Man in the Iron Mask, Gen Fic 5: Night of Masks

by Amadeus1

Victory has been won, at too high a cost. The surviving Musketeers grieve over D'Artagnan while Philippe tries to come to grips with the sudden change in his fortunes. tomorrow will bring both a funeral and a new beginning, but there's work to be done.

NIGHT OF MASKS

by Amadeus

r_amadeus@hotmail.net

The stairs went on forever. Louis couldn't keep his footing; André's grip was steel on his throat and arm, propelling him down and down to the lower dungeons. The hard edge of the iron mask bit into his neck as he peered frantically through the eye slits, trying to see what lay ahead.

The governor, alerted by soldiers, waited at the bottom, sweating profusely. The prisoner had escaped; who knew what reprisals that might bring. Louis screamed at him to help, but he couldn't move his jaw properly; the mask obscured his words. He yelped, as much in outrage as in pain, as André cuffed him viciously.

"What did he say?" the governor asked. He strove for a casual tone, but his tense fingers plucked at the stitching on his coat as he shifted from foot to foot. "I couldn't make it out."

"Nothing important. The fool's mad; thinks he's the king." André's tone was savage; he was breathing hard, sick with rage and grief over D'Artagnan's death. He jerked Louis back as he tried to break free, and hooked an arm around his neck.

The governor was desperate to regain favor. "Oh." He tittered nervously. "But everyone knows His Majesty is upstairs with his men." Louis wanted to strangle the fool on the spot. He'd approved his appointment himself, but they'd never met. "You got him back, then," the governor continued placatingly.

"No thanks to you." André's glare spoke volumes. "The king's life was endangered because he escaped. You're lucky you're not in a cell yourself." He'd always thought the man a groveling incompetent, more interested in preferment than efficiency.

The governor quailed in the face of his anger. "Wh...what are His Majesty's orders?"

"You'll have them in full in the morning," André snapped. "Till then, nobody - nobody - is to see this prisoner. Do you understand?" The governor did. "Good. And find a deaf-mute to be his keeper."

Louis, who'd been shouting only half-intelligibly at the governor during this exchange, took advantage of a momentary slackening of André's grip to hack desperately backwards at his shins, managing to connect with some force. A retaliatory blow to the side of his head stunned him a little, but the iron protected him from the worst of it. André shook his jarred hand impatiently and resumed his hold.

"A deaf-mute, you say?" The governor scratched his head, perplexed. "I'd need some time ..."

"I'll come myself if I have to," André cut him off. "Until you find someone, but make it quick. We'll review security tomorrow." Louis lunged sideways and he hit him again, hard, this time prudently aiming for his kidneys. Louis sagged to his knees, his mind a confusion of panic, rage and a growing fear.

"Gomerz might do, I suppose," the governor said doubtfully. Gomerz, a casualty of Louis' wars, shoveled out the prison stables. "He wasn't born deaf-mute, but you wouldn't know that now. He's been deaf since a shell burst beside him in the last war. Hasn't spoken since then either; I don't think he can, now. He's a surly brute, keeps to himself, but he'd be glad of the work, most likely."

"See to it, then," André ordered curtly. He hauled Louis roughly to his feet. Louis flailed his arms despairingly at the governor, trying to catch hold of his coat, but the man only shrugged and stepped back out of reach.

"What's that thing on his head?" the governor risked a question.

"That's not for you to know. Now ... find an empty cell." The governor gestured to a cell with a heavy wooden door at the far end of the corridor. "And clear out the cells around him."

The governor's jaw dropped. "You want him alone in the wing? That's highly unusual." Unprecedented, in fact. Louis felt a chill down his spine at André's words. He was suddenly conscious of the weight of the old stone prison pressing down on him from above, massive and brooding.

"The king is still in the prison. Perhaps you'd prefer to hear it from him?"

"No, no," the governor said hastily. "I only thought ... I'll see to it at once." He summoned a keeper with a peremptory hand. "Open the cell at the end." They followed the keeper along the passage as he hurried to obey. The cell door swung open and André dragged his struggling prisoner to it.

A hefty shove between the shoulders sent Louis staggering forward into the center of the dark cell. By the light of the flambeau on the wall outside, he could just make out a table, a chair and a narrow bed. André was out the door again before he could regain his footing. The keeper moved forward with the key; Louis heard it turn in the heavy lock.

In the corridor, André turned to the governor. "Only the deaf-mute goes in there. Nobody else gets this key. Is that understood?" He took the key from the keeper and handed it over.

"Yes, but ..."

"No exceptions. You'll have the rest of your orders in the morning." The governor stifled his questions and nodded uncertainly. André turned on his heel and started back up the stairs to where the others waited with D'Artagnan's body, contempt in every line of his rigid back.

An hour later, Louis was still banging with bleeding knuckles on the door. His throat was raw from screaming; his breath came in huge tearing gulps. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face, causing the mask to rub uncomfortably. Nobody stirred on the other side; the muffled noises as the occupants of the other cells were moved out had subsided. Earlier, he'd heard the occasional clanging of a heavy gate somewhere in the distance, but now even that was gone. All he could hear was the frantic pounding of his own heart, magnified in his ears by the close-fitting mask.

A fresh spasm of rage shook him, leaving him breathless in its wake. He stopped his assault on the door and withdrew to the narrow bed, sitting on the edge to catch his breath. Snatching his lacerated knuckles to his mouth, he bit off a hiss of frustration as they encountered the enveloping mask. The weight of it on his head forced his neck forward; he jerked upright uncomfortably. From nowhere the choking terror attacked him again with terrifying suddenness. He couldn't breathe. He clawed at the unyielding metal with palms gone slippery with sweat.

Don't move. Sit still. He forced himself to breathe slowly until the panic receded. His brother lasted six years in a mask like this; it didn't kill him. More's the pity. He could stand it for just a night, till they came for him, and they would come soon, he knew that. François would see straight away that something was wrong. And his mother ... surely she wouldn't let him ...? But she'd known. She'd burst into the room and gone straight to his brother. Not to him, who'd been bound and gagged and almost abducted, but to his brother. He ground his teeth at the thought.

Bound and gagged. The memory brought a sour rush of humiliation. The big one had forced the disgusting gag into his mouth and thrown him into the boat like any common prisoner. Porthos would pay twenty times over when Louis was free again. So would the others. Especially André: one moment fighting at Louis' command, the next with his sword at his throat. Louis squirmed, remembering how André had hustled him down the stairs. Before too long, he swore, André would be the one begging and pleading. He'd set D'Artagnan ... A jolt of incredulous dismay pulled him up short as he remembered D'Artagnan would never carry out his orders again. It was followed almost at once by a shaft of genuine anguish. He'd never meant to ... it was his brother he'd ... his head felt as if it would burst. He threw himself down on the bed in despair, landing harder than he'd intended with the added weight of the mask. He hardly noticed the pain.

Some time later, how long he couldn't tell, he heard movement outside. He sprang to his feet as a key grated in the lock and the door opened. The torch in the corridor shed its flickering light into the cell as one of the biggest men he'd ever seen, bigger even than the traitor Porthos, entered. In one hand he held a bucket, which he threw into the corner; in the other, a jug of wine. A loaf of bread was tucked under one arm. He deposited the jug and the bread on the table.

The sheer size of the man made Louis think twice about rushing him. Instead, he fairly howled at him, "The governor! Get the governor!" The man said nothing, only stared curiously at the mask on Louis' head. "Do you hear me? The governor! Now, you fool, or I'll have your head." Still the man did not reply. He eyed Louis assessingly for a long moment and at last turned away with a sullen shrug.

Louis hurled himself toward the door. The keeper saw the movement from the corner of his eye and turned quickly back. He slammed Louis back against the wall with a solid punch to the stomach, knocking the breath from his body. Before Louis could recover, Gomerz swung him round, grinding the mask against the rough stone of the wall, forcing his right arm up behind his back until he screamed with the pain of it. Just as it seemed the bone must break, the man let go, felling Louis with a sweeping sideways kick that knocked his feet from under him and left him gasping on the floor. Gomerz stood over his prone charge for a moment as if inviting further resistance. None came. Satisfied, he turned silently and left the cell, locking the door behind him.

After a while Louis dragged himself painfully to his feet, steadying himself against the wall. His lungs labored for breath and his head rang. For a dizzying moment he thought he was about to pass out. Then his head cleared, and he staggered across to the narrow bed. He sat down heavily, nursing his throbbing arm, and forced himself to think back over his encounter with the keeper.

