends again, he had felt somehow surplus to requirements - a good man to have in a fight, but no fight had so far materialised, to his great disgust and regret. Even the rescue of Philippe from the island prison, which might have been expected to yield some excitement, had been accomplished without incident. From time to time he cast a speculative sideways glance at the young man walking beside him, careful not to be seen doing it. A prince of the house of Bourbon, eh? Twin brother to Louis, that much was certainly clear from looking at him. Porthos had found Aramis' revelations about the circumstances of Philippe's birth hard to comprehend at first, although eventually he had understood. He was still a bit hazy on the actual details of what their plans involved, but trusted Aramis to work it all out. More than anything else he looked forward to the chance to put his fighting skills to good use, though he understood that this would mean their plot had failed and they had been detected. In the absence of actual swordplay, meanwhile, he seized the chance to take charge of training Philippe's other sword, as he put it slyly to himself, with enthusiasm.
For all his apparent slowness of mind, Porthos was no fool when it came to matters of the heart. Or rather, of the body. Not for him the refined pleasures of Aramis or the scruples of Athos. What counted in his eyes was pleasure, pure and simple, vast physical enjoyment of charms freely offered, no holds barred. He had seen the way Philippe's eyes had lingered on Therese as she worked in the fields among the new lambs that day on the bridge. Since then they had encountered her from time to time during the daily walks; once she had stopped to offer Philippe some fruit from the basket on her hip as he passed on his way back to the house. She was, Porthos knew, a no-nonsense, experienced young woman, sister of his own favourite, Estelle. It was to Estelle's house that Porthos' secret errand had taken him before supper, and it was Estelle who waited, with her pert sister, in the old stables which now loomed before them in the moonlight. Therese had listened without comment to his story and then, with a smile, had professed herself willing to meet the good-looking young man she had noticed around the estate. Later, after supper, she had arrived early at the stables to create a nest for herself and Philippe in the straw on the far side of the loft, hidden from where Porthos and Estelle would lie by a mountain of bales of hay.
Porthos indicated to Philippe that they had arrived at their destination. Philippe fought the sudden urge to run which battled with the equally compelling curiosity which invaded him. The door creaked open under the pressure of Porthos' massive hand.
"Porthos, wait." Philippe pulled at Porthos' arm, desperate for enlightenment before they stepped across the threshold. "Who's in there? What are we doing?"
"You'll see. Don't worry, Philippe. She knows your name, that's all she needs to know. "
Taking a deep breath, Philippe followed Porthos inside. Above them, in the loft, a lantern glowed a welcome. Porthos ushered Philippe to the ladder. "Up we go. After you."
Two young women were waiting for them. One rushed to Porthos with a glad cry of welcome and was swept up into his powerful arms without further ado, a resounding kiss planted on her cheek. Philippe recognised her; he had often seen her in the distance around the farm. The other came towards him with a smile. It was the girl who had caught his eye the first day, the day he had sat on the bridge and watched her with the new lambs. The one who had first made him think about what freedom might really mean.
An unexpected shove in the back made him stagger a bit. Porthos was not one to wait on the niceties of introduction. "There's your girl, Philippe. Mine's right here." He proved it with another smacking kiss. "Now off you go, over there. Make the most of it."
The girl laughed and motioned to Philippe to follow her to the other side of a huge pile of bales. "Come on. We know when we're not wanted." She led him to a heaped mound of straw and turned to face him.
Philippe looked at her in some trepidation. She was everything he was not. Her skin, browned by the sun, glowed with health and vitality. Her hair shone. So did her eyes. She moved with an easy grace that reminded him of water flowing across stones in the stream. What did she see when she looked at him, he wondered? A half-starved, thin, pale excuse for a young man with lacklustre hair? Not the sort of person to inspire interest, let alone lust, he was sure. He wondered disconsolately what Porthos had told her, to bring her here. But she was smiling at him in an encouraging sort of way and holding out her hand. He took a deep breath and took it in his own.
"Hello. Your name's Philippe?"
"Y ... yes. Philippe."
"What, you're not sure?" An impish grin.
"No, it is. I mean, yes, I'm sure, I'm Philippe." How suave.
"Well, I'm glad that's settled. I'm Therese. That's my sister over there with your friend." A toss of her head in the direction of the bales. "I've seen you out and about. Are you staying at the chateau?"
