No copyright infringement intended this work is simply done out earnest respect for those who have gone before. I sit perched on the back of giants and together we gaze at the stars…

Special thanks go out to Jean-Tre for all her hard work beta.

I appreciate all you have done to improve this work and deepen my understanding of the craft of writing. -Viviat-

I hope you all enjoy what I have wrought; reviews are, as ever appreciated.
--Vigilanti (SEP:07)

Reconcile Part One: The Conspiracy

-Prologue-

Pale golden light crept tentatively between the thick curtains enveloping the royal bed. The young king drew the sheets about his slim shoulders. Louis could not hazard to guess how many times he gazed longingly at his reflection in the mirror and longed for a friend, an equal with whom to share all things. Destiny had seen fit to grant his request. The young king found it hard to suppress his grin, now he would never be alone again… he had a twin.

Louis had eagerly entreated his mother to allow Philippe to share his royal apartments. They had always seemed too big, not to mention lonely, to house one small boy. Now, bedtime was accompanied by good-natured wrestling matches, tug-of-war and conversation long into the night. The arrangement had some small drawbacks, of course. Louis never imagined his new-found twin would prove such a restless bedfellow. Even the smallest noise of servants bustling about in the chamber beyond the curtains of the bed disturbed Philippe to no end. As a result, both boys often met the waiting breakfast tray with sleepy-eyed reluctance.

Not today though. Louis lay still, watching his brother sleep; the quilt of feather down coiled about Philippe's lithe form lay bunched up between his legs. Sweat matted his hair and bedclothes. For-all-the-world it appeared the youth had exhausted himself wrestling one of the great serpents of legend. Louis could easily imagine that in true fairytale form Philippe vanquished the nightmare beast just as dawn was approaching, permitting the haunted prince to finally find peace. Louis could not begrudge his twin of course; their uncanny connection gave him a window of clarity into the terrors which plagued his brother's dreams.

The same hand of fate that destined Louis for the crown plunged his brother into deepest obscurity; a prisoner condemned by virtue of birth. Richelieu, and perhaps even Louis XIII, believed the very knowledge of his existence threatened the security of the crown. Luckily, brother Lew did not see his twin in quite the same light as his royal predecessor had. Louis demanded his brother Philippe be recognized as royal prince, newly styled, duc d Anjou. But titles meant little to the boy raised in solitude beneath a mask of leather and steel. Philippe had been subjected to neglect, deprivation and worse abuse. His nightmares attested to the fact of it all. If only the haunted prince could find peace in waking that he could not find in sleep. Louis bit his lip and sighed.

Even that slight sound caused Philippe to stir, "Morning already?" he asked, stretching cat-like. Louis nodded wordlessly and reached through the thick bed curtains to procure the silver breakfast tray. Philippe took a croissant from the tray and politely asked, "So who is king today?"

"You are, brother dear." Louis smiled back. He took a muffin for himself and settled back against the pillows.

"Unwanted company" (1)

Philippe sat in the window seat of the drawing room basking in the sunlight that shone through the glazing. Lost in thought, he absently coiled a strand of golden hair around his finger. It was so pleasant to doze in the warm rays. He closed his eyes and rested the leather-bound volume of Le Chanson de Roland on his chest, crossing his arms over it. The book was out of place when he wore the crown in his brother's stead. The real king NEVER read for pleasure (never read much at all really). But the book was a gift from Emris de Ruse—once, the musketeer Aramis—and Philippe sorely missed the elder gentleman who had been his last guardian. The palace was nice, of course, but it would be so much nicer if Emris were here. Sadly, that wasn't about to happen and the reason was Charles deBatz Castlemore d'Artagnan. Philippe sighed. It was sad that the two who had been legendary companions couldn't even stand to be in the same room with one another. He couldn't help but wonderer what caused such a monumental falling out…

"Majesty," a quiet voice hissed close by his ear, startling the kingly prince out of his reverie.

Philippe bit back a curse…Louis II de Bourbon, had been in the military since his teens and knew entirely too much about stealth. The man prided himself on looking every inch a soldier. Philippe thought the young general's high protruding nose and deeply set eyes made him look more like a hungry bird of prey, and that made Philippe feel a bit like a mouse caught in his piercing gaze. "So what does my Chief of the House require?" Philippe asked, masking his surprise from the proud 28-year-old kneeling at his elbow.

The general smiled coldly. "Only a moment of your time, cousin." It was no secret that Louis, the king, was quite taken with 'The Great Condé.' He was a magnificent general, it was true… largely responsible for the victories at Rocrio, Lenze, and a dozen other actions, not to mention ending the recent uprising in the capital. Politically, too, this was a man to be reckoned with. His father, Henry II of Bourbon, had died in the chaos of battle just prior to the Fronde. Much to the queen-mother's chagrin, the young general had been elevated from duc d'Enghien to Prince de Condé, giving him controlling influence of Berry, Burgundy, Lorraine, as well as several less important territories. The man's air of gallantry and notable success in love and war made him a hero of many in the court. Philippe was not one of them. To his eyes, the man in question presumed too much on the royal favor.

Such things did not impress Philippe. The captive prince had learned to rely heavily on his instincts during his years in captivity, and they practically screamed that this man was a threat. He carefully slipped off the windowsill and stood—a pretext to put distance between himself and the young general.

La Condé rose to his feet (without being given leave to do so) and sauntered uncomfortably close to the young royal once more. General la Condé sneered down at him. His raptor-like smile held no warmth.

