Man in the Iron Mask, Gen Fic 10: Legacy

by Amadeus1

While Philippe's guardians are away from Paris dealing with the illness of his deposed brother, the young king faces an unexpected threat.

Legacy

by Amadeus

r_amadeus@hotmail.com

With a crash and rattle of thunder, the black clouds opened at last. On the palace lawns below, the gaily-dressed crowds shrieked and ran for cover, clutching their finery about them. Despite the fast-approaching storm, none had wanted to make the first move toward shelter while the king remained outside. Now, decorum forgotten, they fled in disarray. The garden party was over.

A group of musicians clutched vainly after sheets of music whirled away by the wind's grasping fingers until finally they too snatched up their instruments and ran. All around, brightly-colored pennants, so recently snapping proudly in the rising wind, hung suddenly sodden. The trees tossed their almost bare branches as torrential rain kicked up splashes in the pools around the fountains.

The king and his companions scattered too. Agitated chamberlains urged them in the direction of the distant colonnades. As the others rushed toward the buildings, the king and one other separated from the group and sprinted for a gazebo on a nearby knoll. The chamberlains bit their lips in ill-concealed vexation and made dutifully to follow. Then, at a sign from the king, they spun round with relief and fled in their turn.

Philippe and Athos splashed through the puddles and pulled up short inside the gazebo. Philippe's hair hung in rat tails around his shoulders. He reached out a dripping hand to remove a leaf from Athos' hair as Athos hugged his saturated garments more tightly round him against the gusting wind. Philippe turned and surveyed the ruins of the garden party with a rueful laugh.

This had been his first public engagement as king. To ease the first tense weeks of his reign, Aramis had spread it about that the king had embarked on a religious retreat, atoning for the deaths of Christine and D'Artagnan; he would avoid all but the most urgent of talks with his councilors. Today marked the end of that period of seclusion. Philippe had invited a wide cross section of Parisians, among them officers recently returned from the war with the Dutch, to the grounds of the palace for an afternoon's entertainment. In three days' time he would host a reception for all foreign ambassadors in the city.

Philippe was riding high on a tide of relief and elation. He'd been apprehensive about this first foray out under the scrutiny of the court, though he'd hidden it as best he could. The afternoon had gone better than he'd hoped. Armed with advice from his mother and with Athos constantly nearby, he'd sailed through the formalities with aplomb. Even the storm hadn't dampened his spirits, though it had done nothing for his appearance.

"I wish the others could have seen this," he chuckled, watching a lady of generous charms just barely saved by her escort from falling flat on her face. The two skidded back and forth in the mud before regaining their balance, sickly smiles pasted on their faces as they passed hurriedly before the royal gaze. "Porthos would have laughed himself silly."

"His Majesty finds it amusing?" Athos grinned. Then he sobered. "They've got their hands full, no doubt." Aramis, Porthos and André had taken Louis, dangerously ill, from the prison to be cared for in Porthos' forest lodge by the Jesuit monks Jean and Gerard. It was by no means certain that Louis would survive. Athos, Philippe knew, didn't care if he did or not. Sooner or later, he was sure, Louis would try to escape. He'd stayed at the palace at Philippe's request, but the furrows on his brow had deepened with each passing day.

A bedraggled Musketeer approached at a run in the rain. Storm or not, the king's security could not be compromised. At Philippe's signal, the man veered off to the shelter of a nearby grove, huddling miserably out of earshot under the dripping branches. One of the swans imported to grace the ornamental ponds was in the grove already; it pecked peevishly at the intruder, who cursed and lashed out with his boot until the swan retreated.

Philippe had seen the man several times in the last few days. Tall, lean and dark-haired, with a luxuriant mustache covering a pinched mouth, he had a habit of appearing at unexpected moments. Philippe assumed André - Captain of Musketeers since D'Artagnan's death - had detailed him to stay close to the king in his absence. He made a mental note to ask his name and turned back to Athos.

His smile faded as he took in the look on Athos' face. Athos had stiffened and was staring at the Musketeer, who returned his look with a hard stare of his own before retreating deeper into the protection of the trees. A flash of lightning lit the grove briefly, reflecting from his buckles.

"What was that about?" Philippe asked. The man was a Musketeer, a member of the king's trusted guard, doing his duty despite the storm – no danger, there, surely? He looked at Athos uncertainly. He was more grateful than he could say for the experience and suspicion that protected him as he sought his way through the treacherous ground at court, but now and then he thought Athos overdid it. Aramis could have told him that suspicion was second nature to Athos where the safety of those closest to him was concerned. He hadn't, though; Philippe was finding out for himself.

"Nothing," Athos replied. "I've seen that man before."

"So have I," Philippe said. "Quite often. But the way you looked at him, I thought ... Do you know him?"

"In a manner of speaking." Athos had stabbed the Musketeer in the shoulder the morning after he'd heard of Raoul's death when he'd tried to fight his way through a courtyard of guards to kill Louis. He sketched a terse outline of the encounter for Philippe. "I tried to talk to him about it a couple of weeks ago, but he wouldn't listen." Philippe looked at him in surprise. He would have asked more, but Athos' face warned him off. "Watch out for him," Athos said. "Something's not quite right there." It wasn't just the personal tension between them. The man's intense gaze was disturbing.

Philippe looked doubtfully at the Musketeer, now barely visible through a fresh downpour. The rain drummed hard on the roof of the gazebo as he turned back to Athos. "All right, I will. But forget him for now; I have something to ask you." The storm had provided a welcome opportunity to talk alone.

"Oh?"

"One of the Huguenot leaders is here. We may be able to head off the trouble." Signs of religious unrest had recently rocked a provincial center; any conflict could affect its profitable trade with Flanders. The Huguenot leader had sought an urgent audience to discuss a solution. "I need Aramis back here, now. You'll have to go and get him." Only Philippe and Athos knew where Aramis was. On Philippe's orders, Aramis rode to the capital and back every three days to report on Louis' condition. The last time had been only yesterday, but this couldn't wait.

"Go to the lodge?" Athos quirked an eyebrow at Philippe. "I thought you wanted me here."

"Come back with Aramis. If you set off early you'll both be back tomorrow night." Athos frowned out through the falling rain. "What's the matter? You wouldn't have to see Louis. I know it's a long ride there and back, but ..."

"It's not that." Athos' mouth turned up momentarily. "I'm not so old I can't hold a saddle still. But if I come back with Aramis they'll be a man down. Too much of a risk." He moved closer, spoke more urgently. "I should stay on. And I don't mean just till Aramis gets back. Till the whole thing's over."

Philippe opened his mouth to argue but stopped. He looked closely at Athos, at the lines of worry that seamed his face. Athos had acquiesced in his enforced stay at court, but it hadn't been easy for him. He'd taken out his frustration in the fencing hall, putting those young hopefuls foolish enough to practice with him to a test they'd long remember. Not that they'd minded; the young bucks had gloried in the chance to cross swords with him.

Athos was fretting about security at the lodge, Philippe could tell. Nothing Philippe could say could reassure him. The wisest course might be to let him go. And the kindest. He could check for himself that his fears were groundless. But if he went, he'd see Louis. That might be harder than anything else, and more dangerous. Louis had murdered his son and his best friend ... "You think you could handle it?" Philippe probed.

Athos' mouth compressed, but he said only, "I think I could manage."

"You wouldn't ...?" Determined though he was to preserve his brother's life, Philippe found it difficult to frame the words.

"You have my word I won't harm him." Athos' tone was calm enough.

Philippe hesitated no longer. "Then go. See for yourself. Aramis shouldn't be away long, but stay there if you want."

Athos looked at him appraisingly. "You'd be here by yourself." Surrounded by people, but alone with the secret, except for his mother and her old nun companion. "The reception ... will Aramis still be here?"

"I hope not. With luck he'll be back at the lodge by then. But my mother's here. I'll be all right." He hoped that was the truth. He was daily gaining confidence in his impersonation of Louis. He'd determined to work single-mindedly towards becoming his brother, in outward appearance at least, and now he allowed himself a small glow of pride. Judging by his reception today, his hard work was paying off. It hadn't been easy, and he'd been incapable of simulating Louis' arrogance at times, but he was holding his own.

Athos paced the length of the gazebo, only half a dozen strides, clearly weighing up the dangers. Eventually he wheeled round, his mind made up. "All right. I'll leave at first light. Aramis should be back here by evening. Watch your step till then."

"Don't worry about me." Philippe clapped him on the shoulder with affectionate exasperation. If Athos had noticed the progress he was making – and he knew he had – he sometimes hid it well.

Distant shouts heralded a group of servants splashing through the puddles, bearing umbrellas for the king. Philippe looked out across the gardens. "The rain's not going to ease. We might as well run for it." They jammed on their waterlogged hats and hurled themselves out into the downpour to meet the servants. Behind them, the Musketeer detached himself from the grove and sprinted after them.

Attendants waited for the king in the shelter of the colonnades, clucking and fussing. Philippe smiled his thanks as a dry cloak materialized to drape his shoulders. He raised his hand at Athos in a half-salute. Only the two of them knew it was a farewell.

"Your Majesty will take no harm?" Athos' question was double-edged.

"Have no fear, Councilor." Their eyes met over the head of the tumbler who'd been part of the afternoon's entertainment and who now was making sport of arranging the king's dry cloak around him. "Nothing will harm us – either of us - while God protects us." The king had taken to making such pronouncements since his recent change of heart; the courtiers crossed themselves piously. As if to contradict his own words, Philippe sneezed suddenly, laughing as the tumbler feigned terror at the sound. Athos inclined his head and disappeared from view as a tide of courtiers began to urge the king away in the direction of his apartments and their welcoming fires.

* * *

Philippe's words came back to mock him the next morning when he woke, sweating and screaming, from the grip of a nightmare. The little page who slept on a couch in the antechamber each night was standing beside his bed staring at him, white with alarm. The king had begun to suffer from bad dreams soon after the death of D'Artagnan. Philippe had tried to keep it secret, but whispers had begun to circulate.

Philippe collected his wits and reached out to tousle the boy's hair. "Did I frighten you, Jeannot? I'm sorry." He smiled at the wide, worried eyes. "It was only a dream; it can't hurt me." He hoped to God that was true. If he screamed out the truth with someone in earshot ... he pushed the thought from him.

"Yes, Sire." Jeannot's voice was doubtful, but his color began to return. He was ten years old, son of a noble family, chosen from many others for the honor of serving the king. Philippe enjoyed the boy's company; Jeannot made a refreshing change from the pomp that made up the larger part of his daily round. And the boy had proved a useful source of information about the court as Philippe instructed him in his duties. Philippe had found himself enjoying the novelty of being the guide instead of the guided for once.

He reminded Jeannot gently now, "I hear the stewards coming. Don't say anything." The boy nodded solemnly. Philippe sat up, straightening his twisted nightshirt. The memory of the nightmare was fading fast. "Time to get up. You'd better run and get dressed yourself."

The morning ritual of dressing took over an hour. Philippe was still not used to it; holding out his arms for others to clothe him was not something he suffered gladly. But it was part of the court routine and couldn't be evaded. He drew a resigned breath and prepared for the onslaught.

Jeannot, hastily clothed, ran to open the door as a procession of courtiers and servants filed in. Among them were Alain de Montelon and his father, Armand, chief among the king's physicians. The father was a tall man with a mane of silver hair, his face distinguished by an impressively bulbous nose that made him the butt of many a joke at court. But even those who mocked knew better than to underestimate him; the eyes above the nose gleamed with intelligence, and with a kindness which had at once drawn Philippe to him. This man knew Louis well. It behoved Philippe to tread carefully in his presence, but for all that, he liked the physician.

Alain, de Montelon's eldest son, shared his father's air of integrity. Shorter than the physician, with shoulder-length dark hair, he had deep-set, pleasant brown eyes and carried himself with quiet dignity. Philippe enjoyed his company. Increasingly, they met in the closest thing to friendship the gulf of position would permit. Alain, of an age with the king, had grown up around the court but had never been part of Louis' fast-living set. He held the post now of Philippe's chief valet de chambre. His predecessor, the scheming François de Pons, was dead, murdered, it was thought, by footpads in the dark night streets just over a week earlier. Alain had replaced François in the king's service some time before his death, when Philippe, on Aramis' advice, had changed all the body servants who'd known Louis well.