"No. Yes." God, what a fool she must think him." Not really. I mean, I'm just ... visiting for a while."
She smiled at his confusion, and took his other hand. The unaccustomed touch sent a jolt through him. "Come on. Let's sit over here." They sat down on the pile of straw, leaning against the bales. Or Therese leaned; Philippe sat bolt upright, hardly daring to breathe, overwhelmed by the surge of unfamiliar sensations aroused by her nearness, not wanting her to see the effect she had on him.
"Relax, Philippe." Again, that smile. "Haven't you ever sat with a girl before?"
Well, actually, no. Try telling her that, though, and watch her disbelief. He wished desperately that he knew what Porthos had told her.
"Is he your uncle, then? The big one?" Another nod in the direction of the bales. "I've seen you out walking together."
"No. He's just a friend. A friend of my family's." The roaring in his ears was beginning to subside a little. Something about her told him instinctively that she meant him no harm. Still, he couldn't tell her the truth about why he was there.
"You're very thin. Have you been sick?"
"Yes." Grasping at straws. Literally. "Yes, I have. For quite a long time, actually. But I'm getting better now."
"Good. But you can't be comfortable, sitting like that." She looked at him more closely. "Why, you're shaking. Here, put your arm around me." She moved closer, fitting herself against his side in such a way that he was forced to put his arm around her or hurt her feelings. He stiffened, then relaxed into the contact, still awkward but no longer quite as nervous. Miserably aware of his own ignorance, though. He wondered what to do next. Was she laughing at him? He didn't think so, though she was still smiling. He liked that smile, he liked her whole face, he liked her. A nascent pride stirred in him. He wanted her to enjoy this encounter too. If only he knew what his next move should be.
He needn't have worried. In a little while, when the effects of the pounding in his blood became too insistent to be ignored any longer, Therese showed him.
Some hours later, prompted by yet another of the intermittent bouts of rustling in the straw beyond the bales, Porthos found himself reluctantly compelled to reassess his newfound lease on life from a comparative perspective. He wasn't bad at all, true. For an old man. A fresh outburst of giggles, hastily muffled, made him shake his head ruefully as he burrowed back down into the straw beside Estelle and slept.
**********************************
Left behind in the chateau, Athos and Aramis regarded each other in silence for a while, feeling suspiciously like wallflowers at a ball. Eventually Aramis settled down at the big table with the new saddlebag of papers which had come in that afternoon from Paris. The servants cleared away the debris of their meal and left for their quarters. Athos busied himself cleaning the swords for a while, but soon put the task aside. He circled the room aimlessly, straightening a book here and a platter there, trying valiantly to keep his mind off what was going on in the stables down the hill, but with little success.
Aramis, irritated by the constant pacing, raised his head and shot him an exasperated glare, to no discernible effect. Finally, he snapped. "For God's sake, man, that's the third time you've shifted that blasted bottle. Can't you see I'm trying to work? I don't know how I'm supposed to concentrate with you banging about like that."
"Sorry." An apologetic smile. "I'm so used to working with Philippe in the evenings I don't know what to do with myself without him here."
"Go and play your violin, then. Even that caterwauling would have to be better than your fidgets."
A scowl. "Thanks. D'Artagnan ..." He paused, shaken by the memory of their last encounter. "D'Artagnan thinks I've improved."
"Pshaw! What would he know? He's never had to listen to you practising. What's the matter with you, anyway? Philippe's young, he's getting stronger by the day, and if the way he was looking at that girl with the lamb the other day is anything to go by his heart's in the right place. And Porthos is with him. What could go wrong?"
"I know. I know. But Philippe is ... he's not an ordinary boy. He's been in prison a long time. What if ..."
Aramis exploded. "What if, what if! There won't be any 'what if'. There's only a finite number of things that can happen, and they tend to come naturally, remember? You should have gone along to hold his hand if you're so worried. But he doesn't need a wet nurse, trust me."
Athos smiled ruefully and nodded. " I know. Anyway, I'm too old and it's been too long. Porthos will take care of things." He settled down to clean the swords again, properly this time, for the next day's fencing. The minutes ticked away, the silence in the room broken only by the rustling of paper and the clink of steel on steel. It didn't last. Soon he was on his feet again, pacing up and down the kitchen. Aramis snarled at him as he passed behind him for the fifth time in as many minutes.