The man had said nothing throughout the beating; his silence had been more unnerving than shouted rage. Why hadn't he spoken? Suddenly Louis remembered what Philippe and later André had said, words he'd only half-noticed at the time: "a deaf-mute for his keeper." A deaf-mute. That must be the explanation. Louis groaned aloud as the implications sank in. He'd never felt so utterly alone. The silent darkness closed in on him inexorably.

They'd thought of everything. But they'd never get away with it. His weakling brother could never last the distance; Louis' group of cronies would see through him in a moment. Philippe might fool the court for a time, with training, but he could never hope to fool François. Louis hugged the thought to himself even as a new wave of panic struck. He had only to wait, he told himself fiercely, and François would come to his aid.

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With a murmured word of greeting to Sister Agnetha, who bobbed a wary curtsey as he passed, Philippe crossed the antechamber and opened the door to his mother's salon. The queen sat by the window, looking out over the dark rose garden beyond. Her head turned at the sound of his approach; she rose to meet him, eyeing him apprehensively as she tried to gauge his mood. She thought he was Louis, Philippe realized suddenly; that's why she looked afraid. As far as his mother knew, he himself was back in prison.

"Mother." She looked at him, confused. The face, the voice were Louis'; the eyes were not. Philippe smiled at her. She stood transfixed, hand halfway to her mouth.

"Philippe?" For answer, he took her hand and kissed it. The unexpected gesture released her. "Philippe!" Her eyes closed briefly in sudden relief. She took him in her arms and held him close for a long moment.

Then she pulled away. "But ... where's Louis? I thought you ..."

Philippe cleared his throat and faced the moment he'd been dreading. He plunged straight in. "He's not here. He's in the Bastille."

"In the Bastille?" Not at the Bastille. "What do you mean? Is he ...?"

Philippe took her hand to still the rush of questions. He guided her gently to a brocaded couch and sat down beside her. "Louis is in the Bastille, as a prisoner, in the mask. The way we planned; they think he's me. Athos and the others came to find me." They hadn't abandoned him. Nothing in his past had led him to expect it, but he'd known they wouldn't. The memory warmed him still. "They got me out. D'Artagnan helped us. I didn't know why, not then, but later on he told me." He bent a soft glance on his mother. Anne's eyes widened; Philippe held her hand more tightly. "We almost got away, but Louis found out. He brought in soldiers and we had to fight." He told her about the battle in the corridor, and steeled himself to move on to what had followed.

Something in his face must have warned her. "Is ... was anyone hurt?" She hardly seemed to breathe as she waited for his answer. "D'Artagnan ...?"

Philippe could find no way to make it easier. "He's dead."

Just for a moment he thought she hadn't heard him. Except for a convulsive tremor that ran through the hand he held, she gave no sign that his words had any meaning for her. Then the colour drained from her face with shocking suddenness, leaving her white and staring.

"His own men killed him?" Her voice was little more than a disbelieving whisper.

"No. Louis did."

Anne closed her eyes in sudden agony, swaying where she sat. Philippe put his arm around her and pulled her close to him; he felt her shaking violently. For a moment he was afraid she would faint. In a moment he would call Sister Agnetha, he thought, but first he wanted to tell her the rest, to try to cushion the blow.

"Listen to me, Mother." He took her by the shoulders and turned her gently to face him. "Louis didn't know. He still doesn't know that D'Artagnan was our father." It wasn't patricide. Just murder. "He was trying to get to me, but D'Artagnan threw himself between us. Louis didn't mean to kill him." Not even murder. An accident. Philippe shuddered suddenly, remembering his brother's face as he'd lunged at him with the knife. The rush of excitement which had carried him through the long night was beginning to wear off. It had been many days now since he'd found himself longing for the solitude of his old cell, but just for a moment he wished fervently to be alone. Not for the world would he let his mother see it; he brought his feelings under tight control.

Suddenly, Anne seemed to realise what he'd said earlier. She pulled away a little, straightening her spine. She glanced at him sideways and looked away again almost at once. "You know ... about D'Artagnan?" she asked, her voice subdued.

"He told me. The others were there too. Louis offered him his life if he'd give us up, but he wouldn't, not even me. He told us then why not."

Their gaze locked. Anne's heart was in her eyes. "Philippe, I ..."

"It's true, then." It wasn't a question. His voice shook slightly.

"I ... yes."

He sighed, a long exhalation of relief. "That's what I hoped. I knew from the way he said it that it must be true, but I wanted to hear it from you as well." The tight knot in his chest began to dissolve a little as he spoke; he scrubbed with the back of his hand at eyes suddenly wet. The unselfconscious gesture made her smile despite her pain. She put up her hand and smoothed his hair. Philippe pulled himself together and went on with a rush, "It's all right, don't you see? To find such a father ... he was ..." he groped for words, finding none that were adequate, "much, much more than I ever knew or expected. Not like ..." He thought with a flash of bitterness that bordered on rage of the man he'd believed to be his father till tonight. The old king had coldly abandoned the second of the twin boys born to the queen on the night of their birth, condemning Philippe to a life of solitude. Philippe hadn't wanted to think of himself as sired by such a man. His mother, at least, hadn't known he'd lived; nor had his father, his real father. He went on with a slight catch in his voice, "I'm proud to be his son. And he said he was proud of me." His mother touched his face gently, the tears standing bright in her own eyes.

They sat in silence for a time, each lost in their own thoughts. Then

Anne spoke as if from a great distance, her eyes fixed on a miniature of Louis on the wall. "I want you to understand something about your brother, Philippe. Louis wasn't always like he is now. Power changed him ... I remember a day, years ago ... we were in an orchard. He was only small, and he ran to me with his face all lit up with laughter when ... I can see him now." She stopped, lost for words, her throat closing over.

After a moment, she resumed. "He was so young when his father," the habit of years, hard to break; she amended quickly, "when the king died. After that ..." She gestured helplessly. Too much flattery, too much power. D'Artagnan had done his best in the background to advise and to guide, but in the end he'd been helpless to stop the rot. With cronies like François working against him, he'd had no chance of curbing the wild streak in his son.

"It must have been ... hard for you." Philippe tried to help her. Whatever his own feelings about his brother, he didn't expect their mother to share them.

"I was always afraid." She'd hung over Louis as he grew, sick with fear that a resemblance would be noticed, that somewhere an idle remark would take root in a watcher's mind. At the time, she'd believed that anxiety to be the just punishment for her adultery, but now it seemed it hadn't been. Tonight was.

Philippe looked closely at his mother, alarmed by her pallor. He put a hand on her arm. "Try to rest now. We can talk tomorrow. Let me call your ladies." The queen's ladies-in-waiting were never far away.

"No." Anne was adamant. "I'll sit by the window a little while longer." Her window overlooked the rose garden in front of the chapel where she'd seen D'Artagnan for the last time. Philippe, seeing she was determined, led her to the window seat and settled her there. She looked up at him gratefully. "You should go to your rooms now. Your attendants will be waiting." He nodded. Sudden concern for him broke through her fog of guilt and grief. "Be careful." She looked searchingly at him. "You weren't hurt in the fight?"

"No." He grimaced and stretched experimentally. "Just a scratch here and there and some bruises." The first of them was already darkening the side of his neck. "Nothing I won't survive."

"Good." Her fragile smile wrung his heart. "Would you send Sister Agnetha in to me now?"

Philippe went to the door. Straightening his shoulders, he pulled it open and spoke to the waiting nun with a new, hard-won assurance. Sister Agnetha entered, dropping another curtsey to him as she hurried past to the queen. Just for a moment Philippe returned to his mother and brushed a kiss upon her forehead as the old nun stared in dawning comprehension. Then he left them to their prayers.

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The antechamber to the king's rooms was thronged with courtiers. Philippe paused on the threshold. Athos had said it would be like this, but he hadn't really thought they'd still be here; it was only a few hours till dawn. The courtiers showed no sign of weariness. Like the rest of the palace, they were agog to know what had happened that night. He devoutly wished them gone.

