Disclaimer:
Recognizable characters you find here-in I do not seek to claim.
I write for enjoyment alone and no form of monetary gain.
Much actual history you may find reflected in this prose.
Though I have altered situations and timeline as the need arose.
Reconcile: Part II
Prologue: Battle Array
Never had there been such an historic meeting; the free blade-bound were assembled and Siroc could not have absented himself had he wanted to. The King's call was compelling but not in the same fashion that his former master had used to summon him to report. The blond inventor felt invigorated—eager, confidant, alive…almost frisky—like a stallion trying to catch the wind. The master's call had been humiliating and painful, but this one was full of promise as if the pounding of his heart urged him onward to find the true home and family he had yearned for but never known.
The blond musketeer surveyed the open field where guards from across the kingdom had assembled in accord with the royal command to pledge their loyalty and fight in defense of the crown. Pennants flapped in the fitful breeze, delineating the battle array into its component parts: yellow, brown, crimson, purple, orange and green. Years ago Cavalier Rocheford, who had been Richelieu's Chosen, had helped Siroc win freedom from his master's power. Cavalier told the young musketeer of others like himself—his cousins. Each one had been called into being as a living weapon or shaped by other specifications of the Master of the Dark Tabernacle. Siroc himself had been a product of those same unnatural forces. Though in his case, Mazarin, rather than Richelieu, had been the one to wield them.
The dark cavalier had failed to mention that the cousins—Amber, Tan, Red, Violet, Rust and Jade—each captained a substantial force of blade-bound warriors. These armies remained hidden when their creator met his end. Many had taken refuge within other branches of service rather than suicide as their master had intended. Blade-bound were made to serve, but Chosen had said they made what lives they could for themselves till the time had come for them to do what they had been designed for. Even so, he had neglected to say exactly what that entailed. Siroc could not help but be impressed by scope of it all. Prince le Condé and his Bourbon troops could not hope stand against warriors such as these.
"Siroc!" Emris de Ruse called and motioned for the young musketeer to join him on the rise where the 'king' had addressed the troops the night before. The blond went straight away to meet with the legendary ex-musketeer who had been called Aramis. "Let me introduce you to Elisa Rivére and the twins, Shoal and Torrent."
Siroc had seen enough of the salute of the blade-bound made to mimic the sign; he bowed his head, and his arms crossed at the wrist, fists clenched, lying on his breast. The three-some in grey smiled and returned the gesture. Siroc, like the rest of his blade-bound kin, had difficulty forgetting things unless he was told to do so by one in authority over him. His near genius intellect had been trained to recall minute details with speed and precision. And so it was that although he had never met the three, their names had meaning for him.
"Rivéré…Twins…you three were among Chosen's Black guard till you were assigned to his chief rival, yes?"
"Indeed Cousin, the Chancellor is my husband and my brother's command his White Guard." The statuesque woman motioned to a white pennant nearby and a contingent of near seventy guardsmen assembled nearby.
Siroc could not help but smile to himself…for all his faults, Richelieu must have been fond of irony. The Chosen and the Chancellor had been created as equals and rivals. Their respective guards wore doublets of Black and White. But these three, transferred from one unit to the other, had not lost their identity and had chosen to wear grey. This had been the necessary impetus for the two high-commanders of the blade-bound to settle their differences and make peace. If only they could somehow convince the legends, d'Artagnan Senior and Aramis to do likewise. Siroc cast a side-long glance at the ex-musketeer and extended his hand to the cousins in greeting. "Well met," he said.
Lady Elisa grasped the young musketeer's hand firmly. The muscles of her forearm bulged slightly, betraying her intimate familiarity with a rapier. Though dressed in a dove grey sideless surcoate over a darker grey cotehardie, there was no denying she was as much a warrior as her brothers were. Siroc could not help wonder what Jacqueline would think to know she was only one of several blade-women in this notable assemblage. Just then two small boys in matching grey doublets broke from the ranks of white guard and bolted over to the group. Like mirror images the twins bent to catch hold of an equally identical youngster, "Our little twins—" Shoal explained, balancing his boy in his right shoulder.
"—Spring and Colt" Torrent introduced, having swept the other boy on to his left shoulder.
"Nice to meet you," Siroc told the sturdy four-year-olds who, regardless of their precarious perch, crossed their arms and nodded in salute as solemnly as the other blade-bound did. Siroc had heard about these little ones as well—the children of two blade-bound parents, touched by virtue of birth with some of the same characteristics that made blade-bound unique from other men. But unlike the rest, they had been born of woman and nurtured in an environment of love, raised by the twins, free from control of the dark order. Spring and Colt were the embodiment of the hope that each member of this assembly shared. In the wake of Richileu's demise, they had been born free, and that freedom was what the blade-bound had come to value more than life itself.
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Not far away another set of twins, namely Louis and Philippe, lounged about on cushions in the royal pavilion. Cavalier Ford de la Roche, 'Rocheford the Masters Chosen'; Chancellor Michael Pace, 'Pike, The Master's Gift' and Lady Elizabeth Chet, 'The Protector Richelieu's Rightful Heir,' sat with their heads together in conference with the two young royals.