This time Athos paused long enough to deliver Aramis a hefty clout on the shoulder. His voice was rough. "It doesn't bother you at all, does it. Just as long as you get what you want. You don't care if it goes well for Philippe tonight or not, just so long as he can rut like Louis in some bedroom and not be found out."
Aramis rubbed his shoulder. He glared at Athos. "Oh, plague take it! It's just a woman he's with, you know, not some two-headed monster. Though come to think of it, with Porthos one never knows ... So long as he learns the basics, Athos, just the basics. Kings don't have to worry about technique, they always think the earth moves just because they're kings. He'll be fine." Athos snorted and moved across to the sideboard. Irritably, he poured them each a glass of wine and sat back down to the swords.
Aramis found himself unable to concentrate on what he was doing. Even ostensibly working quietly, Athos generated a subdued hum of tension in the room. He said nothing more, but his agitation was evident. Eventually Aramis gave up and pushed the papers irritably to one side. "Athos." His tone was carefully neutral. "Philippe's right. This is important. He does need to act like Louis. And he'll have to marry, if we succeed, as Louis would have. You know that as well as I do. So he did the right thing to tell us. What he's doing is important for the future."
The swords clattered to the floor. "I know that! I'm not a fool. I just hadn't got around to thinking that far ahead yet." Exasperation made him harsh. "For God's sake, Aramis, he's only just out of prison, out of that obscenity of a mask. You made sure Porthos took him off tonight, didn't you, just as soon as you found out. It wouldn't have hurt to wait a while. Why can't he be left alone for a bit? Have some time to find out about himself? Why does everything always have to have a point with you?"
Aramis closed his eyes and heaved an ostentatious sigh. "Athos, old friend, I understand your concern. But we don't have time." His fist slammed into the table. Suddenly he was on his feet, tension boiling up into rage. "Can't you understand that, man? We don't have time! The people are ready to erupt, the Fronde is restless, and still Louis pays no heed. Any day now it could be too late. Why can't you see that? My way is the best way, you know it is, no revolution, no blood in the streets. But we have to move fast." He stopped, glaring at Athos.
Athos' voice was bitter. "You're right. Of course. As usual. Nobody else is as smart as you, you told me that yourself." His tone took on a hard edge. "But tell me something, Aramis. Just once, just between the two of us. Don't you ever, ever get sick of playing God?"
Aramis snatched up the nearest thing to hand, the small earthenware goblet which held the remains of his wine, and threw it as hard as he could. It missed Athos, glancing off the mantelpiece behind him to shatter on the stone floor. A stream of wine began to trace an uneven path across the flags. Nerves stretched to breaking point, Aramis was around the table in a flash, intent on mayhem. Athos was ready for him. He pulled him up short with a box to the side of the head that made Aramis stagger back against the table. Unfazed, the priest lashed out with a kick that, had it connected properly, would have put an end to Athos' fencing practice for a day or two. As it was, it made him gasp aloud. They closed on each other and grappled wordlessly, veins standing out on each forehead, each striving to upset the other's footing.
As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. They broke apart and stood panting, staring at each other. "Look at us, for God's sake! Scrapping like a couple of dogs over a bone. What price your genius now, M L'Abbe?"
Aramis straightened his disordered clothing. "I could have taken you. I just don't like to hurt old men."
Athos snorted, not deigning to reply. They sat down at the table, harmony restored, and poured some more of the wine. At this rate the supply wouldn't last more than a day or so more. The silence lengthened. In the grate, the fire lit against the chill of the early spring evening crackled and snapped.
"Athos." Aramis spoke carefully. "Is this about Raoul?"
Athos stiffened. He glared anew at Aramis. "Is that what you think? Raoul didn't get his chance at happiness so I'm determined to make sure Philippe does? You'll have to do better than that, counselor. And I've told you before - you aren't my confessor."
"Pshaw!" The sound was explosive, but lacked conviction. When Aramis spoke again, his voice was reflective. "Well, why don't you tell me what it is about?"