Philippe wondered briefly, as he swung his feet over the side of the bed, whether Athos was making good time on his ride to the lodge. It was his last chance to think of it for some time as the courtiers closed in.

* * *

"...sh' on'y for a li'l while." Athos' manservant, slumped over the table in the fetid tavern, was nearly asleep. One hand swung loose by his side, fingers almost brushing the floor; the other pillowed his head in a pool of wine. He hardly noticed when his companion shook his shoulder one more time.

"Only a little while? Too bad for you. How long?" Guillaume de Retz, nowhere near as much the worse for wine as he pretended, hid his impatience under a sympathetic exterior. But he cursed the drunken fool beside him as he leaned forward and repeated patiently in his ear, "How long?"

A flailing hand, offered in drunken equivalent of a shrug, just missed him. "Don' know ... week or so, mebbe ... di'n' say. Lef' this mo'ning..." The servant abandoned the struggle and began to snore. De Retz reached for his hat. He'd watched the impostor king talk earnestly with Athos during yesterday's storm; this morning, Athos was nowhere to be found. Like Aramis, Porthos and André, who'd been missing now for at least a week.

It had been easy to bump into Athos' man in a hail-fellow-well-met sort of way. He'd learned that Athos had left the palace that morning, destination unknown. The servant was one recently provided by Philippe after he'd heard that the death of the faithful Grimaud last year had left Athos unattended. It hadn't taken much to convince the man to go drinking in his master's absence. Once in the tavern, a disreputable den close by the palace, de Retz had plied his willing companion with drink until he had the information he needed. Athos was gone for some time. The "king" was unprotected.

So far as de Retz knew, at any rate. He thought about it for a moment, rubbing the feather in his hat absently between his fingers. Too many who knew would have been too dangerous for Athos and his friends. He was fairly sure no other traitor lurked at court. He might never have another chance like this.

De Retz had been an informer in the pay of François de Pons. Aside from François, he was the only one who knew that the real king was imprisoned in the Bastille. François had confided the information to ensure de Retz' help in the failed attempt to spirit Louis away which had ended in his own unexpected death. De Retz had only just escaped that night, abandoning his hired carriage as Porthos and André closed in on him where he waited by the sewer outlet near the prison. Since then, he'd watched the traitors closely, knowing they'd be on the watch too but secure in the knowledge that nobody had seen his face that night.

And he'd brooded. Nobody knew who'd killed François. The official story had it he'd been set upon by footpads in the dark streets and murdered for his purse. But de Retz was convinced Athos had had something to do with it. He knew the kind of ferocity the man was capable of, he thought, massaging his shoulder. The scar still ached on cold nights like this.

He'd have made his move at once but for the thought of that madman. But now Athos was gone. A few days only, perhaps, but that was enough. All de Retz had needed was a chance to approach the man masquerading as the king. With the first official reception near, the timing was perfect. He jammed his hat on his head, flung down some coins on the table and set off back to the palace.

* * *

"Your Majesty."

"How well you look, Sire."

"A tour de force, Sire. The music ..."

The murmurs drifted up to the dais where Philippe sat. He inclined his head courteously. This wasn't hard at all. The courtiers professed themselves overjoyed to find the nightly round of entertainments once more graced by the royal presence.

A servant approached, offering wine. Philippe waved him away. The gesture reminded him of the first time he'd sat here, on this very dais, tense and strained as he watched the dancers swirl by. Not so long ago, but it seemed like years. His mother sat beside him now, as then. Together they had smiled and bowed tonight through the presentation of an endless line of diplomats and dignitaries. Now they sat and watched the crowd, enjoying the play of light on the silks and satins and laces.

Philippe was surprised to see François' father Giscard, Marquis de Pons, deep in discussion with a cardinal beside a pillar. Not much more than a week had passed since François' death, but the Marquis had not secluded himself in his grief. He'd taken his son's death hard, swearing savage vengeance on those who'd killed him. His men were scouring the underbelly of Paris for information, so far to no avail.

Deep shadows circled the Marquis' eyes in a face the colour of parchment, lines of grief radiating from the aquiline nose to the mouth. But his expression was determined, and the hands clasped in front of him were steady. Not a man who rattled easily. Not a man to underestimate. François' father was one of the most powerful men at court.

The Marquis' eyes rose now to meet the king's gaze and he inclined his head formally. Philippe returned the courtesy, but he felt a sudden chill of fear. If the Marquis' suspicions fastened on anyone, that person would not live long to regret it. No matter that Philippe knew himself and the others innocent; François' death had been convenient for them. He hoped fervently the Marquis would never discover that fact.

Another servant, this one offering sweetmeats. The queen accepted one and turned to her son. Noticing his sudden stiffness, she asked with a slight frown, "What's the matter, Ph ... Louis?" Her tongue still tripped occasionally on the name.

"Nothing." Philippe shook off his attack of nerves and smiled at her. "Just thinking, that's all." His mother's undemanding acceptance had been one of the constants in his rapidly changing world over the last few weeks. If she wept in the night for her other lost son – and she did, he was sure – she never spoke of it. In his presence she radiated love. That was all he asked for, after the long years without.

He looked out over the swirling throng. Things were going well. He'd been a little nervous at the prospect of staying here alone, despite what he'd said to Athos. The court was full of people who'd known his brother very well. People had remarked on the change in the king's behavior since the night of the masked ball, Porthos had reported; they said he seemed softer somehow, less imperious. But he wasn't really worried. Let the gossips assume what they would; he was shielded by the fiction of his religious retreat.

"Your Majesty." The voice, no courtier's murmur, cut into his thoughts. He looked up in surprise. A Musketeer had approached, svelte in his blue coat. The other guards near the throne eyed him with surprise. Not one of the evening's detail, who were arranged in sharp-eyed formation around the hall, he therefore had no business in the room. Philippe recognized him at once as the man in the grove yesterday.

He drew himself up sharply. "What is it?" Louis would have been proud of the tone. His mother looked at him inquiringly.

The Musketeer bowed low, avoiding the curious stares of those nearby. "Something of interest, Sire. If I may speak in confidence ..."

Philippe gestured the man closer. "Speak."

The man drew nearer, his lips approaching Philippe's ear. The queen glanced at them curiously again, but the swelling music prevented her from hearing. "I know who you really are, Your Majesty," the Musketeer hissed. "Or rather, who you're not. And I know what you've done to the king."

Philippe sat absolutely still. Had he heard right? His eyes slid sideways to the face so near his own. The man withdrew slightly, but his eyes remained fixed on Philippe's, their malevolence plain. He hadn't been mistaken.

For an instant the colorful crowd before him dimmed slightly and the music echoed as if in a distant room. He almost raised his arm in a gesture for help before he remembered: Athos and the others weren't there. The Musketeers nearest the throne looked at him with respectful curiosity but kept their distance.

"What is it, Louis?" His mother leaned closer. Philippe thought quickly.

"Nothing, Mother. A joke, that's all. Not for a lady's ears." He looked repressively at the man. "Why do you disturb us with this nonsense?" Even to his own ears it sounded off-key.

The Musketeer withdrew a few steps and bowed, hand on heart. "Your pardon, Sire." Then he was gone, lost in the swirl of colour and sound. But he'd be back, Philippe knew, as surely as he felt a solid ball of ice forming slowly in his stomach. The only question was, when?

* * *

In the event, it wasn't long.

Philippe and the queen retired early for the night, going their separate ways with a parting embrace as the music played on behind them. He fought the urge to call his mother back and tell her what had happened. Time enough for that after de Retz had made his move. He watched her move serenely off along the gallery with her attendants. He would not shatter her peace unless he had to.

In his chambers, attendants fussed around him, removing the evening's ceremonial attire. The unbuttoning of his robe was a blessed release, the touch of cool air on his skin a benison after the confinement of the stiff brocade. The chatter of those around him was all of the evening's events. Philippe endured it patiently, longing for them all to be gone. A page brought soft slippers to replace his buckled shoes; others removed the rings and diadem he had worn.

"You look tired, Your Majesty." Alain de Montelon approached quietly, a white cambric nightshirt in his hands. Philippe shook his head.

"I'm not ready to sleep. I'll read for a while." Alain bowed and returned the nightshirt to the carved press from which he'd taken it. He brought back other clothes, less formal and more comfortable than before; Philippe stood patiently while he was arrayed in them. How had Louis ever learned to tie his own bows, he wondered, with so many determined to do it for him? Shrugging off his irritation, he turned his attention to those around him.

"The evening went well, I thought. Did Your Majesty see the Russian envoy's trouble with his wig?" Alain grinned. His sometimes-unruly sense of humor now and then escaped from beneath his natural gravity, and from the regimented formality required of the king's attendants.

Philippe grinned back. "I thought he'd ..." The entrance of a footman, low-voiced in gold livery, interrupted him.

"A visitor, Your Majesty. Monsieur de Retz of the palace guard. He requests an urgent private audience." Over the servant's shoulder Philippe glimpsed the blue of a Musketeer surcoat. He bit his lip. The man must be very sure of his ground, to intrude so boldly upon the king's apartments.

"Leave us," he said to his attendants, more curtly than he'd intended. Alain glanced at him sharply; he moderated his tone. "Leave us until I ring." The others bowed and began to file out, murmuring among themselves at the unexpected intrusion.

"Are you sure, Sire?" Alain was still at his side, his face concerned.

"I'm sure." Philippe dredged up a smile. "Come back in half an hour." Alain bowed and withdrew with a puzzled glance at the newcomer. The doors closed behind him.

De Retz stood just inside the door where the footman had left him. Philippe motioned him forward. Something about the man's bearing warned him the interview wouldn't be pleasant. He raised an eyebrow and said with a calmness he didn't feel, "What is this business that cannot wait till morning, Monsieur?" His mind clutched at straws: could the man be mad? The words de Retz had whispered earlier hadn't been too specific. Was he acting out some fantasy? If only it were that simple. But François' accomplice hadn't been apprehended; de Retz could be the one. It would be folly to ignore him until he was sure.

De Retz bowed mockingly. "You were wise to see me, Sire." He put a sarcastic stress on the word. "Or whoever you really are." The viciousness in the last words shocked Philippe.

"I don't understand you, Monsieur." Philippe's tone was haughty. He waited, but de Retz said nothing more, only looked him up and down with an air of knowing contempt. Philippe decided to bluff it out. "You're clearly not yourself, Monsieur. The guards will see you out." He moved toward the door.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you ... Sire." De Retz glanced meaningfully at the fire blazing in the hearth. "The Bastille's very cold at this time of the year. I hear the cells are icy. An iron cold, if you take my meaning."

Philippe stopped in his tracks. De Retz smiled, a slow, derisive smile. It was clear he knew the truth; he'd been the accomplice, beyond doubt.

"What is it you want?" Philippe asked, despair clutching at his stomach. It had all been too easy to be true. Before him stood the reckoning.

"Let's talk about what YOU want," de Retz said. He sat down without asking permission and leaned forward, elbows on spread knees, looking up at Philippe calculatingly. "You want your life, I take it. And your friends'." He ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke. "I can give them to you. Athos, I might keep for myself; but I can give them to you."

This scoundrel threatened Athos? A rush of anger stiffened Philippe's back. He drew himself up and spat, "You threaten the king? You're mad!"

"Am I?" Again that lazy smile. "Are you certain? Let's have the guard in then. Perhaps all take a ride to the Bastille to talk to the governor. He'd soon enough prove my story. A bit of pressure and he'd show us to a certain cell."

The guard. Good idea. Philippe made up his mind suddenly to call de Retz' bluff. He'd dismiss him as a lunatic and have him confined where no-one could hear his claims. Like Louis. He started for the door.

De Retz seemed to read his thoughts. "Oh, and by the way ... should anything ... untoward happen to me – a disappearance, perhaps – the Marquis de Pons will receive a letter. It will interest him very much. He's very keen to find out who murdered his son. If he discovered François was killed trying to rescue the king, I should think his vengeance would be spectacular."