"So, now that we have called you up, what are we to do next?" Louis asked, toying with the golden curls of his wig. An uninitiated person would have suspected the young king of employing i 'the royal we,' /i but these were among the select few who knew the twins ruled jointly, switching places when situation dictated. So far the deception had been an amazing success. The soldiers were awed at the young king's fortitude, riding among the troops, conferring with the captains, making a thorough accounting of weapons equipment and supplies, and ensuring that each soldier was fully equipped for the coming conflict with his cousins, the rebellious Bourbon princes. One would suspect it was too much for a grown man, let alone a half-grown boy, king or no. But two identical kings were more than adequate to maintain morale in a company such as this. And being young, they were not above requesting advice from those more experienced then themselves.
"We move first to secure the capital. Captain Duval has volunteered to lead a combined force composed of half your musketeers and half of Queen's Swiss Guard. They already accompany the queen to Saint Germaine. Once there they will assemble the court and will hold the capital when we have dealt with the opposition and are ready to pursue Condé's forces to Anjou. De Batz d'Artagnan will be in charge of the remainder of the regular forces who have agreed to take to the field alongside the blade-bound," the bronze-haired lady, Protector, explained. She had served among the musketeers in her youth and was familiar with both captains so it had not been difficult to work out the details between them.
"Lepont, la Cruz, young d'Artagnan, and Siroc are among those who stay with us, are they not?" Prince Philippe asked. Incase any should overhear, he was careful to modulate his voice so that it seemed softer and more breathy that his 'esteemed elder brother.' To the casual observer the dower prince seemed both younger and frailer than his dazzling sibling. It was a façade of course, made all the more believable through the use of a dark wig, less make up and a more subdued wardrobe. Philippe was new to court and none of the courtiers had thought any-thing out of the ordinary when they were told he was a year younger than the king.
Protector nodded. "Yes Monsieur, the Medic had cleared Ramón to accompany us and Cavalier and I have both promised Duval we would keep an eye on them."
"Not Captain De Batz?" the king inquired quizzically. He had been sure the legendary d'Artagnan would be the one who would be keen to see how well his son and the other young cadets acquitted themselves in battle.
"D'Artagnan senior and his men have requested the privilege of guarding your person, your majesty, rather than participating in the actual battle," Chosen pointed out. The dark-eyed man was reluctant to meet the gaze of the young king and distractedly smoothed the wrinkles in his ebony doublet as he spoke.
"But we want to fight…I am a very good shot." Louis almost whined petulantly, despairing at the thought of being made to simply watch the fighting from a nearby hillside. He wanted to ride into battle along side his men. It was only fair he'd be subject to the same risks as they. He should have realized that in modern 16th century warfare, kings no longer did that sort of thing. Dressed as Philippe he might lead armies one day, as Henry III did, but in his own persona that wasn't very likely.
Protector placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Your bravery is not in question Louis. You were not bred for war as we were," she told him gently. "De Batz wants to see you safe; he promised your mother you were not to be placed in any imminent danger. Don't make a liar of him."
"Then what am I here for?!" Louis demanded, crossing his arms in frustration.
The Chancellor ran his fingers through his sandy hair. "Your presence gives us heart, majesty. The fact that you value our lives is more than many of the blade-bound have dared dream. We will spend our lives dearly, fulfilling the destiny carved for us long ago. But if you are taken…All is lost."
"Remember, Louis," Protector told the boy carefully, "the king embodies the hopes of his people. You are the greatest national treasure. We are fighting because your cousins make war, not against you, but against all of France. A king must do what is necessary to protect his people. And it is our fate to protect you."
Louis sighed. And in the same breath, so did Philippe. Both boys knew it was useless to argue. The bronze-haired Athena did not often come to the capital, but when she did, even mother showed deference to Protector. Louis thought it odd enough to have asked Captain de Batz why everyone, himself included deferred to the woman who had no official rank or standing. The legend had said, "Protector is as close to a force of nature as you are likely to meet. It is good to be mindful of her." Philippe asked the queen herself the same question. She replied, "These are not things to be spoken of, dear one, but we owe her our lives…and more. Let it be." And he had. But such cryptic statements did not keep either brother from wondering about the mysterious female commander of the blade-bound.
Philippe could not help but ask. "Is de Batz protecting us from the rebellious nobles, their hired soldiers…or from Emris…and the rest of you?"
The black clad Cavalier laughed outright. "Probably all of the above lad. And I don't particularly blame the man. But you have nothing to fear from us."
The chancellor was not acquainted with Emris or the legendary d'Artagnan, while Chosen had served as a spy among the musketeer during those days. During the same period, Gift had been closeted away managing Richelieu's country villa and a contingent of blade-bound, held in reserve till his master should need him. Though the chancellor had more authority, he had also had considerably less freedom. And as a result, he was less acquainted with the outside world. What the Cavalier implied almost seemed sacrilegious to him. "We are yours to command!" he told the young king ardently.
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