Athos was not one to unburden himself, Aramis knew, had known through all the long years of their friendship. He had little expectation now that any answer would be forthcoming. Nor was he sure that he wanted one. There was too much was at stake to let personal issues get in the way. But yet - the sight of his old friend's face as he fell once more into the brooding silence that had been his constant state since the loss of his son prompted him, against his better judgment, to try to get Athos to open up, to let some of the festering bitterness out. He remembered the pride and love so evident in Athos' dealings with Raoul. And he saw again in his mind's eye Athos slowly lifting the newly- opened mask off Philippe's face, gently supporting his head, meeting his unmasked eyes for the first time with a reassuring glance, caring for him afterwards. Paternal compassion was an emotion completely unknown to Aramis, the shepherd of men, but Athos possessed it in abundance. Once it had been D'Artagnan who had benefited from it. Then, always, Raoul. Now it was Philippe's turn. Not for the first time, Aramis half wondered if he himself lacked some essential element of humanity.
He shook his head, dismissing the moment of weakness. Enough to think about, for God's sake, without allowing himself to be sidetracked into sentiment. One of them had to stay focused. Porthos was - well, Porthos, a good man in a tight corner but not the world's greatest strategist. Not in fact known for his grasp of anything but women, food and wine. Athos was consumed with the loss of Raoul and with concern for Philippe; and Philippe himself was ... Philippe was ... Aramis faltered, thinking of Philippe. Philippe had potential, there was no doubting that, but the years in prison - in the mask, he forced himself to add, not shirking the unpalatable responsibility - had robbed him of more than just time. His vulnerability and lack of confidence were a two-edged sword - they made him malleable, but they also made him an unknown quantity, unreliable. Aramis was counting on Athos to build some sort of trust and rapport with Philippe.
He looked back at Athos across the table. Athos remained stubbornly silent, and Aramis knew he would hear no more tonight. A pity I'm not D'Artagnan, he thought a trifle sourly. Still, at least he'd tried. Abandoning the effort, he shrugged. "Well ... As long as you know what you're doing." He turned back to his papers. "Now drink your wine and go to bed, you dreary bore, and for God's sake let me get on with my work or all of this will be for nothing."
"All right. But Aramis ...?"
"Mmmm?" Abstracted, head in his papers, already in spirit somewhere else.
"I won't let him go back, you know. Philippe. If things go wrong, if we miscarry ... I won't let them take him back to a cell, or the mask."
"And how do you propose to stop them? Take out an army single-handed? If things go wrong - and they probably will - he won't get the chance to go back. None of us will. Louis will never let any of us live, knowing we know about Philippe."
"Then that's the way it will be. But I won't let him die alone. Just so you know." Athos picked up a candle and left the room. Aramis stared after him for a minute. Then, shaking his head, he turned back to the table.
***************************************
Athos sat by the fire in his room, staring abstractedly into the flames. He heard Aramis climb the stairs and go into his room. Silence fell. Praying again, no doubt. He smiled as he thought of their earlier set-to in the kitchen.
Aramis was right, he did worry unduly about Philippe. Less than two weeks ago Philippe had still been immured in that filthy prison, without hope, without identity, without a life. Was tonight's little exercise too much too soon? What should have been a defining experience for him - had it been pushed on him too quickly in the name of expediency? His thoughts turned unbidden, as they so often did, to his son. Raoul had not been inexperienced - there had been plenty of opportunity, growing up in the country, to see to that - but neither had he been promiscuous. Since his first meeting with the young Christine, several years ago, he had seemed to fix upon her as upon a lodestar, as she upon him, and had ceased his infrequent visits to the village, preferring instead to spend the time in her company. Their shy but enduring attachment, deepening over the years into a steady flame of love, had bemused Athos as much as it had charmed him. His own early experiences, before he had met Raoul's mother, had been very different; his face darkened at the memory of Milady. He envied Raoul at the same time as he rejoiced for him. With Christine, Raoul would have enjoyed a lifetime of love and contentment.
Would have - but there had been no lifetime. Deliberately he pushed the thought of Raoul away as the familiar murderous rage rose within him. Enough that Raoul was gone; he would not besmirch his memory with the black fury which always these days accompanied it. Time enough for memory once the stain was erased. Louis now had Christine ensconced in the palace, favoured above all others as the mistress of the moment. From what Athos had heard, her beauty shone more brightly than ever, enhanced by the jewels and the rich dress of the court; but there was about her a sadness, an aura of loss which splendour could not dispel. Athos narrowed his eyes against the flames. One day soon, Louis would pay for what he'd done, would pay every day for the rest of his miserable life if their plan succeeded. Aramis was adamant that no blood would be shed, not even Louis'. Athos had other plans, which he kept to himself. Meanwhile, he told himself sternly, if Philippe's outing tonight could hasten that day of reckoning, so much the better. Who was he to worry about it when Philippe himself had recognised the need? Had done more than recognise it, had acted on it, despite his lack of confidence. Athos respected that. Philippe had summoned up the courage to confront his nerves from God knew what inner reserve. The least Athos could do was let him get on with it and not fuss about like a broody hen.