Philippe turned back toward him. "What is it you want?" Even he could hear that this time his impatience sounded forced. De Retz pounced on it.

"Then you admit it?"

Philippe waved an arm in denial. "I admit nothing. Just tell me what you want."

"Preferment!" The word was a snarl. De Retz' carefully bland insolence vanished. "I've been passed over too often for others less deserving. Backwoods 'lieutenants' from the provinces." Remembered bitterness twisted his face. He'd been furious when André had been made lieutenant with fewer years of service than he, and he hadn't cared who'd known it. D'Artagnan had been keeping a close eye on him in the weeks before his death; he'd warned André to watch his back. De Retz' expression changed, became bland once more. "I'm sure we can come to some arrangement."

"And this prisoner you hint at?" Philippe's mind was racing. Only a promotion? That wouldn't be the end of it. De Retz would be sure of his ground then. He'd play them for years, like a fish on a line. If he were mad – and it was true, there was something unsettling in the fixedness of his gaze – it wasn't affecting his wits.

"I care nothing for the prisoner. He can stay where he is, for good." The scorn in his voice was palpable. Whatever Louis had done to him must have been bad to inspire such contempt. Or, more likely, hadn't done. Hadn't recommended his promotion, most likely; or worse, had ignored him completely. Not for the first time, Philippe wondered about the proclaimed devotion of those who served at court. Did the smiling faces and the honeyed words always conceal hearts of malice and contempt? Or had that been reserved for his brother?

"Enough of these games!" De Retz' voice hardened. "It's a simple enough arrangement. You'll see to it that I'm promoted. Lieutenant will do to start with, now that André's Captain." His next words confirmed Philippe's fears. "Then – soon – you'll get rid of André and make me Captain in his place. If you don't, I'll go to the Marquis de Pons." He rose. "Think about it. There's really nothing to think about, though, is there? Simple cause and effect. It's in your hands. If I hear nothing soon, I go to the Marquis." He moved to the door. "Good night, Your Majesty. Sleep well."

Then he was gone, leaving Philippe to the turbulent silence of the room.

* * *

He couldn't breathe! Something was stifling him, stopping his eyes. He tried to wrench free, to spring up, but it held him fast. Terror set the blood roaring in Philippe's ears as he struggled with the enveloping web. He fought for breath in huge ragged gulps.

A voice nearby spoke soothingly. "It's all right! You're caught up in the sheet, that's all. Lie still, and I'll have you free." A moment later, Philippe felt the web lifted from his head, then a warm hand descend on his shoulder. His struggles ceased at once, but he lay frozen, unable to move in the grip of his fear.

A minute or more passed in silence. Gradually his vision cleared and his breathing slowed to normal. The hand remained on his shoulder, firm and comforting. The room began to swim into focus. Candlelight, its gentle radiance soft and calming, flickered on the hangings of his bed. Philippe squinted at its source. Armand de Montelon was sitting on the bed, his hand on Philippe's shoulder. Behind him, holding a candelabrum, hovered Alain.

"That's better." The physician dropped his hand and began to untangle the twisted sheets which had held Philippe captive. "You've made quite a net for yourself here. Can you sit up now?" Released at last, Philippe lay still. Sitting up ... the idea was good, he thought vaguely; he'd do it in a minute. When the bones returned to his limbs.

He tried to shake off the dream. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. "Wha... what are you doing here?" Beside Alain he saw Jeannot's terrified face.

"The child summoned me. He was afraid you were ill." The page had been frightened out of his wits by the king's nightmare, more ferocious than any he'd seen before. He'd sent the guards running to fetch the physician. "I couldn't wake you, so I sent for Alain. A bad dream, we told the guards." As was only the truth.

Philippe stirred and tried to sit up, but an uncontrollable shaking defeated him. De Montelon pushed him gently back down. He accepted it passively, glad of the chance to defer the moment of rising. The physician murmured something to Alain, who disappeared momentarily and returned with basin and towel. Philippe suffered de Montelon to bathe his clammy face with cool water. It felt inexpressibly comforting.

"Has this happened before?" De Montelon patted Philippe's face dry.

Philippe thought about denying it, but the effort seemed too great. And besides, Jeannot was looking at him accusingly from the foot of the bed. "Yes. But not for some time." A few days, at any rate. Not since the day Athos had left, and never this bad before. He wondered dimly if there was a connection.

"Do your new councilors know?" The shrewd, kindly face looked down at him.

"About the nightmares? No. At least ... not all of them." He'd only told Athos, and then only because Athos had guessed. The shadows beneath his eyes had given him away. "Why do you ask?" De Montelon didn't reply, only busied himself with a fresh cloth for Philippe's sweat-drenched arms and neck.

At the foot of the bed, Jeannot yawned hugely. His head drooped onto his chest; he caught himself, and jerked upright. Alain smiled and tapped him gently on the shoulder. "Time you were in bed, young man. Come on, I'll tuck you up." Ignoring the boy's token protest, he led him from the room. Philippe heard Jeannot's shoes hit the floor and a murmur of voices; then silence. Alain slipped back in through the doors a few minutes later with a last backward glance at his sleeping charge. Through the closing door Philippe saw the gleam of candlelight on the blade of D'Artagnan's sword where it rested on holders on a sideboard. A piece of sculpted metal, nothing more, taken from where it lay beside D'Artagnan's body that night in the tunnel; but it was all that remained to Philippe of his father, and he cherished it. His tired eyes sought it now until the door blocked it from his sight.

"He's out till the morning," Alain said with a smile. "Nice to be able to drop off so suddenly. He must have a clear conscience." Too late, he remembered why he was there. "My apologies, Sire."

Philippe waved it away. He felt more in command of himself as his strength returned. This had been the worst nightmare ever. He'd felt hands pulling him down, constraining his struggles. Some monstrous presence lurked in the shadows at the edge of the cell, waiting only till the door closed behind the warders to devour his living flesh. The guards left, locking him in with whatever it was that now advanced on padded feet, its breath foul in the cell. He couldn't see it, couldn't fight it, could only hear its slavering. Then it was gone and he was fighting flames instead. Flames that licked at him and turned the mask on his head molten as Aramis' torch flashed down into the straw in the cell, amidst the burning straw Philippe's thrashing, charring body ... The screams tore from his throat.

No wonder Jeannot had been frightened, he thought, shivering at the memory. A sudden wave of nausea attacked him; he fought it off, but it left him shaken. De Montelon noted it, he saw. The physician's eyes missed nothing. A bit like Athos, though Athos wasn't a doctor, despised doctors, in fact. Maybe he'd missed his calling, Philippe thought muzzily, unable to control a half-hysterical snort at the thought.

De Montelon put aside the towel he was holding. "Do you want to talk about it ... Philippe?"

Philippe rubbed his eyes. If only his head would clear. "There's nothing to talk about. It comes and it goes." Then shock hit him like a falling tree, jerking him up on his elbows. "What did you call me?" He tried to sit up properly.

De Montelon put out a calming hand. "Who are you really, young man? Oh, don't worry," as Philippe would have leaped from the bed, "you've nothing to fear from me. From us," he added, with a glance at Alain. "But I know you aren't Louis. Best tell us now who you are."

Twice in one night. But the physician's tone, unlike de Retz', held no menace. Philippe swayed; he'd forgotten to breathe in his fright. De Montelon was instantly aware of it, grasping his shoulders hard until the moment passed. The grip of the nightmare lingered; Philippe felt its claws still. Hard to tell which bit deeper, that or his present panic. Without warning the nausea struck again. He waved his hands blindly, seeking the basin, anything. Too late.

When it was over, Philippe raised a miserable head to see Alain holding out yet another wet cloth. He began to stammer an apology, but De Montelon waved it aside. All competence, he stripped off the soiled nightshirt, swabbed Philippe's skin hastily, and pulled the fresh shirt Alain brought over his head, pausing for Philippe to lift his arms. His eyes lingered thoughtfully on his patient's back as he smoothed the nightshirt down. Philippe didn't notice. He sank back against the pillows, grateful for their support, his mind temporarily blank. Then memory rushed back in, and with it the awareness of danger.

He lay still, forcing himself to concentrate. What would Louis do? React with outrage, probably; sneering incredulity. For an instant Philippe glanced covertly at de Montelon, who was giving Alain quiet instructions. He felt instinctively he could trust the physician, but if he were wrong ... He owed it to the others not to give in easily. He pushed himself up to a semblance of dignity and cleared his throat. Then, adopting his Louis tone though it shamed him to do it in the face of their kindness, "Have you taken leave of your senses?" Their heads snapped round. "I'll have you thrown in prison for this." Trite, predictable, and totally lacking in conviction.

De Montelon must have thought so too. He shook his head gravely. "That won't do, you know. You haven't the taste for it. I've watched you every day, trying to work out how someone could change so much." As chief physician, he was one of the few who'd waited upon the king during the period of seclusion. He looked at Philippe keenly and said slowly, but with a chilling assurance, "People do change sometimes, I know. But not that much."

Philippe remembered his earlier question. "You called me Philippe. What makes you think ...?"

"That you're not the king?" De Montelon smiled. "You screamed 'Louis! Louis!' Nobody calls their own name in a dream, least of all a nightmare."

"Why not?" Philippe asked defensively. Was that all? It seemed little enough. His fingers plucked at the sheets. "Dreams... they aren't accountable to reason. Haven't you ever ...?"

De Montelon was shaking his head. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Young man," he said gently, "I've seen the scar on your back. I saw it again just now, when I changed your nightshirt. I know," he emphasized the point with a gentle finger, poking Philippe's chest, " I *know* the king didn't have one." Philippe had gashed his back in prison when a brutal guard had pushed him hard against the rough stone wall of his cell. It had taken a long time to heal, and the scar had not yet faded.

Philippe's stomach lurched. To have come so far for this. All they'd gone through, all they'd dared, only to have his worst fear come true: out of his own mouth had come their betrayal. He felt cornered, suffocated, wild with rage and shame. He longed to leap up and push open the big windows to let the night air in, but caution held him still. De Montelon might think it a bid for freedom and call in the guard. He glanced at Alain, but Alain stood quietly by his father, his face giving nothing away.

De Montelon seemed to sense his panic. He looked at him compassionately. "Breathe deeply," he said quietly, "I told you, you've nothing to fear from us. You're the twin, aren't you? No one else could look so like."

Philippe's head began to clear. Nothing this man could say surprised him any more. Still, that last remark felt like a punch to the stomach. Warily, he looked at the faces opposite him. De Montelon's was open and honest, his son's the same. Little of the courtier about them, despite their high positions. Philippe's urge to trust them grew stronger. He was tired of fighting. The last few weeks had been a strain. It would be almost a relief to confess the truth. If only it were just his own safety at stake ...

"Are there others who think as you do?" He had to know.

"No." De Montelon sounded certain. "Or if they do, they hide it. But I'm fairly sure there aren't. Not many people have seen you, after all, since the night D'Artagnan died. But that's what that was all about, wasn't it? To give you time? It worked quite well, on the whole."

"The twin ..." Philippe thought rapidly back over what he'd said so far. He'd made no admission, he was sure of it. His confusion could be put down to the aftermath of the nightmare. He had to find out what this man knew, or thought he knew. "You said, 'the twin' ... what twin?" He raised himself until he was sitting cross-legged on the bed and leaned forward to look de Montelon in the eye.

De Montelon's face closed over. "I cannot speak of it further," he said. "Not without some sign from you. " They stared at each other in silence. De Montelon seemed to withdraw slightly into himself. For all his air of quiet knowledge, Philippe guessed, he too was taking a dangerous gamble: all Louis had to do, if de Montelon were wrong, was to give such a sign to trap the physician into revealing what he knew. Treason charges would follow as the night the day.

"Tell me what you mean," Philippe demanded, his voice suddenly strong. "No harm will come to you, I swear it. Or to yours," he finished with a look at Alain. De Montelon hesitated still. Louis' word hadn't been his bond before; the whole court knew it. On the other hand, the real Louis would have had him marched from the bedroom long before this. He sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes, looking suddenly old and tired. His face reflected his indecision as he turned a troubled gaze on Alain.