A hush fell as the crowd noticed him standing there. Philippe raised his chin proudly and went in. Murmurs of "Your Majesty", "Sire", followed him as courtiers bowed before him. His eyes scanned the room, trying to identify people. There, by the window, the tall thin man with the bulbous nose and kind eyes - that must be de Montelon, the king's physician. The three dandies by the fireplace were probably d'Adespan, de Courtauld and de Bourget, members of Louis' set. And the one coming towards him, his face creased in a courtier's smile, could only be the Chevalier de Pons. Philippe recognized him at once from Aramis' description: the straight dark hair, the aquiline nose, the slightly sneering air. François de Pons, highborn son of a prominent family, was Louis' chief valet de chambre, a position eagerly sought as a coveted sign of royal favor.

François and Louis had taken part together in various wild escapades in their teens; only a year or two older than Louis, he was among those who knew him best. Philippe felt his stomach churn with sudden nerves at his approach. Unjust to blame François for that, he supposed, but he felt an instinctive rush of dislike for the man.

François seemed to know without being told where Philippe had come from. "Your lady mother is well, Sire?"

Your lady mother. Not quite a sneer, but not respectful either. Philippe's hackles rose. His voice took on a steely tone. "The queen is resting." As well she might be, at this hour of the morning. François was eyeing him inquiringly. "She's tired. The ball ... the heat ..." He caught himself before he went on. Never explain, Athos had said; never justify yourself. The king never does.

François was still watching him. "Your Majesty ..." he said, the suave tone a mixture of familiarity and feigned concern. "I was worried. The scene with Christine ... so embarrassing. And then we heard there'd been trouble."

Philippe cut him off. "No need to worry." His experience in the ballroom earlier had taught him not to appear sensitive to other people's feelings; not yet, anyway. Where François was concerned, that was no hardship; the curt reply came easily enough.

François was not deterred. His gaze was too intent, Philippe thought uneasily; why couldn't the man back off a bit? "But Sire, we heard ... an attempt on your life."

Philippe hadn't had time to work out an explanation for the night's events with the others. They'd only just had time to force Louis, struggling and kicking, into Philippe's clothes and the mask before soldiers broke down the prison door. Philippe had issued orders that D'Artagnan, to whom Aramis was administering the last rites, be laid out with all due honour, and that the wounded be tended. But then he'd had to return to the palace with his waiting escort, leaving the others to follow.

He headed off François' veiled inquiries. "I'm not hurt, as you see, but I have things to do. Send for a secretary."

"A secretary? Now?" François was taken aback.

"To draw up a pardon for Athos and the others. They saved my life tonight." Despite Philippe's earlier orders at the Bastille, Athos would not be safe till he held the document in his hand. Too many people remembered his attempt on the king's life after Raoul's death.

François among them, it seemed. "A pardon for Athos? But Your Majesty, only a few weeks ago ..." His tone was incredulous. His spy among the musketeers had told him of Athos' attack soon after it happened. He'd informed the king at once; Louis had needed no urging to set D'Artagnan on Athos' trail.

"You question my orders?" Philippe skewered François with his best glare, the one Athos had made him practice so often at the chateau. It made François back off hastily. Long-standing though their association was, Louis had never hesitated to remind him who ruled and who obeyed.

"No, Sire. Of course not. But ..."

"Then why are you waiting?"

François bowed and went to the door. He gave an order to an underling there and returned to where Philippe sat. "Will there be anything else, Sire?" His tone was circumspect.

"Yes. I want to wash, but not till I've seen the secretary. And get rid of these people." François glanced curiously at Philippe's face and hands, where faint smudges of dirt were visible. He sent a footman for servants to bring water and towels; when they arrived, he directed them into the king's inner chamber to prepare a bath. Then he dismissed the throng of courtiers. De Montelon approached inquiringly, but Philippe shook his head and motioned him away with the others. The babble of voices slowly died away down the gallery.

A few minutes later a footman ushered in the secretary, whose attire showed signs of having been hastily thrown on; not everyone was having trouble sleeping, it seemed. Philippe directed the man to a desk and told him what to write, François hovering a little distance away. For a time the only sound was the scratching of the secretary's quill. Then the man blew carefully on the document and rose, waiting for Philippe's signature.

Philippe sat down and summoned his concentration. He'd practiced Louis' signature many times under Athos' critical eye at the chateau. But the strain of the performance was beginning to tell on him as nervous energy wore off and fatigue set in. For a moment, memory failed him; he froze, quill in hand. From the corner of his eye he saw François move closer. Feigning deep thought, Philippe rested the hand with the quill on the parchment while he searched his memory. In vain.

"Is anything wrong, Sire?"

"No, nothing." He shook his hand as if to ease a cramp. Then, blessedly, he saw the signature in his mind. Quickly he wrote it at the bottom of the document. He stood up and held it out to François. "Take this to Athos in the chapel."

François looked affronted. He drew himself up stiffly. "Your Majesty has perhaps forgotten that you wished to wash. The servants are waiting. I should assist you." Of course; the valet de chambre's regular duty. Philippe mentally kicked himself for forgetting.

He turned to the secretary instead. "See that Athos gets this at once." The man bowed. Rolling up the parchment, he sealed it with wax and held it out for the king's seal. This time Philippe was ready. He moved unerringly to the cabinet where the seal was kept and imprinted it on the wax. With a deep bow, the secretary took the pardon and left the room.

In the king's inner bedroom, François helped Philippe remove his clothes as the servants stood by with water and towels. Philippe submitted himself with confidence to the routine of being bathed and dressed for bed; Aramis had insisted they rehearse every last detail of the king's regular routine. If his attendants noticed the emerging bruises on his body, they made no sign but kept their eyes discreetly lowered. Only François stared covertly and somewhat discomfitingly at Philippe. He seemed astonished by something as he held out the fine white linen nightshirt, but said nothing. The servants finished and left the room, carrying the water and towels with them.

François, however, was not yet ready to follow them. He shook off whatever was puzzling him and returned to the matter uppermost in his mind. "Your Majesty. About Christine ..."

"What now?" The flash of irritation was genuine.

"I only wondered ..." François looked taken aback at his tone. Everyone knew that Christine, unlike the others, had seemed to mean something to Louis, and experience had already taught him to be very careful what he said about her. Some show of emotion here in private might have been expected, but if Louis were upset by her death, he was hiding it very well.

"You wondered what?" Philippe snapped.

"Well ... what you wanted done about her body?" Christine's body still lay in the small room off her bedroom where D'Artagnan had had her taken.

"Her body!" Philippe couldn't quite hide his shock. Nobody had told him Christine was dead. Instinctively his hand started to his head; he checked it at once with an effort.

François was regarding him curiously. "I thought you'd want to decide what to do."

Philippe recovered his composure, but he suddenly couldn't bear François' company a moment longer. He needed time to think. "We'll speak of it in the morning. P... Leave me." He'd almost said please.

François looked at him uncertainly. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Philippe gestured imperiously in the direction of the door.

"Tomorrow, François." His tone brooked no argument.

"Your Majesty." François, rebuffed, bowed coldly and left the room. A few moments later, Philippe heard the outer door close behind him. With a sigh of relief, he moved slowly to the window and looked out. Absently pushing aside the book lying on the window seat, he sat down and leaned his head against the cool glass. The silence was balm to his soul.

He was alone in the king's bedroom. His bedroom now, but his brother's presence was all around him. The robe he wore he'd last seen on Louis; the bed still bore the impress of Louis' body, where he'd lain during the ball. Philippe couldn't quite bring himself to lie on his brother's bed,no matter how tired he was. And, God knew, he was exhausted. He drew a weary hand across his forehead and shook his head to clear it.

His senses seemed preternaturally keen. The sound of his own breathing was loud in his ears, and his skin prickled under the embroidered nightshirt. Elation, fear and an overpowering guilt jostled each other in his mind. But for him, D'Artagnan would still be alive, and Athos and the others would not be in the chapel grieving over the loss of their old friend. And his mother: a son restored but another lost, and with him their father. But for him, Philippe thought, a trifle wildly, Anne would still cherish D'Artagnan's protective presence. "I love you both," she'd told Louis tonight; "I love you all," she could have said. Both of you and your father.

Philippe closed his eyes and let his mind circle slowly back to the word he'd hugged to himself through the chaos of the last few hours. He'd stored it away in his heart, to be taken out and examined like a rare jewel once he was alone. His father. Without warning, he found himself

crying silently, aching with newfound loss and grief. They'd had so little time ... He wrenched his mind away from the thought of just how little; useless to dwell on what could not be changed. Athos had told him that, one bad night at the chateau when powerful emotions had driven Philippe from his bed to pace the floor till nearly dawn. Philippe had opened his mouth to protest that Athos himself was bent on avenging his son, but the pain in the older man's face had changed his mind.