He grimaced: as if he could stop himself. But he determined to try. Just the same, he would have a quiet word to Porthos tomorrow, see if he could find out how things had gone. Carrying a candle to the bedside table, he prepared himself for bed, book ready against the sleep he knew would not come.
Later, much later, as his second candle neared its end, he heard the sounds below of their return. Hastily he blew out the candle, unwilling that Philippe should think he'd been waiting up for him. Porthos' boots clattered up the stairs; Philippe's footsteps were lighter, softer. Judging from the slur in Porthos' voice, a fair amount of their store of wine had found its way to his hideout. Philippe's voice was hushed, indistinct. From the sound of things, he was supporting Porthos up to bed, trying not to wake the household in the process. Not with any great degree of success: the big man cursed as he cannoned into the stand in the hall, knocking the unlit candles there flying.
Athos heard a door along the hall close with a bang. Porthos' bed creaked loudly as the dead weight descended on it in a rush. There came the sound of boots hitting the floor; Philippe, presumably, tugging them off for him. A few minutes later the gleam of a candle briefly illuminated the strip under Athos' door and the door of the room next to his, Philippe's room, closed softly. Despite his resolve, his ears strained for sound, anything that might give him some clue as to Philippe's mood. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the faint sounds of someone moving around preparing for bed. He heard the chink of china on china, then the slight creak as Philippe got into bed. That was it, then. He sighed, and his book slid off the bed on to the floor with a thud.
Another creak. A few seconds later, there was a gentle knock at his door, so light he almost missed it. The door opened quietly and Philippe's face peered round it, just visible in the light from the dying embers of the fire. "Athos? Are you awake?" he whispered. Athos grunted and sat up, feigning a yawn. "I'm sorry if I woke you. Only - I thought I saw a light in your window as we came up the hill." Pointless to deny it. The smell of the just-extinguished candle still hung in the air.
"You didn't wake me. I was reading. Didn't realise how late it was till I heard you come in." He made his voice business-like. "Come in. Are you hungry?" It didn't come out quite as casually as he would have wished. Silly thing to ask, really.
Philippe smiled faintly. "No. Are you?" He couldn't quite keep the yawn from overtaking the question. He came into the room and sat down on the window seat, doing up the ties on his nightshirt. Something about him seemed a little different, a little less shy, Athos thought, and wondered if it was his imagination. No. There was definitely something.
"No. Just a thought. How ..." No. "You'd best get some sleep then. It's late and there's a lot to do tomorrow." Deliberately offhand, disguising the desperate curiosity.
Philippe was not fooled. He shot a questioning glance at Athos but said nothing more before he got up and went out, closing the door behind him. Almost immediately it opened again and his face reappeared round it. "And Athos?" A sudden grin, as unexpected as it was welcome, illuminated his face. "Don't worry. Porthos was right, it was easy." Then, with an unexpected flash of unwonted mischief, "He says a sword is only good as long as it's kept sharp, though."
"Why, you ...!" The door closed with a bang as a laughing Philippe ducked in mock alarm out of the path of the pillow hurled his way. This time it stayed shut. Athos stared at it, half amused, half exasperated. Porthos says, Porthos says. He couldn't suppress a twinge of what felt suspiciously like jealousy at Philippe's new-found veneration of his old friend. But the boy was clearly happy with the night's events, giddy with new-found confidence, and that in the end was all that mattered. He settled slowly back down into what remained of his pillows, smiling, an inexplicable warmth at his heart.
Night settled more deeply over the chateau. Porthos' snores rattled the window frames of his room. In the yard below, a dog stirred softly, its chain clinking as it settled more comfortably to sleep. Philippe blew out his candle and lay on his back, hands laced behind his head, staring into the darkness, warmed by the memory of Therese. At length he took a deep breath and smiled. Then he turned on his side and slept.