Philippe cast about for a way to end the impasse. "Suppose – just suppose – I knew what you were talking about ... what would make you trust me? And why should I trust you?"

De Montelon looked up. "The truth. The truth would make me trust you. It sets us free, the priests tell us." Philippe said nothing. De Montelon continued, "And something's troubling you, that much is clear. Night terrors like that don't come from nowhere. Maybe you could do with my help." His face cleared a little as he cast a clinical eye over Philippe, his healer's mantle settling invisibly round his shoulders again. He turned his head to look up at Alain standing behind him and took his hand with weary affection. "I have a son of my own. I'd like to think he'd find a friend if ever he needed one." Alain smiled down at him.

Something in Philippe gave way at the sight. "Tell me what you know about a twin," he repeated. "I can promise nothing except that no harm will come to you."

De Montelon studied him in silence for a long time. Then he nodded resignedly. "I understand," he said. He looked up at Alain. "You will never repeat what you're about to hear. Agreed?"

Alain's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "I swear." Satisfied, his father turned back to Philippe.

"I was there the night the king was born," he said. "I'll never forget it. The old king was wild with joy; at long last, an heir. He rushed the baby out of the room to display to the courtiers, and the senior physicians went with him. We who were left turned back to the queen. She'd had a hard time of it; she was all but exhausted. A few minutes later, another child was born. Again, a healthy boy. But unexpected." And unwanted, his tone implied. Philippe felt the weight of it on his heart, somehow heavier this time than when he'd heard it from Aramis that first day.

De Montelon's eyes were far away, reliving the long-ago moment in the stifling chamber. "The queen was unconscious. I sent a message to the king, and he arrived soon after, with the first child but nobody else, to inspect the second baby. I can see him now ..." His voice faded momentarily, and his eyes narrowed with what seemed to Philippe like contempt. He waited in suspense for the physician to continue.

"He stripped the babies and compared them. As if they were lumps of meat. Once he was sure they were both perfect, he picked up the one born first. Take the other one to the country, he ordered, with a wet-nurse, while I decide what to do. And say nothing, if you value your lives." De Montelon swallowed hard. "The priest took the twin outside to the Musketeer on duty and gave it to him to take away. But before he did, he baptized it. He gave it the name 'Philippe.'"

Nobody spoke. The candles guttered low. Alain glanced toward them but made no move to replace them. He looked back at Philippe, staring at him in fascination.

Eventually, Philippe stirred himself to ask, "And the baby ...?"

"Was taken away to the country. We told the queen it was dead. The king's orders. Maybe it was true later; I never heard what happened. But then, when I began to notice things about you that weren't like Louis ... I wondered if the stories might have been true."

"The stories?"

"Palace gossip, about the night of the masked ball. Some said a man of quite amazing resemblance ... Oh, they said he'd been captured and taken away. But Aramis was suddenly always at the palace. I couldn't help wondering, then, about the twin. Aramis, you see, was one of the very few who knew there'd been a twin at all. He was the duty officer that night."

Philippe nodded. It all made sense. A great lassitude swept over him; he could barely refrain from sinking back against the pillows. He longed to close his eyes and let it all go, to slide into soft black oblivion and wake to find it yesterday again. He looked back at de Montelon with eyes grown old. He'd hoped never again to feel at the mercy of others. This man – and now his son as well – could destroy them all, unless ... Philippe's mind shied away from the thought. He knew he could never do it. No crown was worth it.

"Don't look at me like that." The physician's voice broke into his thoughts. "You've nothing to fear from me. It's you who have the power. One word from you and we'd disappear overnight." De Montelon had Alain to protect, and the rest of his family. Philippe believed him when he said he posed no threat.

"You've lived on a knife-edge for a while now," de Montelon said quietly. "I won't ask what happened, or how you came to be here. Or even who else is part of this. Just trust me. I'm on your side. Alain too." Alain nodded. "One day I'll tell you why. Your brother ..." His face tightened. Then he broke off and looked closely at Philippe. "It can wait. You need to rest."

Alain moved closer and began putting Philippe's bed to rights, straightening the tangled sheets and replacing the soiled coverlet. He flung open a window to let the fresh night air stream in; the wind buffeting the palace found entrance, sweeping away the smells of sickness and fear. The cold cleared Philippe's head. He gathered his nightshirt about him in the sudden chill, resisting the urge to drop his head in his hands as the enormity of what had happened began to sink in. But he was given no time to brood. "Now," de Montelon said briskly. "Something must have set this off tonight. What was it?"

Philippe gave in and told him.

* * *

The last notes of the music lingered in the air as Philippe rose and offered his mother his arm. The musicians bowed low at his words of praise. As the king turned away, the crowd of courtiers parted before the royal party and their guests of honour, envoys from the Spanish court who'd just arrived in Paris to finalize arrangements for the king's forthcoming marriage to the Infanta of Spain. Philippe had hosted tonight's concert and reception in their honor.

The envoys seemed pleased at the courtesy shown them and the arrangements made for their comfort. They chatted deferentially now with their royal host, soft-voiced amidst the surrounding bustle. On the walls, the golden fleur-de-lys of France stood proud on the banners around the huge hall. Servants bearing trays of food and wine began to circulate, while at Philippe's order the musicians were led off to a lavish supper of their own.

The king and his mother chatted for a while with the Spanish ambassador, who'd presented himself to claim his compatriots and begin their round of formal introductions. Then they began to move off, crowds following in their wake. Trapped among the forest of legs, a lapdog whined in distress; its mistress scooped it up and carried it along in the comfort of her spectacular décolletage, earning it jealous looks from her suitors. Armand de Montelon, conversing with an abbe from the Auvergne on the outer edge of the group, kept pace with the king.

"Sire." The Marquis de Pons bowed at Philippe's approach. His wife, the Marquise, sank into a curtsy. Philippe wondered briefly if she'd be able to rise. Never a strong woman, she'd looked increasingly frail since the death of her son; her husband's insistence on carrying on normal court duties had clearly taken its toll on her. Not for the first time, Philippe wished she'd been allowed to retire to the family estates to mourn in privacy. He toyed with the idea of ordering it, but abandoned the idea almost at once. The Marquis would be bound to be affronted; it would be too risky to offend him. Instead, Philippe decided he'd ask his mother to keep an eye on the Marquise.

"Marquis." Philippe bowed in his turn. "I trust you continue well?" He itched to know what the Marquis' investigations into François' death had turned up. It couldn't hurt to ask; perhaps he'd find out something useful. He opened his mouth to frame the question.

"Your Majesty." A Musketeer detached himself from the security detail and bowed before Philippe. De Retz. And in pugnacious mood, by the look of it. De Retz' manner was impeccably correct, but Philippe could read the signs. A week had passed since de Retz' demand. Philippe, having made up his mind to wait and see what happened as de Montelon had advised, had done nothing. The Musketeer had become increasingly restless as the days passed. Twice he'd arrived at the royal apartments seeking an audience; twice he'd been turned away. Tonight he would not be denied. He'd chosen his moment carefully.

"Yes, Monsieur?" Philippe's tone was cold.

"I would speak with Your Majesty," de Retz said, with a meaningful glance at the Marquis. The Marquis stared arrogantly back, one eyebrow crooked disdainfully as his gaze raked the Musketeer.

"Later." Philippe began to turn away. A hand clamped around his arm, detaining him. The group around Philippe stared, aghast at the lapse in protocol and awaiting the king's reaction.

"Your pardon, Sire. I must insist." Insist? A scandalized murmur rose from the crowd. De Retz stood his ground. He placed himself between Philippe and the nearest clear passage through the crowd, plainly prepared to block the king's progress until his wish was granted. The queen mother, on Philippe's arm, looked up at her son questioningly. Alarmed by his expression, she raised a hand in signal to the commander of the duty guard, who was looking down on the scene from the broad landing of the staircase, his eyes narrowing as they rested on de Retz.

Before the commander could respond, Armand de Montelon pushed his way through the crowd. The abbe with whom he'd been talking was nowhere to be seen; instead, de Montelon towed in his wake a servant bearing a tray of glasses. Seemingly unaware of the developing confrontation, the physician lifted one of them and held it out to Philippe. "Some Spanish wine, Sire? A gift from the envoys."

Philippe reached out automatically for the offering, surprised at the change in the physician. De Montelon looked as though he'd already drunk generously of the wine; his face was uncharacteristically flushed and the lace at his neck was askew. Philippe had never seen the physician like this before, his normal sober demeanor slipping from him like Porthos' hat on a windy day. Even de Retz was taken aback, though he was careful to stay close to Philippe.

De Montelon pressed glasses on the assembled group, gulping now and then from his own. De Retz he ignored; Musketeers didn't drink in the presence of the sovereign. At length, only one glass remained. De Montelon made a grab for it, replacing his empty one on the tray with an unsteady hand. "Dammit!" as the glass nearly slipped from his fingers, "packs a kick like a mule, for wine." A bout of coughing shook him and he turned away for a moment, shoulders heaving. When he turned back, his eyes were bleary.

"Stronger ... stronger than I thought." The words were slurred. Philippe hadn't thought the wine that strong. But de Montelon had had a tiring day, he knew; two of the small sons of a Burgundy count had fallen from the gallery to the stone landing during a game that morning, breaking their arms and knocking themselves out. The physician had been busy with them all day, under the watchful eye of their anxious parents.

Without warning, in an access of bonhomie, De Montelon thrust his still-full glass into de Retz' face. "Here Monsieur." De Retz started back as a few drops spattered his tunic. A new buzz arose from the crowd as tongues clucked disapprovingly, but de Montelon pressed on, oblivious. "Drink to His Majesty's marriage, m'man. I'm sure His Majesty couldn't object?" He raised an inquiring eyebrow in Philippe's direction.

Philippe waved a hand in consent and said to de Retz with strained courtesy, "Of course, Monsieur. We accept your felicitations with gratitude. And whatever your business, it will surely wait for this fine wine."

De Retz smiled sourly. He raised the glass to his lips and drained it. "Your health, Sire. And that of your marriage." Almost at once he staggered a little, a look of surprise on his face. "You're right, Monsieur," he said to de Montelon. "A kick like a mule. Take care, Your Majesty." To Philippe's ears, the words were freighted with menace.

De Montelon lurched closer. The lapdog had escaped its mistress again and was running in and out among the close-packed courtiers. De Montelon stumbled over it, raising a yip from the dog and a protest from its mistress. His arm closed momentarily around Philippe's as he strove to keep his footing and he staggered again, slurring an apology. His face, as he straightened up, was close to Philippe's; the eyes beneath the bushy brows were lucid and intelligent. Philippe's arm still registered the pressure of his fingers; no drunken grasp but a reassuring squeeze. The physician bowed with elaborate care and backed away to stand among the courtiers, mopping his face.

The Marquis de Pons had watched the interplay with a puzzled frown. "Odd," he remarked to Philippe. "I've never seen de Montelon drunk in public before."

The owner of the lapdog cut in before Philippe could reply. "But, Marquis, tonight's a special occasion. His Majesty will be soon married. Who could blame a man for celebrating? He's more to be praised than censured, surely." The words were meant for Philippe's ears. The lady's husband wanted a post at court; if flattery could help, she would lose no chance. Philippe breathed a silent prayer of gratitude to her. Her husband should have his post.

He made up his mind to continue his promenade. De Retz would surely not continue his harassment in public. His mother, he noticed, had been talking quietly with the Marquise de Pons. The Marquise' face wore the beginnings of a faint smile, the first he'd seen since the news of François' death. Philippe blessed his mother for provoking it, and began to turn away from de Retz.

A vicious tug on his sleeve stopped him. A horrified murmur rose from the crowd as de Retz jerked Philippe back towards him. Other Musketeers started forward, hands on swords, pushing through the crowd toward them. But de Retz wasn't bent on attack. His eyes inexplicably wild and terrified, he screamed at Philippe, "Look out! Look out! They're coming!"

The Musketeers, almost upon them, froze at a signal from Philippe. De Retz' sword remained in its scabbard; he posed no immediate danger. At the commander's muttered instructions, some of the men dispersed in a ring around the group. Others began moving the onlookers back.