He'd fought beside his father in the tunnel, at least, a man among men. He'd seen the respect in his father's eyes, and something more. No matter what happened in the future, he had that to remember. The thought calmed him. Philippe opened his eyes and looked around him, taking in the richness of the room and its appointments. This would be his home now. In a while he would explore it, but for a few moments more he sat on at the window, gazing out at the encircling night.

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"Something's not right." François rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He'd bent his steps towards the barracks as soon as he left Philippe, intent on seeking intelligence from his own usually reliable sources. The young musketeer on the other side of the table was nursing a badly gashed arm, legacy of a skirmish with Athos in the tunnel; he had no reason to love the winners. "The king seems ... different somehow. Nothing I can put my finger on, exactly, but not quite his usual self. And another thing ..." He broke off, musing.

"Another thing?" the musketeer prompted him. François supplemented the man's income with a handsome sum in return for information. Tonight he wanted to know what had happened at the Bastille.

"Eh? Oh, yes. For a moment there I could have sworn he didn't know Christine was dead. But he was in his rooms when she hanged herself right outside. He even told D'Artagnan to take her down." Get rid of it, was more the actual message.

"Perhaps the fight pushed it out of his mind?"

"Pshaw! You don't forget something like that." The young musketeer fell silent, deflated. "What did you see at the prison? Tell me everything you remember."

"Well ..." the musketeer forgot his momentary pique and leaned forward, important with information, "the passage was dark and full of smoke, but I saw a man running along with his head in a mask. A big ugly iron thing, it was, I've never seen anything like it before. The others," he gestured with his head in the direction of the chapel, "were with him. We fought..."

"Yes, yes." François cut him off impatiently. "I know about the fight. Four old men held off twenty of you, from what I've heard." The young man flushed under the offhand barb. "What happened later, after the charge?"

"The king tried to kill the one in the mask, but D'Artagnan got in the way and he stabbed him instead." François whistled in surprise. He'd heard D'Artagnan had died in the fight, nothing more. No wonder the king seemed upset. François had always thought Louis valued D'Artagnan's opinions altogether too highly for a mere commoner, once or twice to the detriment of François' own plans. "Then the one with the mask attacked the king but D'Artagnan - he was just about dead by then - told him to stop. He said," the man's face went slack with surprise at the memory, "he said, 'he's your brother.'"

"Brother!"

"We didn't get a chance to hear more. The Lieutenant bundled us all outside and swore us to silence."

"Yes," François said absently. "Yes, well, we know better than that, don't we." He shot a knowing look at the man; they'd had a long-standing arrangement. "I heard the rumors, of course, about an incident at the water gate earlier - a man of quite amazing resemblance, the guards said. But ... brother! You're sure?"

The musketeer nodded. "Must be the old king's bastard. Much good it did him, I hear he's locked up somewhere in the Bastille again." He winced, cradling his injured arm. "That bastard Athos is around here somewhere. I'd like a few minutes alone with him. He might not be so brave without the others."

François ignored the hollow bravado. "That's another thing. Why the sudden hurry to pardon those three? Just a couple of weeks ago Athos tried to kill him, and suddenly he can't wait till morning to issue a pardon?" He broke off suddenly, aware that he'd spoken his thoughts aloud. François liked to retain exclusive control of valuable information. He didn't know yet whether this was valuable or not, but it might be. Pushing a bag of coins across the table, he stood up, dismissed the musketeer and started back across the square to his rooms in the palace.

His mind raced with the import of what he'd heard. A brother, unsuspected till tonight, locked away now in a cell and masked. A plot to replace the king. But it had failed. Or had it? He felt a prickle of excitement as he remembered what had caught his attention as the king prepared for bed. On Louis' back, just under his left shoulderblade, he'd thought he'd glimpsed a scar about an inch long. The king had been knocked about a bit during the kidnap attempt; hit on the head and thrown into a boat, palace gossip said. Not surprising, then, that he was marked. But the scar François could all but swear he'd seen was not recent; it was at least a year old. And surely it hadn't been there before.

********************************************************************

Off to one side of the barracks square, candles glowed softly in the windows of the chapel where D'Artagnan's coffin lay. News of the Captain's death had spread rapidly through the company. A steady stream of off-duty musketeers had arrived back at the barracks from their lodgings as word reached them. Later they'd formed a spontaneous guard of honor at the gate as D'Artagnan's body, escorted in silence by his three old friends, returned to the palace. An evenly-spaced ring of soldiers stood now at rigid attention around the small chapel, maintaining a vigil through what was left of the night.

The only sound within the chapel was the murmur of Aramis' voice as he knelt by D'Artagnan's coffin, rosary slipping through unsteady fingers. Candles shed a gentle radiance on the quiet face in the casket, serene and dignified in death as so recently in life.

Aramis' mind was not on his prayers. His thoughts raced back over the events of the last few hours, looking for what he might have done differently. Over and over he relived the fatal moment at the prison when Louis had snatched out his knife and ... A sudden rush of hatred gripped him by the throat at the thought of Louis. He rose abruptly from his knees and stalked to the window, crushing the rosary into his palm.

"What's the matter?" Porthos growled suddenly from the shadows where he sat slumped on a low stone monument. Eyes fixed on the floor, he'd sat there unmoving since D'Artagnan's body had been placed in the coffin, like a funerary statue himself in his silent grief. Now he stirred and turned to look at Aramis.

"Nothing. I just couldn't ..." Aramis broke off. Porthos deserved the truth. "I was thinking of Louis."

"And you had to stop praying? I'm not surprised." Aramis stared at his old friend, astonished by his insight. Porthos had known instinctively what troubled him: he would not kneel before God, beside D'Artagnan's body, with his heart full of hatred. God and his old friend both deserved better.

Porthos heaved himself unsteadily to his feet. His knee clearly hurt from a bullet's graze, but he hobbled over to Aramis. "Let Louis rot, eh? He isn't worth your soul." His hand fell heavily on Aramis' shoulder. In the candlelight Aramis could see the tracks of tears on his weathered cheeks.

"He will rot. We've seen to that. But God knows," he cast a bitter glance at the casket, "I never meant for it to end like this." His voice cracked suddenly. "Oh God, I should have known Louis wouldn't let it go. I should have seen what he'd do. If only I'd ..."

"Stop it!" Porthos said roughly. His grip on Aramis' shoulder tightened almost painfully. He swung Aramis round to face him, but the other man would not meet his eyes. "You couldn't have known what Louis would do. It's too late for 'if only'. And you're not the only one ... if only I'd moved faster, been ten years younger...I'd have got to Louis in time." He snatched his hands away, his fists clenching with the stress of his emotion. Then he dropped his hands to his sides. With a sigh that was almost a groan, he said flatly, "But I wasn't ten years younger, and he was faster. And there's nothing either of us can do to change that now."

Aramis heard his friend's pain; he reached out his own hand for Porthos', gripping it hard. Just for a moment their eyes met; he saw his own grief reflected in Porthos' face.

Porthos lurched sideways against the wall with a muffled groan as his knee gave way beneath him. Hooking his arm over his shoulder, Aramis helped him back to his seat on the monument. Then he turned to the still figure standing silently at the head of the casket, deaf to their exchange. Athos' doublet was stippled with fresh blood. "Your ribs are bleeding again. Let me look at you."

Athos brushed away his concern with an abrupt movement of his hand. He seemed dead on his feet, carved from stone like the gargoyles outside. Like Porthos, he'd barely spoken since they entered the chapel, only stood rigid, looking down at D'Artagnan's face, his own face ghastly in the candlelight. His eyes made Aramis think of frozen wastes of ice. Unable to bear the sight, he drew closer and reached out a tentative hand to Athos' shoulder.

Athos stiffened, drawing away. For a moment, Aramis thought he was angry. But Athos' voice, when he spoke, was thick with self-loathing. "The next time we meet, one of us will die, I said. I meant it then, every word." His eyes grew desolate with memory, his voice breaking on a momentary gasp of anguish, ruthlessly suppressed. "But I didn't know." He looked across at Aramis and whispered, half to himself, "Why didn't I know?"