Philippe felt the urge to shout, 'Don't touch me!' and shove the general away. But he bit his tongue, knowing such behavior would hardly be appropriate for the king he pretended to be. Still, Philippe wished he were taller and more physically imposing. But being half-grown, he had to make do with what God and nature had given the royal pair. He folded his arms and inclined his head in a 'lofty fashion.' "Your men are well provisioned, I trust?" he asked casually.

"My men are adequately provisioned, great king, though I would like having them housed somewhat closer to the palace…in the musketeer's barracks perhaps?" The general's steely gaze was relentless and made a supposed request seem more like an order.

Philippe bristled again and cleared his throat. "I fear we can not accommodate you," he explained, carefully mimicking his brother's tone of 'regal regret,' but paced the room to mask his agitation. "The blockade and riots associated with your enthusiastic police action left many of my people wounded and hungry with no place to turn for aid. Captain Duval and his men are distributing supplies to the peasants and have offered one wing of the garrison to act as a hospital. I suspect your men would not relish sharing space with peasants. Regardless, the garrison simply can not accommodate any more 'guests,'" Philippe forced himself to look sympathetic to the general's request, but stories of women and children cut down in the street did not sit well with the sheltered prince.

The Great Condé' raised an eyebrow… he must have sensed 'the king' was not fully accepting of the collateral damage his decisiveness entailed. "Enthusiastic action, cousin?" the general echoed. His tone implied, 'I saved your kingdom…you owe ME your crown.'

Philippe blanched at the man's audacity toward one he took to be 'his king.' Unfortunately, if Louis were in his place this day, Philippe knew his royal brother would turn a blind eye to the veiled threat. Philippe decided to change tactics and use one of the most valuable tools in Louis's personal arsenal—flattery. He laced his fingers together and graced the man with a winning smile. "Well, what are you known for if not your eagerness for battle, your quick decision in action, and the stern will with which you send your men to battle? Mother has said as much…many times in fact," the young royal gushed, striving for the same balance of pride and hero-worship his brother held for the man. Still, the words made his gut twist within him.

"Yes… indeed." Condé laughed and preened. "Surely, you should have been at Rocroi in '43. I set two lines of infantry in the center to keep the Spanish busy. The important players were my squadrons of cavalry on each wing and a thin line of artillery at the front." The general gestured expansively describing the battle with his hands. "We routed the Spanish cavalry opposite us and then encircled the entire Spanish rear, almost 3000 professional infantry, stuck in my trap. Old General de Melo and his dogs hadn't a chance. We mowed them down with artillery fire. It was Glorious!"

The king would have been mesmerized by the account. Philippe was glad the man had finally taken a step or two away from him. He tried to be as intent as his royal twin, but having studied the regimental records, Philippe thought only of the bloodshed. The records described the general as "dying with impatience" to fight, The young duke led his army so close to the Spanish troops that it was impossible to avoid a battle. It was amazing how easily Condé glossed over the fact that two-thirds of the French infantry had fallen that day. Except for the greater caution of Marshal Turenne, the victory would have been lost. De Condé's horsemen were as noted for heavy-handed dominion over the people they were charged to protect as they were for their ruthlessness in battle. Friend and foe alike named them "Pillagers."

"It must have been horrible for you in Catalogne;the conditions your finesoldiers were subjected to in the lowlands…abominable." Philippe managed to sound genuinely regretful, despite the fact that he believed this had likely been the best place for Condé's Army. Out on the borders, they were an admirable asset. But he did not wish to trust these men further with the citizens of Paris.

There was no end to the man's ambition. The general intimated that his friends and 'hangers on' should be offered positions in government, based on his recommendation alone, regardless of their personal quality or skill. And the queen was often hard-pressed to evade his requests. There was no telling what else man saw as his due.

"Oh, my men made themselves at home in the temple of Santa Maria de Gardeny," Prince de Condé sneered, recalling that looting the holy refuge had been quite rewarding. "There was nary a complaint!" It seemed the general was unwilling to admit, even to himself, that he had taken so much of the spoils for himself that his men had been on the verge of open revolt before he was finally forced to raise the siege of Lleida.

"A temple… What a wonderful idea!" In the secret places of his mind Philip was appalled that French forces had been responsible for desecrating a holy place, but the inspiration sparking his eyes was genuine enough. Philippe pressed his palm over his heart and did his best to look disarming. "That solves your little problem quite easily. The Cardinal's Guard has ample space. Your men should find accommodations with them more than adequate. I am sure Mazarin would not mind. Hospitality is one of the cardinal virtues, isn't it?" Philippe grinned; his nose crinkled the same way as his brother's did when he felt he was being particularly witty.

Silently, Philippe thanked Emris for teaching him the difference between irony and true humor. What Louis did when he wore the crown was not for him to judge… but today Philippe was king and His Musketeers would not have Condé's men in close quarters, vying for supremacy. The Cardinal's men, however, were another matter altogether. A little extra chaos would only improve matters. Like wild dogs after a bone, they deserved one another.

The look of surprise and chagrin on the general's face was mildly gratifying. It appeared that, despite his inflated sense of self importance, the general knew better than to argue with a royal declaration. Still, Philippe did not wish to provoke the powerful man further and thought it best to cut this unwanted interview short. "I'm sure you can arrange a meeting with the captain this afternoon. And speaking of which, I believe I have an important appointment to keep as well, if you'll excuse me." Philippe nodded to the general, grabbed his book from the window seat and hastily took his leave.