De Retz began to shake in the grip of some fearful terror. His eyes bulged out of his head and his forehead ran with sweat. He vomited suddenly and copiously. The courtiers around him pulling back in disgust as the foulness splashed their finery, but de Retz was oblivious. He gestured frantically at the painted cherubs on the ceiling. "Can't you see them? They're coming, I tell you, they're coming!" The cherubs seemed innocuous to Philippe; to de Retz, they were a legion of devils. "They can have you, for all I care. But not me; not without a fight!" He released Philippe's arm and wrenched out his sword. The Musketeers surged forward as one.

De Retz' coordination was off; the sword stuck halfway. His panic increasing with every second, he struggled with it, screaming, until he abandoned the effort and collapsed to the floor, gibbering and scrambling away from the unseen hordes. His colleagues pounced, dragging him to his feet and disarming him with practiced movements. Others hustled the king and his mother to one side. Two of the detail pinned de Retz' arms as the commander checked for hidden weapons. Finding none, he turned to Philippe and clicked his heels. "I await your command, Sire." So did everybody else. Word of the disturbance had reached the furthest corners of the salon; even those not close enough to see what had happened waited, silent for once, for the outcome. De Retz shook and retched between his captors, his teeth chattering violently between spasms.

"Take him away," Philippe said. "Confine him to quarters. The man's lost his mind." He shook down his clothes and adjusted his sleeves. "He's tried to see me before. Something about promotion. Captain André warned me about him." He'd brief André next time he saw him.

The Musketeers led de Retz away. He went unwillingly, still screaming threats up at the menacing cherubs. Mocking catcalls followed him from the crowd. The court wasn't noted for its sympathy. De Retz lashed out with a boot as they neared the door, kicking one of his guards in the shins and breaking free. He made a dash at Philippe. The crowd fell back before him. The fog clouding his brain seemed to clear temporarily, but only Philippe could see that as they locked eyes. "You aren't the king!" de Retz screamed, spittle spraying from his mouth. He gazed wildly around him. "He's not the king, I tell you! He's an impostor." He lunged at Philippe with outstretched hands, rigid fingers curving into claws. Too late; the guards, one cursing colorfully and hopping on one foot, had reached him again. This time they were rougher. The cherubs attacked again en masse. De Retz wailed and raved as he tried to evade the celestial charge. The crowd howled in derision.

The noise seemed to snap the Musketeer back to a instant of reality. He pointed a shaking finger at Philippe, who raised an eyebrow, " "That man," he shouted, "is not the king. Listen to me, you fools! He's not the king! The king is ..." The words trailed off in an incoherent gabble as green monsters bulged out of the tapestries to devour him. Or so he informed the convulsed courtiers. Those on the perimeter of the room had rushed to join the crowd around the king, anxious not to miss a moment of the spectacle. They hadn't been so titillated since the night of the masked ball, when the king's mistress had publicly labeled him a murderer for his part in her fiance's death.

The guard had de Retz back under control. With every step he howled and struggled, his hair awry around his face. His shrieks increased as he saw his captors' hair turn into a writhing mass of snakes. From time to time he choked out his treasonous refrain: the king was an impostor. Eventually the guard would hear no more. Cutting off his shouts with an uppercut to the stomach, they dragged him doubled up and gasping out the doors. A foul stench lingered in their wake as the prisoner's bowels broke.

At once, courtiers surrounded Philippe and his mother with exaggerated cries of concern. An excited gabble of comment rose on all sides. Philippe made his apologies to his Spanish guests, who begged him to retire early to recover from the shock and not on any account to consider them further. Nothing loath, he agreed, after the expected show of reluctance. The pallor of his mother's face gave him cause for concern; the sooner she was out of the crowd, the better.

"Amazing," the Marquis de Pons murmured, looking after the disappearing Musketeers. "The man's a raving lunatic. He turned up at my rooms this afternoon demanding an audience. Wouldn't speak to anyone but me, he said, and straight away. My people didn't like his manner, so they sent him packing. Just as well." He turned to look at Philippe. "Your Majesty's had a lucky escape."

"As you say," Philippe agreed, silently thanking whatever guardian angel protected him that de Retz' arrogance had been his undoing with the Marquis' staff. "God has been kind to us tonight." Without further ado, he made his farewells to the Marquis and the assembled guests and withdrew, his mother on his arm, as the crowd sank into bows around them.

* * *

"You were brilliant." Philippe smiled up at the physician. He'd dismissed all but Alain, who was on duty that night, and his father, who'd arrived to examine the king as a matter of course after the attack.

De Montelon bowed. No trace of his apparent inebriation remained; it had begun to slip from him like a discarded cloak after de Retz had been removed. He smiled as he checked Philippe's arm, only slightly bruised from de Retz' wrench. "I was sure my powder would work, Your Majesty. It's a mushroom that grows in the hills. Makes you see what isn't there. It has certain emetic side-effects as well. They're ... never pleasant to experience, especially in a public place."

"No," Philippe agreed dryly. The smell of de Retz still lingered in his nostrils. The court would be laughing about it for days.

"I dry the mushroom and powder it," de Montelon went on. "It comes in handy sometimes." He grinned conspiratorially at his son as he rolled Philippe's sleeve down. Tonight wasn't the first time it had "come in handy", Philippe guessed. He hadn't seen this side of the physician before. De Montelon's habitual gravity was gone, an unaccustomed levity in its place. Philippe enjoyed the contrast.

"Remind me never to take a drink from you," he said, only half-joking. De Montelon at once grew serious. He stopped what he was doing and drew back a little, the better to see Philippe's face.

"You need have no fear, Sire. I keep it for when a weasel needs a check." He laughed, remembering. "Nobody will listen to anything he says from now on. What will you do with him?"

"I'll think about it." He'd wait till the others got back and then decide. "He's safe enough where he is." De Retz was under round-the-clock guard in his quarters.

De Montelon nodded. He gathered his things and prepared to leave, pausing for a quiet word with Alain. Warning him to be careful who they let in, Philippe guessed. He bade the physician good night and thanked him once more before he set off down the hall to his mother's rooms.

* * *

The following evening, Philippe sat alone in his rooms, picking at the plate of food before him. He'd chosen to eat in privacy after a ride in the forest that afternoon; Louis had often done the same. Spiced venison from the Loire gleamed succulent and inviting on its bed of greens, but he wasn't hungry. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him. He'd grown used to that in public areas of the palace, but here in his rooms he was alone. Wasn't he?

He looked around. All was as usual, nothing out of place. Nobody else was in the room. Then why this prickle of unease at the back of his neck? A sudden noise of running feet and distant shouting outside brought him half to his feet, but no knock came at his doors. Something that needn't concern him, then. He relaxed and sank back into his chair.

The recent round of activities had tired him more than he'd expected. His eyes felt dry and gritty from lack of sleep. He stretched his feet out before him and slumped lower in the chair, enjoying the opportunity to slouch. Kicking off his buckled shoes, he wiggled his toes and yawned.

The day had turned unexpectedly warm with the last lingering caress of summer. The huge fire in the hearth, burning all day now in the late autumn, had made the room uncomfortably stuffy. Better too warm than too cold, Philippe thought, remembering the bone-chilling cold of his cell. Still, the breeze on the back of his neck was welcome. He enjoyed it idly, lifting his hair from his collar the better to feel its cool.

The breeze ... He stiffened. The doors were shut. So were the windows. The fire burned steadily, no sign of wind from the flues. Yet the breeze still played on his neck. Suddenly understanding, Philippe sat rigid, the hairs on the back of his neck stirring. It could be coming from only one place. Someone had entered the secret passage, the one they'd used to abduct Louis.

Athos? Back from the forest, perhaps, along with the others. Aramis had said they'd return soon. But Athos would never have crept up on him unawares. Philippe's skin crawled as if at the touch of a blade. Nerving himself, he swung round with a sudden sideways lunge.

De Retz stood leaning against the wall behind him, coat torn and hands bloody, a bloodstained knife thrust carelessly into his belt. Near him, to the side of the hearth, the huge painting covering the entrance to the passage gaped open on its oiled hinges. He laughed as Philippe started violently at sight of him.

"De Retz!"

"At Your Majesty's service." The words dripped hatred. Philippe glanced at the doors. Outside stood two Musketeers, the regular security detail. De Retz saw his look and whipped the knife from his belt.

"I wouldn't try it, Your Majesty. Or whoever you are." He brandished the knife at Philippe. "I'd gut you like a fish before you were halfway there." The relish in his voice turned Philippe cold. De Retz giggled, a jarring falsetto that spoke of an unhinged mind. A day in the cells should have rid him of the mushroom's effects, unless... Had de Montelon overestimated the dose? Or had the drug merely hastened his descent into madness? Philippe opened his mouth to shout for help.

De Retz cut him off. "They aren't there. I set a little fire down the passage. Those tapestries burn like straw." That explained the shouting, then, and the noise of running feet. De Retz sneered reprovingly. "Deserting their posts like that ... they shouldn't have left you unguarded. It wouldn't have happened if I'd been in charge. Not if you'd made me Lieutenant." Spittle sprayed from his mouth.

Philippe stalled for time. "How did you get out?"

"Never set a friend to watch a prisoner." That giggle again. Philippe was sickened by the casual betrayal the words implied. De Retz tapped the knife. "They never believe you'll hurt them. Too bad. He should have been more careful."

His manner changed suddenly. His face darkened and his voice dropped dangerously. "Now it's your turn. You thought to discredit me and live? To make me the laughing stock of the court?" He began to move towards Philippe. "Time to pay the clown."

"Wait!" Philippe put the table between them. His eyes searched the room. His own weapons hung near his bed in the next room. Closer to hand, D'Artagnan's sword gleamed on its rack across the room. With it he could stay out of reach of the knife, but he'd have to reach it first. If he dodged around the table as de Retz lunged ...

He steeled himself to wait. De Retz had stopped, his eye caught by a portrait hanging on the wall. "The old king. Now there was a man," he said. "He took what he wanted. That's the way a king should be. The way the real king is ..." Without warning, he leaped, not around the table but to the top of it. Another bound and he was down, slashing at Philippe with the knife. Philippe flung himself to one side, but he felt the sting as it sliced through his shirt and into the flesh of his shoulder. Blood drenched his shirt and ran hot down his arm.

He lunged around the end of the table toward the sword, but de Retz had followed the sideways flick of his eyes. He picked up a chair and threw it, catching Philippe in the back of the knees and bringing him down. Twisting on the floor, Philippe kicked the chair back as best he could. It caught de Retz in the groin, halting his headlong rush. The sword was too far away, but the secret passage gaped open beside the hearth. While the other man retched and swore, Philippe scrambled to his feet. But de Retz was ahead of him again. He lurched painfully between Philippe and the entrance to the passage, swinging the painting all but closed. Then he advanced again, cursing steadily but fluently under his breath.

Philippe thought fast. His eye fell on his glass of wine, still untouched, the ruby liquid glowing in the candlelight. His heart pounding, he waited till de Retz drew nearer. Then he snatched up the goblet and threw it full in his face. De Retz dodged, throwing up a hand to deflect the heavy crystal which shattered on the hearth behind him. The wine ran red on the stone.

De Retz laughed. He began to advance again, more cautiously now. "You're faster than I thought. Fast or slow, it's all the same in the end. Not for you, though." Philippe shivered at what he saw in his eyes. Even at the worst times in prison, it had never been personal.

Behind de Retz the painting covering the passage moved fractionally. Philippe kept his face from registering it. The wind again? No; the outer door was shut. But he hadn't imagined it; the painting moved again. Philippe forced his eyes away and kept them fixed on de Retz. He began to retreat before him, slowly, staying just out of reach of the knife. Two steps, three, four ...

He'd forgotten the mirror behind him. De Retz' eyes widened suddenly as he saw the painting move. He swung around, too late. Athos and André catapulted into the room, swords drawn. Caught off guard by the ferocity of their entrance, de Retz staggered back against the table. The knife fell from his hand. He retrieved it in a flash, somersaulting under the table and emerging breathless on the other side.