Aramis cast about for words of comfort; the lump in his throat threatened to choke him. "He was protecting others. Us among them. What we didn't know couldn't be used to hurt us. And you know he didn't hold it against you. He understood you spoke in pain." Impossible to staunch that wound with reason, but he had to try. Aramis reached out to touch Athos' shoulder, but withdrew his hand almost at once; Athos' grip on self-control was too tenuous to withstand much contact.

"I thought your plan was too risky, for Philippe, for all of us. I never dreamed he," Athos glanced back down at the coffin, "was in danger. If it hadn't been for André, we'd all be dead." His voice was flat again, expressionless, emotion quelled at what cost only he knew. But at least he was talking, Aramis thought. Anything was better than that deadly stillness. The eyes, though, hadn't changed.

"Yes," Aramis echoed dully. "Without André, things might have turned out differently. I never thought ..."

Athos seemed to rouse a little; any distraction was welcome, perhaps. "King's man to the core? That's the problem, isn't it? He didn't think, either."

"You think he'll change his mind?"

"Wouldn't you, in his position? Sworn to protect the king?" The murderous rage in his voice on the last words was not for André, Aramis knew, but for Louis. André had told them what Christine had revealed at the ball that night about Louis' part in Raoul's death. The news had confirmed Athos' worst suspicions. Only rage kept him going now. That and the thought of Philippe.

Aramis considered the question. "Perhaps you're right. I'll talk to him first thing in the morning."

"No." Athos interrupted him. "Do it tonight. He has to know the cover story anyway." Aramis heard the tension in his voice and understood. D'Artagnan was dead; Philippe was not. If seeing André now could help Philippe ... It would be something to do, he thought wearily; action might bring some measure of relief from this choked paralysis. Aramis suppressed a twinge of priestly guilt over abandoning his prayers by the coffin, comforting himself with the thought that D'Artagnan would have approved of the reason. He was reluctant to leave the others for even a short time in this crisis, but Athos' eyes were fixed on him with their first spark of life in hours. Aramis gave him a short nod of assent. Turning back to the coffin, he made a lingering sign of the cross, almost a caress, over D'Artagnan's face. Then, squeezing Porthos' shoulder as he passed, he went out of the chapel into the warm night air.

***************************************

André stared at the cross on the wall through eyes gritty with smoke and fatigue. His father's first-communion gift to him many years ago, it had hung in pride of place on the wall of his room in the barracks since he took up his commission in the musketeers. He ran a distracted hand through hair acrid with the stink of gunpowder. Two hours since they'd brought D'Artagnan's body back to the palace. Long past midnight, but nobody slept, nor would they, least of all him. The memory of his actions grew more painful by the minute.

A knock on his door jerked him from his thoughts. André opened the door at once. "Aramis! I thought you'd stay in the chapel all night."

"We need to talk. Sooner rather than later." The priest's voice was quiet, but André sensed an underlying tension. "May I ...?" He looked over André's shoulder into the room beyond.

"Of course. Come in." André recalled his manners. "Sit down." Aramis sat on the chair he indicated, pushing André's discarded sword belt aside. André lit fresh candles from the guttering stumps on the armoire and sat down on the bed.

"You've debriefed your men?" The young musketeers who'd fought in the tunnel had heard the Captain call Philippe and Louis brothers.

"As soon as we got back." That had been his first concern. "I swore them to silence. They'll talk among themselves, of course, but their oath will keep them quiet in front of others." Their oath ... his mind shied away from the pain the word caused him. He thought back to the touching little ceremony; hands on hearts, the men had pledged their silence, many with tears running down their smoke-grimed faces. Some of them, like André, had thought of D'Artagnan as a father.

Years ago, when André had first spoken of serving the king as a musketeer, his father had contacted his old friend D'Artagnan for help in securing a commission. André had known D'Artagnan all his life and was pleased to find himself under D'Artagnan's command. The young man's integrity and ability had impressed the Captain; André had risen to the rank of Lieutenant at the age of twenty-seven. He and D'Artagnan had forged a working relationship founded on mutual respect that had grown steadily into real personal friendship. Now all that was gone. André clamped his teeth against the misery that welled up in him. The king had ...The king. God, how Louis had screamed at him as he dragged him away. In spite of his rage, André shivered. God grant he'd done the right thing. The anger that had sustained him through the last few hours was beginning to drain away, leaving in its place a disturbing prickle of doubt.

"What's the matter?" Aramis was watching him closely.

"Nothing. Nothing, I'm just tired, that's all." He closed his eyes wearily for a moment, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He longed to forget it all, to lose himself for a few hours in the oblivion of sleep, but sleep was far away. He couldn't shut out of his mind the echo of the Captain's words, hoarse with pain and the knowledge of approaching death: Philippe ... he's your brother.

Brother! A twin, surely, to look at him. So like Louis that André himself hadn't picked the difference during the ball. D'Artagnan had, though; he'd known Louis well enough to be sure the young man on the throne wasn't him. But he'd said nothing about any blood relationship, not then, not later, not till the very last moments of his life. Had he discovered it during the interview with Philippe in Louis' room? And had it been enough to make him turn from Louis, sickened by the knowledge that he would so treat his own flesh and blood? André had been less than happy with the king's order to follow D'Artagnan; he'd obeyed only reluctantly, feeling it his duty. To find D'Artagnan fighting on the side of the traitors, among them Philippe, at the prison had shaken him severely. He sighed inwardly; the explanation must lie somewhere in that word "brother" and what it implied. The king himself hadn't denied it. And the Captain wouldn't lie.

The Captain never lied. Like André's father. André opened his red-rimmed eyes and looked again at the carved wooden crucifix gleaming in the candlelight. He remembered the day his father had given it to him, when he'd taken him off to walk by the river that ran through the family's estate and spoken passionately of how a man should live: in honour and truth, and above all in loyalty and service to God and king.

Realizing suddenly that Aramis was still looking at him in concern, he pulled himself together and addressed himself to the business at hand. "What did you want to talk about?" As if he didn't know. Outside in the square, they heard the tramp of feet as the guard changed.

"I thought we should decide on what to say in the morning." It would be important to have their story straight.

André had been worrying about it. "You have something in mind?"

Aramis nodded and leaned forward in his chair. For the next few minutes he spoke succinctly, outlining the cover story he'd worked out earlier. André listened, nodding in agreement. He looked at Aramis with reluctant respect for his ingenuity. A short time later, they were agreed on the details.

Aramis turned suddenly at a sound behind them and half rose, his hand reaching automatically for his sword. André's manservant coughed politely as he entered from the small room next door. His face in the candlelight was alive with curiosity as he surveyed the unexpected guest. He was a little out of breath as he addressed his master. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know you'd come in." Too busy gossiping with other servants down at the other end of the barracks. The night's events had kept the palace buzzing.

André waved him away. "I don't need you tonight. Go to bed."

"But ..." The servant was avid for news.

"Goodnight." The man left, disappointed. André turned back to his visitor.

"Did he hear anything, do you think?" Aramis asked.

"I don't think so. He wasn't there when I came in earlier. I heard his door open just before he came in here. He'll have been off somewhere he shouldn't have been."

Aramis sat back, reassured. For a moment he said nothing, looking around the spartan room. Then he turned back to André and assumed the priestly mien never far from the surface. "I don't know you very well, Lieutenant. None of us do. But D'Artagnan valued you and spoke highly of you. That makes you a man we can trust." André flushed and looked away. "I thought ... you might want to talk about tonight. There must be things you want to ask."

"What's there to say? The king's in the Bastille. His brother's in the palace. And the Captain is dead." A flat recital: André couldn't keep the pain from his voice. "Not quite the way you planned it, I'm sure, but fate played right into your hands." Not fate; he himself had done the playing. He jerked to his feet and looked down at Aramis, eyes intense with the memory.

"But you're troubled," Aramis said. "It's the oath, isn't it. You're worried because you laid hands on the king." Damn the man, could he see straight into his soul? Aramis had put his finger unerringly on André's problem. He'd broken his oath of loyalty to the king, and in doing so had gone against everything he and his father had ever held sacred. No matter how he looked at it, that was what it came down to.

"It's treason, after all, isn't it," he said leadenly to Aramis. "I raised my hand against the king; that makes me unfit to serve. Or so I've always believed." Two betrayals in one night: king and father. Three if he counted himself.

"Philippe is Louis' twin, you know. He has the same blood." Aramis squinted up at him, offering a crumb of comfort. André thought about it for a moment. As royal as Louis, that made the brother. Did that change things? On balance, he thought tiredly, sitting down again heavily, it didn't. It hadn't been Philippe who'd received his oath at the coronation in the cathedral. It had been Louis. He shook his head in despair.

"What will you do in the morning?" Aramis inquired dispassionately. He looked haggard but calm, certain he'd done the right thing. André envied him that confidence.

"Will I change my mind, you mean?" André turned his head away. He fiddled with a button on his sleeve with exaggerated interest.

"You'd die with us if you did," Aramis said quietly. "Though I know that probably wouldn't matter to you."

André swung back to face Aramis, chin defiant. "It's no more than I'd deserve."

"Perhaps. But Philippe would die too. He doesn't deserve it."

A flash of uncertainty in André's eyes. "The brother ... tell me about him. Where did he come from? How did you know about him?"

"He's Louis' twin, as I said. Very few people knew he even existed. When Louis became king he had him masked and shut up in prison so nobody could use him against him. We found him." Aramis didn't say how he knew where to look.

André didn't notice the omission. "And you did use him," he said bleakly, "just as the king feared."

"Yes, we did." Aramis raised a forestalling hand. "But ask yourself why. Haven't you ever questioned your service to Louis?"

André gestured at the old cross on the wall. "You see that? My father gave it to me when I was a boy. Honor the king, he taught me, and never, never break your word." Then he frowned; honesty compelled him to add, "There were times, it's true ... but the Captain served him too. I thought, if he did ..." He broke off, remembering.

"D'Artagnan thought he could make a difference. In the end, he did, although he couldn't have foreseen how." A stab of pain crossed Aramis' face, reminding André forcibly that others beside himself had loved the Captain. Aramis continued, "And so did you. Don't let that go for nothing now. For France's sake, if not for ours."

"What's done is done," André said tonelessly. "I'll take the ..." he balked at the word, "the king's orders to the Bastille in the morning."

"Then you're still with us?" Aramis asked gently.

"I ... yes." André nodded slowly. He was far from happy, but mention of D'Artagnan had revived his flagging resolve.

"Good man." Aramis stood up and put his hand on André's shoulder. "Philippe is a better man than Louis, Lieutenant, I swear it. And he'll

make a better king."

André looked up at Aramis for a long moment, his hands opening and closing in unconscious reflex. The priest's gaze held his steadily, reassuring in its calm certainty. He found himself hoping desperately that Aramis was right.

*********************************************************************

André watched Aramis cross the square on his way back to the chapel. He turned from the window thoughtfully. The brother was a better man, Aramis had said. Was he right? There'd been little chance to find out at the Bastille. He was suddenly consumed by a desire to see for himself, to take the measure of the young man he'd thrown away his honor for. Now, before the night was over. Hastily buckling on his sword, he left his room and headed for the main body of the palace, his footsteps loud on the gravel walk and the wide marble stairs. Guards in the hallways stiffened at his approach, then relaxed as they recognized him. Stopping to exchange a word here and there, he arrived at length outside the king's apartments.

"Lieutenant!" The guards at the doors snapped to attention. They showed no surprise at seeing him there at that hour. Everyone knew D'Artagnan was dead, and the king had left orders putting André firmly in charge tonight.

"Has the king retired?"

"No, sir. I heard him moving about a couple of minutes ago."

"He's alone?"

"For the last half hour or so. Since the Chevalier de Pons left." André felt a swift rush of alarm. He didn't have much time for the Chevalier; something about the man's sly manner repelled him. François was a potential source of trouble.

With a nod to the guards, André pushed open the heavy door to the king's rooms. The antechamber was empty. He coughed to announce his presence.

Philippe appeared from the bedchamber, his face wary. He was wearing the robe André had seen on his brother just a few hours ago. André sucked in his breath; he could almost swear it was Louis standing before him. No wonder he'd been taken in earlier tonight. Even a mother ... a startling new thought struck him. He pushed it resolutely to one side to examine later, in the privacy of his room. Had the queen ...?

"Lieutenant André." Athos had told him the name, of course; no thought of introductions earlier. The voice was the king's voice, too, though the tone was not.

"At your service, Sire. I'm the ..."

"I know who you are. You're D'Artagnan's lieutenant."

"Sire." André inclined his head gravely. He tried to look Philippe over without seeming to stare. Truly remarkable, he thought. The eyes were different, though, if you looked closely, the expression less arrogant, less sure of their owner's importance in the scheme of things. Not surprising, given his background, André supposed.

Philippe was doing his own inventory, and seemed satisfied with what he saw. "You saved our lives tonight," he said quietly. "We owe you a great debt." André was silent. Philippe went on, "You were ... close to D'Artagnan?" He nodded, unable to speak. "I'm sorry. I know you'll miss him sorely." More than you will, André thought in an instant of bitterness. You didn't even know him before tonight. Or did you? How did the Captain know you were the king's brother?

"I only met him tonight," Philippe answered the unspoken question. "Louis told him who I was. D'Artagnan didn't know I existed until then." His eyes darkened for a moment and he fell silent. Then, "Why are you here?" he asked suddenly. Alarm flared in his eyes as he asked, "Is Athos all right? Where is he?"

"Athos is with the others in the chapel. I've posted the pardon already. I ... just came to check you were safe, Sire." It wasn't the whole truth.

Philippe seemed to sense it. "I see. And you probably want to know something about me, too, don't you. I know I want to talk to you." He ran a hand abstractedly through his hair as he spoke, his eyes never leaving André's face. They were still standing by the bedroom door; Philippe gestured towards a chair and sat down himself in another. André hesitated. Philippe smiled wryly at him. "I know, Lieutenant, I haven't forgotten." Very few sat in the presence of the king. "Time enough for protocol tomorrow. Sit down. Please." André sat down slowly.

The questions trembled on the tip of his tongue. He restrained them with difficulty, waiting for Philippe to speak. Not for him to seek the secrets of the crown; if Philippe was Louis' twin, the queen and the old king must have covered up his existence. But Philippe seemed to sense his need. "Ask your questions, Lieutenant," he said. "I'll answer as best I can. You have a right to know." Most of it, anyway.

André opened his mouth to begin, then checked the rush as years of training in discretion took over. He confined himself to asking, "The Captain called you the king's brother. Aramis said you were too." He wouldn't impugn their honor by asking for corroboration.

"It's true," Philippe confirmed it. "You can tell by looking at me. I didn't know myself how alike we are till I saw my brother for the first time tonight. Louis kept me secret for his own reasons." All of them bad; his eyes narrowed at the memory. "I only found out who I really was a few weeks ago." He went on to sketch the details for André of the mask and the prison and the escape. André only half-listened, his thoughts back in the tunnel. An overwhelming relief flooded him: the Captain hadn't died believing a lie. Suddenly he recalled himself with a start. Philippe had asked him a question. "Can you tell me, Lieutenant?" He looked increasingly drained; dark rings under his eyes emphasized the whiteness of his face.

"Your pardon, Sire, I wasn't listening."

Philippe glanced apologetically at him. "You're tired. I won't keep you. I just wanted to know ... the Chevalier de Pons was here earlier. He said Christine was dead. What did he mean?"

André looked at him in surprised realization. Of course, Philippe wouldn't know. The distraught young woman who'd accused him at the ball had taken her own life. By then, Philippe had been in prison. "She's ... she was the king's mistress." Philippe nodded. That much he knew. "She was engaged to Raoul - Athos' son - until she caught the king's eye." Another nod. "Louis sent Raoul to the front and took Christine as his mistress. She found out he'd sent orders for Raoul to be put in the forefront of the battle. That's what that scene at the ball was about." When Philippe had given himself away to D'Artagnan. "She killed herself a few hours ago. Hanged herself from her window."

"Killed herself!" Philippe stared at him in unconcealed horror. Porthos had told him at the chateau that Raoul had been sent back to the battle front to clear Louis' way with Christine, and that he'd been killed there. But Porthos hadn't known all of it then. Nor had Athos; perhaps he still didn't.

"Does ... does Athos know of this? That she's dead? And about what she said my brother did?" His face was even paler than before.

"Yes, Sire. I told him myself."

Philippe closed his eyes briefly. Then he said, so softly that André had to strain to hear it, "Ask him to come to me when you leave, Lieutenant. If you would."