Philippe ran to snatch up his father's sword but de Retz hardly noticed. He was staring at the newcomers, eyes hard. Athos, catlike on the balls of his feet, moved further into the room until he stood at one end of the table. André headed around it in the opposite direction. Never taking his eyes from de Retz, Athos said to Philippe, "And what have we here?" Ice rimmed his voice.

De Retz saw the pincers closing. A sudden leap and he was across the table again, heading for the passage, but Philippe ran to block the entrance. Fetching up beside the huge marble fireplace, de Retz swung round into a snarling crouch. A knife against three swords; it didn't seem to matter to him. He waited, eyes flicking from one to the other.

"It's the other one," Philippe panted. "The one in the carriage that night. François' accomplice." He started to say more, but Athos wasn't listening. He bared his teeth in a travesty of a grin. Philippe felt a twinge of pity for de Retz.

"So," Athos breathed. "You chanced your arm while the king was unprotected. A bad mistake, Monsieur. And your last." He tensed himself to strike.

Without warning, André struck Athos' sword aside with his own. Even at that moment, Philippe had time to wonder at the change in the young Captain. André looked pale and worn; deep lines of fatigue scored his face. But outrage roughened his voice as he shouted at Athos, "Stand back!" Athos stood his ground. Philippe intercepted an odd, charged look between the two. "He's a Musketeer; he's mine!" André's tone boded ill for de Retz.

De Retz looked from one to the other, watching for a break in their concentration. He found none; except for that one quick look at each other, their eyes never left him. Athos seemed to come to a decision. He nodded and stepped closer to Philippe. André nodded back. It seemed to Philippe that some unspoken question and answer had passed between them. Whatever the answer had been, Athos was satisfied.

André advanced. De Retz leaped up from his crouch. One, two futile slashes with the knife; then he dived to one side as André lunged forward. De Retz' boots slipped in the puddle of wine and he went down, his head connecting with the stone hearth with a sickening thud. André was on him in a flash, standing over the prostrate body. "Get up, you cur! Get up and fight me!"

No answer. André poked de Retz with the toe of his boot. "Get up!" Behind him, Athos stood ready. The flames crackled and snapped, but nothing else moved on the hearth. André frowned. He began to sheath his sword.

Athos was beside him at once. "Careful. He could be foxing." In his turn, he poked de Retz with his boot. Then he turned back to them and gestured at the body. A slow stream of red seeped from beneath de Retz' head, reflecting the flames where it pooled between the flags.

André thrust his sword the rest of the way into its scabbard and knelt beside the Musketeer, Athos hovering over him. His hand sought de Retz' neck and lingered there a moment before he turned to Athos and Philippe. "He's dead. That crack on the head ..." He seemed almost relieved. Philippe hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath; he let it out in a long, slow exhalation.

Athos sheathed his sword. With no further interest in de Retz, he turned swiftly to Philippe. "You're bleeding." An understatement. Philippe's sleeve was soaked in blood. Athos pulled the neck of his shirt aside and inspected the wound briefly. He snatched a napkin from the table and fashioned it into a makeshift bandage, staunching the flow. Then he pulled forward a chair and pressed Philippe into it. "Sit still. I'll call the physician."

"It's only a flesh wound." Philippe's shoulder was starting to hurt; he felt light-headed, from relief as much as loss of blood. "I'll be all right. Thanks to you two." A thought struck him. "How is it you're here?"

"We came back tonight. The others went to the Bastille with Louis. They'll be along later. André and I came back to report." Athos' eyes narrowed. "And it's as well we did. The outer door of the passage was ajar. De Retz couldn't have shut it properly behind him. In too much of a hurry, no doubt." He turned to glare at the body. "The gallery was empty, thank God, but it worried us. Nobody's supposed to know about the passage except us. So we crept in and listened. You know the rest."

André had been silent during Athos' recital. Philippe turned to him to repeat his thanks and checked, taken aback by the expression on the young Captain's face. André was staring at him. He seemed to be measuring him up, scanning him in a way he'd never done before, not even that first night when he'd needed to reassure himself Philippe was really Louis' twin. He's looking for something, Philippe realized with a shock. There was only one thing it could be. He swung round to Athos, a question in his eyes.

André forestalled him. "Yes, that's right," he said, an odd catch in his voice. "I know it all now. Everything," he stressed, with a bitter little smile. Philippe's heart constricted. André's conscience had troubled him mightily over breaking his oath of loyalty to Louis, but he'd served them in the belief that Philippe himself was royal. And, Philippe had begun to hope, from a growing personal loyalty. Philippe remembered Athos' odd reluctance to cede de Retz to André; he understood it now. Perhaps he'd been premature in believing the danger over.

He cleared his throat. "You know, then. And yet you would have killed de Retz?" I don't want to lose him, he thought. We need the Captain on our side. But more than that, he's a good man; I want his respect.

Sudden shouts in the corridor relayed the news of the prisoner's escape. A thunderous hammering at the door signaled the return of the guard, belatedly frantic for the king's safety. André's lips tightened as the hapless Musketeers charged into the room. In the few seconds of chaos as the guards took in the scene, he spoke under his breath to Philippe. "I served your father gladly. This churl," with a scornful glance at de Retz' body, " this excuse for a Musketeer ... disgraces his memory."

White-faced and fearful, the commander of the guard ran up. André stayed the man with raised hand, his eyes still fixed on Philippe's. He nodded formally. "Sire!" Then he turned his attention to his men and began to snap out questions.

Philippe, dizzy from loss of blood, swayed in the chair. He dropped his head into his hands, supported on his knees. Athos' harsh whisper was almost instantaneous. "The physician comes now."

"I'll send for him," Philippe murmured. He looked up at the guards, who were staring at his shoulder, ashen at the consequences of their dereliction of duty. "It's all right. You did what you thought you had to. I was well protected." No need for them to know de Retz hadn't slipped in through the main doors; Athos and André too, for that matter. The commander, clearly curious despite his shock, contented himself with a covert stare at Athos.

"Send for M. de Montelon," André ordered. "At the double. Tell him His Majesty is wounded. And call up reinforcements for the door while you're gone this time." The guards, subdued, left the room at a run. André looked after them. "They'll feel this badly," he said. "They're good men."

"I know," Philippe said. "They made a mistake, that's all. We all do, sometimes." Even D'Artagnan, his eyes said; even you. André, catching his meaning, nodded slowly. It would be a long time, Philippe guessed, before he came to terms with what had happened. But for the moment, it seemed, he was saying nothing. That was enough for now.

* * *

"And that was the way of it." Armand de Montelon finished his recital and looked warily around the circle of faces. Beside him, Philippe nodded agreement and stretched back in his chair, wincing a little as his bandaged shoulder made contact with a carved knob.

By the time de Montelon, accompanied by Alain at Philippe's request, had finished tending his wound, Aramis and Porthos had arrived, horrified to discover what had passed in their absence. All discussion of their mission in the forest was postponed till the immediate crisis was past and they could be alone. A detail of guards had removed de Retz' corpse for burial; not even the wine stain remained on the hearth. They'd heard de Montelon out in silence.

Aramis asked the question in all their minds. "And you, Monsieur ... where do you stand? You've told us what you've done, and for that we're deeply grateful. But for all that, I'd like to know ... why aren't we in prison now? Or dead?" He stared at de Montelon, noting the calm eyes and the quiet authority with which he spoke. This man had more than high position; he had the moral presence to bring them down, if he chose. Few would doubt his word if he declared Philippe an impostor, for few knew the king as well as he.

"Of course." De Montelon nodded. He glanced at Philippe, then again around the others: Aramis, intent and wary; Athos, silent and coiled; Porthos, uncharacteristically subdued; and André, tired but determined. "You have a right to know. It's something I've thought about a lot, why it was there was never any question in my mind about what I should do." His voice took on a sudden edge of anguish that made them look at him closely. "You ask me where I stand? With you, for you, and behind you. Every step of the way."

Nobody spoke. The pain in the physician's voice was raw and immediate. Aramis raised an inquiring eyebrow at André, who looked down at his lap and made no answer. Alain exclaimed in concern and reached out a hand. His father's hand went out to clasp his, hard; they sat like that, unmoving, for a few moments, while the others waited in silence.

Eventually de Montelon released Alain's hand. When he spoke, his voice was steady. "Let me tell you a story. We don't normally speak of it, but you have to know if you're going to understand."

He took a deep breath. "Two summers ago, a young woman came to the court. She was sixteen, barely old enough to have her hair up. Her name was Monique. Since she first learned to say her prayers she'd been devout. She wished only to serve the Holy Mother as a nun with the Poor Clares." The Poor Clare convent was notorious for the poverty of its sisters but famed for its service to those in need. "The child – for she was barely a woman – was frail, but her will was strong. She would hear of nothing else."

De Montelon's voice took on a tremor. Alain, with a glance at Philippe for permission, went to the cupboard where the king's private store of wine was kept and filled a cup. He pressed it into his father's grasp. De Montelon sipped from it in hands not quite steady. Then he resumed. "Her parents were provincial aristocrats. Monique was their youngest daughter. They beat her, locked her in her rooms, anything to break her will and stop what they saw as her madness. A husband and ten children as rich and fat as they were, that's what they wanted for her. But nothing worked. She cried, of course she cried, but she wouldn't give in. In the end they decided a change of scene might help."

He passed a hand over his eyes. "Monique had an uncle, the mother's brother, living in the capital. Right here at the court itself. A man of position and influence; his son mixed with young court society. They thought that if he asked her to visit for a month or two, she'd see what she was missing. They begged him ... me to invite her. And I did. God forgive me, I did." Tears stood in his eyes. The wine sat forgotten on the table.

De Montelon blew his nose on a crumpled strip of linen fished from his pocket. "I curse the day I agreed," he said simply. "Better she'd gone straight to the convent than set foot here, near him." They waited, half-guessing what was to come.

Porthos passed along a flask of brandy; something stronger than wine seemed called for. De Montelon drank from it gratefully, coughing a little. "The girl was presented to the king soon after she arrived. I arranged it myself." Self-loathing twisted his face. "She was shy; she could hardly lift her eyes from the floor. My wife made sure she wore the latest fashion. Oh, God!" He smashed his fist down on the arm of his chair. "When I think of how we paraded her before that ... that ..."

Tears choked his voice. Nor were his hearers unaffected. Athos made a noise somewhere deep in his throat. Aramis and Porthos swallowed hard, Aramis fingering the cross at his breast. André, who knew what was coming, fell to examining the hilt of his sword.

"The king was graciousness itself. He took to her, invited her on carriage rides, saw to it she was included in the balls and entertainments. She wanted none of it, but he insisted. And he wouldn't be denied." A vision of endless years of making amends for his brother stretched before Philippe. "Then one night she came in distraught, rushed to her room, wouldn't come out. My wife was desperate. We tried everything, but her door stayed locked."

"The next morning she was – well, she was always quiet, but she was – muted somehow. As though a lamp had gone out. She spoke when she was spoken to, moved like a marionette, shivered from time to time. We thought she'd displeased the king somehow; certainly he stopped asking for her from that day forward. But he didn't order her home. He just ... forgot she existed. Then, a few weeks later ..."

"Papa!" Alain interjected, alarmed at his pallor. "Let me tell them. You're distressing yourself too much." He offered the brandy again, but his father gestured it away.

"No," de Montelon said doggedly. "I brought her here; I'll tell it myself. A few weeks later, my wife heard her weeping This time she talked. She had no choice, she was with child. She had older sisters, married sisters, who lived in the family house with their husbands; she knew the signs. Her mind had cracked under the shock, but we didn't know that then." He pressed his hands together hard. "She begged to be taken to the convent. We thought ... it would be for the best, that they'd take her in while we decided what to do. I arranged it with the Mother Superior and we took her there in our carriage one night."

"We were crossing a bridge. She said she felt sick, asked for the carriage to stop. She got out and leaned over the parapet. Before Alain could stop her, she climbed up over it and jumped. The Seine was swollen with storm rains. D'Artagnan ordered André and his men to help with the search, but it was no use. They never found her body."

His hearers sat transfixed. Alain sat with downcast eyes, head in one hand. "The king never spoke of her again," de Montelon said. "Never mentioned her name, didn't even notice she'd gone. He seduced her and discarded her like a used handkerchief." He looked at Aramis. "And that's the answer to your question. I'd watched this young man since the ball; couldn't believe the change in the king. For the better, in all respects. I thought at first it was ... I don't know, some sort of miracle. And when I realised it wasn't, well ..." He looked around at their faces. "You have nothing to fear from me."

Nobody spoke. Then de Montelon spoke urgently to Philippe. "For myself I have no fear. You must do with me as you will. But my son ..." he glanced anxiously at Alain," Is my son safe?"

"Your son is in no danger," Philippe replied quietly. He looked around at the others and added firmly, "From any of us." He met Alain's eyes; they exchanged a tentative smile.

De Montelon seemed to crumple in on himself with relief, like a bearskin with no bear inside. He sagged back in his chair and mopped his brow. "I watched him grow up, you know." No-one had to ask who he meant. "He didn't seem so bad at first. Then he got too wild, wouldn't listen to advice. Captain D'Artagnan was worried too, I could tell." Philippe suppressed a start. "Oh, he never said anything, but I'd catch a look on his face ... He was a good man. Louis should have listened to him. And speaking of Louis ... if I may ask ...?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"In a safe place," Philippe said." No need for you to know where. But he's unharmed."

De Montelon seemed relieved. "Good. Good. I hated him in the end, but ... well, the person of the king is sacred, after all. I wouldn't like to think ..."

"How did you know about the twin?" Athos asked suddenly. He hadn't spoken since they'd sat down with the physician and his son, but Philippe had been keenly aware of his brooding presence. Athos must be disappointed in him. He'd let them all down, despite his brave words. Unable to manage alone at the court, he'd ended by disclosing the secret to two more people. He dreaded the conversation he faced later that night.

De Montelon told Athos what he'd told Philippe. Athos nodded. "I thought it might be that." He studied the physician impassively, but Philippe thought he detected an odd undercurrent of anger in his gaze.

De Montelon endured the inspection calmly. "And you?" he asked. "How did you know about it, I mean. All involved were sworn to secrecy." Athos glanced at Aramis.

Aramis flushed. "I was the duty officer that night, as you'll recall. I took the child away. Then later – years later – I took him away again. I knew where he was," he said bleakly. A recent service to Philippe had done much to lift his burden of guilt, but he still didn't like to be reminded of it. He changed the subject suddenly. "Louis seduced your niece. Yet you served him still?" His tone implied no censure.

It was de Montelon's turn to flush. "I had Alain to think of. For myself, my wife, it didn't matter. but my son, and our other children ... the king's temper is legendary. Any word of reproof from me and his vengeance might have fallen on Alain. And I had enemies at court, men who resented my position; they'd have been glad to bring me down. A word here, a rumor there – no-one is safe. It can all end in a moment." They all knew what had happened to Louis' chief adviser, summarily executed over the food riots for following the king's own command to distribute the food rotting on the wharves. "And so I ... I never even dared to breathe her name. I'll carry that shame to my grave." His face was old and tired beyond his years.

"Then came the ball. I was there, so was Alain. I wasn't surprised when the king's mistress accused him of arranging her fiance's death; by then I knew what he was capable of." Philippe remembered it well; it had been he she'd accused, thinking he was Louis. He shot a glance at Athos, whose eyes remained fixed on his lap.

"After that night, things changed." Alain took up the story. His father seemed happy to let him. "Captain D'Artagnan died, the king went into retreat. I was appointed valet de chambre. That was as big a surprise to me as it was to everybody else. I thought at first he ...you, Sire," he glanced apologetically at Philippe, "might be trying to make amends for Monique, some sort of religious penance. Not very flattering to think of myself as a penance," he grinned, with a shrug. "But then I realised it couldn't be that. To him it wasn't a sin. Arranging a death, yes, but not abandoning a woman. He took women as his due."

"From what Alain told me," Armand de Montelon put in, "things had begun to change. The king was polite; he treated his mother with respect. I sensed something was wrong. I knew him too well to believe the conversion story." He looked apologetically at Aramis. "Forgive me, Father, but God can only do so much. It would have taken much more than a miracle to turn that young man around." He swung round to face Philippe. "So I began to wonder ... but I wasn't sure. Not until the day you had that fall."

Philippe nodded, remembering. He'd been fencing with Porthos in private one rainy day two weeks ago, lunging back and forward around the big salon, when he'd slipped and fallen hard against the edge of a table. Porthos, worried something was broken, had called de Montelon. Nothing worse than a bad knock, as it turned out, but Philippe had carried the bruises for over a week. "I saw the scar on your back then," de Montelon said. "It wasn't recent. I knew very well Louis didn't have one."

Aramis closed his eyes with a grimace of relief. Jean had warned him about the scar on the day of Philippe's escape, when he'd asked the monks to check for any blemishes when they'd cleaned the boy up. There'd been nothing they could do but hope for the best. And against all the odds, it seemed, the best had happened. If the scar hadn't remained undiscovered, at least no enemy had found it.

De Montelon sank back in his chair, fatigue scoring his face. He sat with his eyes closed for a minute. Then he rose stiffly to his feet and bowed to Philippe. "With your permission, Sire, if your shoulder isn't troubling you, I should like to retire." Alain rose with him.

"Of course," Philippe said instantly. "You must be very tired. Alain, no need to come back." He reached out impulsively and clasped Alain's hand, then his father's. Each in turn returned the pressure gladly. Philippe gestured to André to escort them to the now punctiliously vigilant guards outside the door. With a murmured promise to return in the morning, father and son left the room. André returned to his seat as the doors closed behind them.

Philippe eased his shoulder to a more comfortable position and sat back in his chair,. For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Aramis crossed himself and murmured, "Deliverance comes in unexpected guises." He turned to stare at the scrubbed hearth; the others followed his gaze. "That was close, Philippe," he said eventually. "Too close."

"It was," Philippe agreed. No need to tell him just how close it had been. "But thanks to André – and to Athos – it's finished now. De Retz said he'd left a letter, but he was probably bluffing."

André looked up. "Easy enough to find out. There'd be only one or two he'd have left it with; I'll search their rooms tonight. De Retz didn't mix much. He thought we were beneath him. Either that or against him." André had been one of the chief targets of de Retz' spleen. The other man had made no secret of his resentment at André's promotion to Lieutenant, and later to Captain. André had disciplined him more than once for insubordination. Clearly, de Retz had brooded about it. André went on, "I'll have the whole barracks searched to cover it. We'll say we're looking for an accomplice who helped him escape. That should either smoke them out or scare them off; nothing like the whiff of a treason charge to loosen tongues."

A shadow crossed his face as he heard his own words. He glanced at Philippe for a moment, then continued. "You're probably right, though. De Pons wasn't the type to share the spoils. Nor was de Retz. I can't see him trusting anyone with a letter, especially if it showed him up as a blackmailer."

Athos nodded. "That makes sense. De Retz was well and truly discredited at the reception, from what we've heard. A wise man would burn any letter of his unopened. But I agree, he isn't likely to have left one."

Athos hadn't said much since the fight with de Retz. Once he was certain the attacker was dead and Philippe would survive, he'd sat for the most part erect in his chair, studying his lap. Relieved, that much was certain, but not best pleased, Philippe guessed, at the de Montelon situation. He'd regarded the older de Montelon, on the few occasions he'd looked up, with his most tellingly neutral look.

Athos had been right to sense danger; it just hadn't come from the direction he'd expected. He hadn't been completely wrong, though. Louis had indeed tried to escape from the lodge, fooling his captors into thinking him weaker than he was – though that had been weak enough. Athos had brought him down and had come within an inch of killing him in his rage. All this Philippe knew from Aramis' earlier report.

Aramis brought Philippe up to date on Louis' return to prison and on their last few days at the lodge. Philippe heard him out in silence, asking only an occasional question. Until they came to the aftermath of the escape, when Aramis' flow of narrative faltered suddenly and trickled to a halt. He was careful not to look at Athos. "Philippe," he said carefully, "I haven't told you this before, but something's changed. André knows the truth about your father."

Philippe looked down the long table to where André sat at the other end. André met his eyes with a level gaze of his own. The excitement of action over, he looked drawn and strained again, as if he hadn't slept for days. He probably hadn't, Philippe thought, remembering his own sleepless nights after he'd learned the truth. He forced his attention back to Aramis. "Yes," he said. "He told me. How did that come about?"

Nobody spoke at first. Then Porthos said bluntly, "Athos told him."

"Porthos ..." Aramis rolled his eyes to the ceiling. The table was too wide for a discreet kick. "Must you ...?"

"Well? He did." Porthos gave the others a puzzled stare. "What difference does it make?" He'd never seen the need for discretion among friends, hardly even knew the meaning of the word. Aramis passed a hand over his eyes and shook his head. Athos wasn't smiling.

"It doesn't matter how he knows." Philippe glossed over the sudden awkwardness. "The fact remains, he does. What we need to know," he turned to André, "is what you intend to do about it." André's hasty whisper had quelled his earlier fears, but the young Captain deserved a proper hearing. Philippe intended to see that he got it.

André opened his mouth to speak but a knock at the door forestalled him. Rising, he walked across and opened it. The worried face of the commander, who'd not long been promoted to Lieutenant, appeared in the gap. "Your pardon, Captain. The palace is secure. We've found no other intruder, and everyone's movements are accounted for. De Retz escaped by himself."

He paused uncomfortably. The men had been offered no official explanation of André's absence. "If you're back now, Sir, perhaps you'd take over the debriefing. If it wouldn't be interrupting, that is." He wasn't usually given to stammering. But the circumstances were outside his experience, and his face still showed his shock at how his watch might have ended.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll take over now. Assemble the company in the duty room, but see these doors are guarded at all times." The Lieutenant bowed and left smartly to carry out his orders. André closed the door and turned back to the others.

"It's best I go now," he said, collecting his hat and sword. "It would only cause more talk if I didn't. With your permission, Sire..."

Philippe rose himself and escorted André to the door. "Come back when you've finished. Please."

André nodded. "I may be some time. We'll search the barracks first." He bowed and turned to leave.

"Wait!" Athos said. "Take Aramis and Porthos with you. They can help with the search."

André's lips compressed slightly, but his expression didn't change. He inclined his head. "As you say. It will speed things along."

Aramis chivvied Porthos to his feet. Porthos clapped a hand to his rump in mock despair. Muttering about how far he'd ridden that day, he trooped out, mournfully tugging his mustache, in the wake of the others.

Silence fell in the king's chamber. Athos crossed to the hearth and stood toeing a tiny remnant of the shattered wineglass into the fire. "You must be hungry," Philippe said. I can have something brought ..."

Athos shook his head. "I don't want anything." He continued to scuff his foot on the flags, though none of the glass remained. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw set. Philippe bit his lip. He looked around for some diversion. His eye fell on D'Artagnan's sword, back on the sideboard where he'd replaced it earlier. He walked over and picked it up, half-unsheathing it to admire the play of firelight on the polished metal. The weight felt good in his hand.

Athos turned and watched him. "It's a good blade," he said. "Toledo steel. It belonged to his father, he said, and his grandfather before that. He always wore it, never took the regulation issue. That nick on the blade, there," he pointed at a tiny mark, "I remember when ..." He broke off. Still, he'd spoken, and Philippe took heart from the fact. He put the sword back on its rack. The sight of it had given him courage tonight. It hadn't saved his life, but he'd felt his father near him.

"It happened as you feared, then, with my brother," he said. Athos nodded. "It's as well you were there. Aramis said he'd have been gone for sure if you hadn't brought him down." Athos shrugged.

Philippe was suddenly impatient. "Athos, for God's sake! It's all turned out for the best, hasn't it? Louis is back in prison, de Retz is dead ... even André knows it all now, and he hasn't turned us in." Yet, at any rate. But they had time. Philippe had faith that André would be back to talk to him first, as he'd promised.

Athos jerked his head up. "And two more people know the truth," he burst out. "Oh, not about D'Artagnan – thank God for that, at least. But about who you are, and what we've done." He laughed bitterly. "Tomorrow the world?"