"Sire." André watched Philippe struggle with the implications of his new knowledge. Concern for Athos was clearly uppermost in his mind; André liked him for it. If Philippe realized that he himself would have to bear the blame for his brother's conduct, he seemed to give it no more than a passing thought.

Sudden uneasiness tugged at the edges of André's mind as the import of Philippe's earlier question sank in. "Did the Chevalier realise you didn't know Christine was dead?"

"I don't think so." Philippe spoke distractedly, his mind still on Athos. "I said I didn't want to talk about it. I think he believed me. He looked at me a bit oddly, though." With an effort, he jerked his attention back to André. "Aramis said François knows my brother very well. You must have seen them together often. What do you know about him?"

André considered the question. Despite his professional reluctance to discuss the king's affairs, instinct told him he could trust Philippe. He found himself leaning forward confidentially. "He's the leader of the group that hangs around the king. They've quieted down a bit lately," since Louis had met Christine, "but they used to get up to some pretty wild pranks. D'Artagnan had his hands full keeping the king out of trouble a couple of times, and Louis didn't thank him for it. These days they mostly gamble and drink and womanize together. They're nearly always here. You'll meet the others tomorrow." He couldn't quite keep a tinge of scorn out of his voice.

Philippe's brow furrowed. "They're the part that worries me most," he admitted. "They're bound to have private jokes, know things about each other Aramis couldn't have known. What if they realise I don't know what they're talking about?" Restless energy drove him to his feet.

André rose as well. "I ... may be able to help you there. D'Artagnan often assigned me to watch them. He was always worried they'd put the king in danger." With justification, he thought grimly, remembering some of the more harebrained antics he'd had to clean up after. "I can fill in some of the details for you in the morning. You wouldn't have to see them tomorrow; just say you're upset over the Captain." True enough, by the sudden shadow that crossed the young man's face. André was surprised to find himself offering advice in these rooms. But something about Philippe - some innate decency, perhaps, very different from his brother - made him warm to him despite his reservations.

He offered a tentative suggestion. "You could say you want to go into seclusion for a while, because of grief over the Captain and Christine. You wouldn't have to see them at all then, until you decided you were ready." Philippe looked at him in amazement, and André recollected himself hastily. "But ... it's not my place to tell you what to do, Sire. Your pardon."

"No, no." Philippe held up a reassuring hand. "That's an excellent idea. I'll discuss it with the others, of course, but I wish I'd thought of it myself." It wouldn't even be a lie. "Thank you."

Time he left to get Athos, André thought. He began a formal bow, then checked himself as he remembered something. "About mass in the morning, Sire ... you know where to go?" The king attended mass each morning at ten. Louis had maintained the tradition; Philippe would have to do the same.

"Yes. Athos told me. And my attendants will know." Athos' training was bound to be thorough, André thought; Philippe would probably be able to bluff his way through.

Philippe was speaking again. "About Christine ... will you send Aramis to her? She'll need a priest."

"She's a suicide." No way around that, no matter how much he hated to say it.

"I know, but ... send him anyway. I'm sure he won't refuse, if only for Athos' sake."

André's eyes softened. "I'll go at once." He turned to leave, then hesitated. Turning back, he offered tentatively, "I could come to escort you to mass in the morning. If you wish. Sire."

"Thank you. I'd be grateful for your help." Philippe smiled, his own eyes suddenly warm. "I have a lot to give thanks for, and to pray for."

The frank humility of the words, so foreign to these rooms, disarmed André completely. "What will you pray for? Forgiveness?" he blurted impulsively. He regretted the impertinence at once, but Philippe seemed unconcerned.

"Forgiveness? No. Rather for ..." he trailed off, searching for the words, then finished with a rush, "for understanding. And wisdom. And courage, of course. I'll need a lot more of all three. After," he flushed slightly," a less than auspicious beginning. D'Artagnan saw through me pretty easily in the ballroom tonight." He rubbed eyes red with fatigue and smiled at André ruefully.

"Yes, well ..." André cleared his throat. He hadn't noticed anything amiss himself. It had taken the Captain to do that.

The two young men exchanged a long appraising glance. Then the moment passed. "If there's nothing else, Sire ..." Philippe, André saw, had forgotten. He reminded him quietly. "I can't leave the king's presence until he dismisses me. Sire."

"Oh, yes, I forgot. Athos told me, but I forgot." For a moment Philippe looked guilty, like a boy found out in some crime of omission. André almost expected him to stammer.

"Then ..."

Philippe straightened his back and spoke formally and the fleeting impression was gone. "Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all."

"Sire." André bowed and left the room with a final glance at Philippe. The brother was a definite improvement on the original, as far as he could tell; their exchange had gone some way towards calming his fears, though his guilt over Louis was undiminished. He turned down the gallery in the direction of the outer doors, heading for the chapel.

Crossing the square, he stiffened. François de Pons was approaching from the other direction, coming from the barracks. What business took him there this late at night? André inclined his head in salute as they passed in the darkness; de Pons ignored him as usual. He turned to look uneasily after the retreating figure. Perhaps it meant nothing, but the others should know.

*****************************************

Philippe heard the outer door open as the guards let someone else in. A soft knock came at the bedroom door. Athos. He gathered his robe around him and went to the door.

"Are you alone?" Philippe looked past Athos as he motioned him into the bedroom.

"André's outside in the gallery."

"You look ... awful." Philippe took in the painful hunch of the shoulders, the eyes dead with fatigue and worse, the grim set of the mouth. He saw at once that physical ills were the least of the older man's problems. Moving to Athos' side, he tried to help him to a chair.

Athos waved him off and went to lean against the mantelpiece nearby. "I'm all right. No problems so far?"

Don't ask about me. Philippe understood. Hiding his concern, he said quietly, "Nothing serious. I had to think a bit about Louis' signature, but I managed it in the end. François noticed, though, I think. And he told me ... Christine was dead. That was a bit of a shock. I'm not sure if I hid it well enough."

"We didn't know ourselves till we got back to the palace tonight. D'Artagnan didn't have time to tell us." His voice gave nothing away, but Philippe saw his hands tremble. Athos' eyes roamed round the room.

"I'm ... so sorry, Athos. About Raoul and Christine. André said he told

you ... what she found out." He spoke with painful caution, unwilling to breach Athos' wall of containment. Athos did not welcome discussion of his personal feelings, he knew from experience. Tonight was no exception; Athos acknowledged his words with no more than a brief nod, though his eyes fastened intensely on Philippe for a few seconds. Philippe moved a little closer. "About Christine ... has Aramis ...?"

"He's with her now." Something about Athos reminded Philippe of an old painting that had hung in the country house where he'd grown up: a bear, grievously wounded, at bay, but doggedly enduring. Athos turned back abruptly to the earlier topic. "Did de Pons suspect anything?"

"I hope not." It wasn't as if he hadn't tried, Philippe thought. He'd done everything he could to convince François he was Louis, even down to the bad temper. He hadn't had to feign that at all; he disliked de Pons already. It was sheer bad luck that he hadn't known about Christine in time. To Philippe's embarrassed annoyance, he found his knees suddenly unsteady with reaction. He sat down heavily, cursing himself under his breath as he saw Athos take it in. Athos walked stiffly to the sideboard for wine.

"Thank you." Useless to protest. Athos appeared to need the activity, and the wine was welcome. Athos poured some wine for himself and sat down near Philippe, his face bleak. He seemed to be favoring his ribs.

"Your wound's been cleaned?" That much, at least, Philippe would not be denied.

"I'll live." The thought clearly gave him no joy. His eyes fixed on Philippe, as if to reassure himself that what the night's agony had purchased was worth the cost. He said slowly, "You did well tonight." The quiet word of praise warmed Philippe. Abandoning caution for a moment, he put aside his wine and leaned forward, his voice urgent. "You came back for me. So did he." No need to say the name. Athos began to answer but Philippe checked him with a gesture. "I'll never forget that. As long as I live, Athos, I'll never forget that you came back." He meant every word.

"D'Artagnan ... had good reason of his own. We know now what that was." Athos' face was ravaged. The words were wrenched out of him between clenched teeth; Philippe could only guess at what they cost him. He'd wondered wistfully, watching the camaraderie between Athos and the others at the chateau, what friendship felt like; now he was seeing its other face. Athos' memory of his falling out with D'Artagnan was slowly

grinding the life out of him. It hurt Philippe to watch.