A weight settled on Philippe's heart. He'd known this moment was coming. "I'm sorry." He spread his hands in apology. "I let you down. I could have handled de Retz myself if it hadn't been for the nightmare. I'd have thought of something. It's all my fault the others know now." Athos was staring at him. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"You're sorry?" Athos' voice was incredulous. "You think I blame you for this?" Philippe looked away. "Philippe, you surely can't think ... All that matters is that you're unharmed." He glanced at Philippe's bandaged shoulder. "Mostly, anyhow."

"But I thought you ...You seemed so ..." Philippe was taken aback. He'd been so sure Athos would think less of him for bringing this new trouble upon them.

Athos said quietly, "Of course this isn't your fault. You did the best you could, and a fine job it was too." He stopped. "Your father would have been proud of you. As I am. If anyone's to blame, I am. I was desperate to get away to the lodge." Dull spots of color rose in his cheeks. He dropped his hand and moved away, turning to stand facing Philippe as though he were on the parade ground. "I should have known it wasn't safe here. We knew François' accomplice was still at large. And I knew you'd been having those nightmares before I left."

"I told you to go, remember?" Philippe reminded him. "I said I'd be all right, and I was. The nightmare turned out to be a blessing in the end." He grasped Athos' shoulders and said firmly, "I won't have you blaming yourself for this." Athos said nothing. "I ... I *order* you not to, Athos, do you hear?" Philippe laughed, but he meant it.

For a moment Athos said nothing. Then a faint smile creased his face and Philippe felt his shoulders relax. "Well," Athos said mockingly, "when the king commands, his servant must obey." Philippe grinned at him, relieved to see the cloud lift. He dropped his hands, then raised one again to punch Athos lightly on the shoulder. They moved to the table and sat down.

Athos stretched out his legs. "It could be worse, I suppose. So de Montelon knew all along about the twin. We should have guessed there'd be someone. At least he's on our side." He studied his glass and said, too casually, "You seemed to get on well with him."

So that was it. Philippe understood suddenly. It wasn't anger he'd seen in Athos' eyes earlier as he'd looked at the physician – it was loneliness. Loneliness and fear of loss, as if he were yielding the field. Cultured, good-hearted and honorable, de Montelon had much to offer Philippe. Athos hadn't missed the kindness in the physician's voice when he spoke to Philippe, or the eagerness of Philippe's response.

Compassion filled Philippe as he looked at Athos. Stubborn as a mule, and about as sensible sometimes. He'd decided he couldn't compete, no doubt. Philippe thought he'd made his feelings plain enough at D'Artagnan's funeral, but Athos clearly needed reminding. He was likely to withdraw altogether if he thought his usefulness to Philippe was over.

Philippe thought quickly. "I took to him, it's true," he said. "He reminds me of you. I can't think of two advisors I'd rather have. I owe you both so much. You more than anyone, you know that. And speaking of advice," he veered away at once toward the practical, "De Retz may not have been lying about the letter. If the others don't find anything tonight, we'll need to think about what else he might have done with it. Outside André, no-one else knows the barracks as well as you do." Unlike Aramis and Porthos, Athos had stayed in the service until he retired, serving Louis after the old king's death.

Athos' fingers stopped their restless drumming. He straightened up. "No time like the present," he said, stifling a yawn. "The first thing to do is ..."

"Athos, Athos!" Philippe shook his head and leaned across the table, smiling. "It can wait till morning. You need rest."

"Not yet," Athos said slowly. He stood up and came round the table to stand beside Philippe, who rose also. "I'll stand watch in the passage. We don't know for sure how de Retz found out about it. We can't leave it unguarded, just in case." Nor could they tell the duty guard about it, or it would be no secret at all.

"André will take care of it," Philippe said firmly. He gave Athos a little push. "Go on, old man. Or should I have you carted off to a cell? If locking you in's the only way ..."

Athos snorted and aimed a cuff at Philippe's head. "I'm going," he said, looking around for his cloak. "You could take your own advice, it seems to me."

Philippe propelled him firmly to the door. "Goodnight," he said repressively. "Sleep well." Athos gave a mock salute, converting it to a proper bow as the door opened wide enough to admit the guard's face. He slipped outside with a murmured goodnight and was gone.

* * *

Philippe sat thinking as he waited for André's return. He'd have to tread carefully with Athos where de Montelon was concerned. His head nodded. He jerked himself awake. Counting the candles might help, or the crystals in the chandelier. By the time he heard the knock, he'd started on the leaves in the tapestries.

"Anything?" he asked as the Captain entered.

"Nothing," André shook his head. "As I expected, really."

Philippe was unsurprised. De Retz had said nothing more of any letter, even under the influence of de Montelon's drug. Of much greater concern to Philippe was what André might say next.

They stood beside the hearth, soaking up the warmth of the fire. "You didn't doubt I'd return?" André gazed down at the flags where de Retz' body had lain.

"No." The answer came quickly. "And we're looking at the reason." Philippe gestured at the hearth. "If you'd been going to turn me in, you'd have done it then, not killed him. The question is, what now?"

André shrugged and said obliquely, "De Retz was a nasty piece of work. I've had my eye on him for a while." He hadn't answered the question. Philippe's heart sank. The young Captain was an honorable man. Philippe had taken pleasure in their growing bond, which had strengthened with each day that passed despite André's sensitive conscience.

But that had been before the trip to the forest, before André knew what he knew now. Unwanted and unwelcome knowledge, by the circles under his eyes. He seemed almost embarrassed as he looked at Philippe. André was a king's man, through and through, his devotion to the crown unwavering. Devout, too– like D'Artagnan before him, he took an oath seriously. He'd stifled his misgivings while he thought Philippe the son of the old king. Now that he knew that wasn't true, and that his revered D'Artagnan had committed treason of such magnitude ... Philippe's heart was a stone in his chest.

André seemed loath to speak. "Do you ... need time to think?" Philippe asked carefully. He wanted to move away, but suspense held him where he was.

Eventually André stirred. Heaving a sigh that came from the soles of his mud-spattered boots, he raised his head and looked at Philippe, a long, searching look that took in the injured shoulder, the lines of fatigue and strain in the face and the steady grey eyes. Philippe endured the scrutiny in silence as long as he could. But then he snapped. "André, please ... I must know." He reached out a hand in frank entreaty.

André didn't take it. Philippe returned it slowly to his side. It's over, then, he thought; it was too much to ask. He moved away from the hearth and sank into a chair, his head beginning to ache. Perhaps if he begged for time, the others could get away. André might grant that one last favor, for D'Artagnan's sake.

André was still watching him. "No," he said suddenly, "I don't need time to think. I've done little else since I found out." More than a week had passed since then. He'd paced his room at the lodge at night, spent time at prayer, but peace – or resolution – had stayed out of his reach. Until tonight. "I've made up my mind." He stayed where he was by the hearth.

Philippe nodded wearily. He gathered his remaining resources and stood to take the blow.

The lines on André's face seemed to deepen as he regarded Philippe steadily "I've thought. I've prayed. I've thought again." He gave a harsh half-laugh. "I've even spoken to a priest. Aramis, anyway. And I've come to this decision: I'll serve you as king and say nothing."

Philippe gaped at him. He'd braced himself for rejection; all his thoughts had been bent on summoning the courage to deal with it. André nodded. "You heard me right."

"I thought ... I thought you'd ...but ... why?" Philippe collected himself and hastened to add, "I'm more glad than I can say." Images of flight, disaster, humiliation and death receded swiftly. "What made you ...?"

"The alternative doesn't bear thinking about." André gestured at a chair." With respect, Sire, I think you should sit." Philippe sat down, and motioned André to do the same. "You really must be more careful about inviting others to sit in your presence," André said with a lopsided grin that sat oddly on his tired face. "It isn't done at all."

"I'll remember that," Philippe responded with a fleeting smile of his own. He never did it in public, anyway; the courtiers would have had a seizure.

"What's the alternative?" André resumed, serious again." The Duc d'Orleans? Worse than the old king, I'd have thought. Certainly not up to the task." Since Philippe's ascension, the food riots had stopped and the war with the Dutch been concluded; a measure of stability had replaced the increasing civil unrest of Louis' reign.

"Some might say that's not for me to decide," André went on, "and they'd be right. God appoints the king, not man. But I've seen what you've tried to do – you and the others – and I saw what you replaced." More closely than most others, André as D'Artagnan's Lieutenant had witnessed Louis' excesses. He'd come close to compromising his honor beyond recall in that king's service; the memory kept him awake sometimes at night. "Then there's your mother. She's suffered enough already." They were approaching the heart of the matter; both of them knew it.

"And ... my father?"

André sighed again. He sat back in his chair and passed a hand across his face. When he looked up, the pain he still felt was clear in his eyes. "I won't pretend it wasn't a shock. I thought ... I thought he was perfect, you see." He flushed a little. "But he was ... a man. The best man I've ever known, save for my father, but a man for all that. Mortal, fallible like us all. If he committed treason – and he did – it wasn't for lack of scruple, I'll stake my honor on it." He already had; he and Philippe both smiled faintly in acknowledgment of the fact.

"He must have loved her very much," André said softly. "The kind of love I only dream of. And later – he had others to protect. God knows what he'd have done if he'd known about you. Perhaps it was for the best that he didn't." He glanced at Philippe in quick apology. "Not for you, of course," he hastened to add. "Never for you." Aramis had told him Philippe's history in the long hours before the dawn, the night they'd put Philippe on the throne. Philippe grimaced. He'd thought about it often enough himself, wondering what would have happened ...

"He did the best he could." André stood up. Philippe, taken by surprise, rose with him. "So I've decided ... if God will forgive him, as the Church teaches, then who am I to judge? And the rest of you as well ... Things haven't turned out badly. Quite the opposite, in fact. I ... I'd like to think I could play some part in keeping that going. In protecting you, if you like. The Captain would have wanted that. Therefore," André's manner changed, becoming stiff and formal as he dropped suddenly to one knee before Philippe. "I pledge myself to your service, Sire. In the name of God and France."

Philippe opened his mouth but no voice emerged. He reached out his hands to André, who placed his own between them in the age-old gesture of fealty. When he could speak again, Philippe said, "And I pledge in return: I will give you no cause to regret it. Not you, not my father." André rose to his feet. They stood looking at each other a moment longer, Philippe in the torn and bloodstained clothing he had not yet replaced, André in the fresh uniform he'd changed into since Philippe had seen him last. He dressed for the occasion, Philippe thought, a trifle wildly; I should have read the signs.

A question stood unspoken in the young Captain's eyes, one Philippe saw he would not ask. He answered it for him. "You'd have been in no danger from me. I don't know what we'd have done ... but your life would have been safe. You have my word on it."

André nodded. "That's what I thought." Then he turned, suddenly all efficiency, and went to the painting on the wall. Satisfied that the passage entry was closed tight, he pulled the heavy sideboard in front of it. "That should secure it for now. I'll be back to move it before the servants notice. And I'll stop to talk to the others on my way back to the barracks – to tell them what we've just discussed," he said. "It will mean waking them, perhaps, but they'll sleep the sounder for it later, no doubt."

Philippe sensed that André would never voluntarily speak of his oath again. A few minutes later, satisfied that the rooms were secure, André took his leave. Philippe heard him exchange a few words with the guards before his footsteps receded along the corridor.

He moved into his bedroom and began to undress, relishing the absence of servants.
Easing a nightshirt over his injured shoulder, he opened a window and leaned on the sill, breathing in the night air. Near at hand a monastery bell struck for Matins. Somewhere monks were rising from their pallets in the dark and filing into the chapel to pray, in an age-old ritual of the church. The knowledge soothed him. Good men were everywhere, he thought, not just in the cloister. Athos and the other two, the de Montelons... and now André. His father had left him much more than a sword.

An occasional soft thud drifted up to him from the river nearby as a boat moored at the quai bumped gently against the wood in the wind. Clouds scudded across the moon, harbingers of more of the rain that had marked that autumn. Philippe leaned there a few moments more, looking out over the sleeping city. Then he closed the window and went to his bed.