More than anything else, Philippe ached to ask Athos about his father. At the chateau he'd heard only of the great D'Artagnan who guarded Louis, with his life if need be, a man to be feared and avoided. The humanity of the man he'd encountered tonight, the man who'd begged Louis for his brother's life and spoken from the heart to Philippe, had sent his preconceptions reeling. He wanted to know everything about him; the questions tumbled over each other in his mind. But they would have to wait. Tonight, Philippe could see, the sound of D'Artagnan's name was too painful for Athos to bear. He hitched his chair closer to Athos, searching for a way to help. There seemed to be only one comfort he could offer: himself. But how to put it?

He cleared his throat, afraid his voice would crack. "D'Artagnan, Raoul ..." the painful litany trailed off, "one way or another, my brother's cost you everything." I can't replace them, he wanted to say, never that. But I can be something to you, if you'll let me. You helped me when I needed it; let me help you now. Shifting uncomfortably on his chair, he opened his mouth to continue, then shut it again abruptly. The older man's face was more withdrawn than he'd ever seen it before, his silent suffering almost palpable. Now was not the time. There would be time for words tomorrow; he would see that there was. And there would be no doubt then what he meant. For now, he contented himself with reaching across and grasping Athos' hand.

Gray eyes locked with brown for a moment. Athos said nothing, but his hand clasped Philippe's in a hard grip and didn't let go. Like the grip of a drowning man, Philippe thought, desperate in its intensity. Once, not so long ago, the flow had been all the other way. Philippe, starved of human touch, had drawn strength and comfort from Athos' occasional

affectionate hugs. For the first time in his life, he had known what it was to be treated like a son. Tonight, he could give some of that comfort back.

Athos broke the contact abruptly and looked away. "You haven't slept?" Practical matters, a stab at normality.

"No." Philippe's eyes went involuntarily to the bed. Athos followed his gaze in sudden comprehension. They'd been in this room earlier tonight. So had Louis.

"You don't want to sleep in his bed, do you." Philippe winced. It seemed ridiculous, after all they'd been through. But it was true; the thought of lying where his brother had so recently lain disconcerted him. It made him feel like an interloper. That was the last thing he'd expected. "That's not so strange. You only met him tonight, after all." For Philippe's sake, Athos summoned the strength from deep within his shell of pain to make the weak joke. Philippe met him halfway with an equally weak smile in return. Then Athos said suddenly, "Philippe ... are you having second thoughts?"

"No. It's far too late for that, on all counts." Philippe stood up and walked to the window. "But it makes a difference, doesn't it, if I'm not the old king's son? To pretend to be the king, knowing I'm not a Bourbon - how does that make me better than Louis?"

The wine had revived Athos a little. "It makes a difference, yes. It means you have a father to be proud of. Not Bourbon blood but Gascon blood. D'Artagnan ..." he kept his voice steady with a visible effort, "D'Artagnan and honor are the same thing, we used to say. Nothing we've learned tonight changes that. With his blood in your veins you'll make a worthy king."

"It's in Louis' veins too." Philippe was staring out the window again.Athos' face darkened. "Louis lost sight of honor long ago. D'Artagnan tried to counsel him, but the others were too strong. Scum like de Pons. You'll have us on your side."

Philippe turned from the window and looked at Athos with affection. "Then how can I go wrong?" His face changed as he took in Athos' sudden grayness. He crossed the space between them in a rush and bent over him. "Athos, you're in pain. Let me call," he grasped wildly for the court physician's name, "let me call de Montelon."

"No!" Athos' hand came up and grasped Philippe's wrist. "No. I don't need him. Let it be." The spasm passed and he breathed more easily. "Tell me what happened before we found you tonight."

Philippe sat down beside him, still concerned. "They brought me here to Louis' rooms." Quickly, he outlined the rest of the night's events.

"That's how D'Artagnan knew who you were, then. Louis told him?"

"Yes. He was shocked." Philippe was suddenly aware that Athos' eyes were scanning his face intently, searching for resemblance. He sat patiently, submitting to the silent examination, wondering what Athos saw. But Athos said nothing more about his father; instead, he gestured at the bed.

"You can sleep in Louis' bed, you know. He won't be needing it again."

That was the trouble, Philippe thought. The bed made his brother seem too close, too real. It made Philippe think too much about where Louis was now, and about his own part in putting him there. But he didn't want to worry Athos with that.

"You aren't like him, Philippe." Athos knew anyway, it seemed. "You know that. We put you here because you aren't like him."

"I know." Then, in a rush, "But I put him in the mask, all the same, just as he did me. I can't help thinking about what it's like for him now." He remembered only too well his own all-consuming panic.

"It's the mask that's worrying you, then?" Athos leaned forward with a wince. "He didn't think twice about doing it to you."

"It's worse for him, though, I think. He knows what's going on. I didn't, not really. I went from isolation in the country to the prison; he's gone from the court, where he was the center of everything." He forestalled Athos' objections with a raised hand. "I'm not making excuses for him, and I'm not sorry we did it. But I know what it's like." He drew a breath. "You don't." It was true. He waited, uncertain whether he'd given offense.

Apparently not. Athos showed no displeasure as he said in an offhand tone, "Louis will survive. You did. He's older than you were when you went into the mask, more mature." If you could call it that. "And he knows why it's happened to him. That's more than you did." That could go two ways, of course. Athos, it was plain, couldn't care less.

"I can offer him some kindness, at least. A less constricting mask in time, perhaps."

"Make it gold, if you like," Athos snorted. "Just don't take him out of it."

Philippe looked at him steadily. "I won't. Not yet, anyway." A huge yawn suddenly engulfed him.

"Not ever." Implacable, Athos stood up and nodded at the bed. "Try to get some sleep if you can." His face grew shuttered again as he turned to leave.

Philippe walked with him to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. "I'll see you in the morning, then. Be careful." Athos put his arms around Philippe suddenly in a stiff and awkward hug. Then he turned and left the room. Philippe closed the door after him and leaned his head against it for a moment. Athos clearly needed more than anything else to be with his old friends now. Philippe hoped fervently that he could find in them the comfort he so badly needed.

***********************************

Outside in the gallery, Aramis, clad now in his cassock, was talking to André. He turned to greet Athos, raising his eyebrows in unspoken question. Athos' nod confirmed his fears; André's instinct had been right. François de Pons was trouble. It was time for evasive action.

Athos swayed suddenly on his feet. "Go back to the chapel," Aramis said, grasping his arm to support him. "I'll handle this. You need to rest."

Athos looked at him stubbornly. Aramis tightened his grip. "I know you'd rather kill him," he said softly, for Athos' ear alone, "but it isn't safe; he's too well-connected. We need words here, not swords. You couldn't convince a fly. Leave it to me; it's what I'm good at."

Athos nodded, accepting. "All right. But do it properly." He turned away slowly towards the doors.

Aramis and André walked swiftly in the direction of François' rooms. A servant took his time about answering André's peremptory knock. "The Chevalier has retired, Lieutenant. He's preparing for bed."

"I'm sure he'll want to see us. Announce us, please." The servant reluctantly ushered them into the anteroom, his stiff back expressing his doubts, and disappeared into the inner chamber. A moment later, François emerged, refastening his doublet. His eyebrows arched in mock alarm.

"Dear me," he murmured. "A traitor priest in my rooms. Fortunately the Lieutenant's here too. Oh, but I was forgetting ... the king pardoned you all, didn't he. And in quite a hurry, too. It's been a strange night, wouldn't you agree?" His eyes flicked over Aramis, taking in the grime of gunpowder still on his face. He dismissed the servant with a languid wave of his hand.

Aramis bowed coolly. "Strange indeed, Chevalier, as you say."

"And to what do I owe this present honor?" The lazy drawl made Aramis itch to shake him. He felt André tense beside him.

"We're concerned about His Majesty. We came to ask how you found him tonight."

François inclined his head fractionally. He ran an elegant hand along the back of a chair in front of him. "I heard there'd been trouble. I don't know the details, of course ..." He looked questioningly at them. Receiving no encouragement, he continued ruminatively, "His Majesty did seem ... a little disturbed, it's true."

"Disturbed? What do you mean?"

"Oh, just..." François stopped, suddenly cautious. "But it's not my place to discuss His Majesty, even with such honorable gentlemen," a slightly contemptuous glint in his eye, "as yourselves."

"It's not normally wise, I agree. The king doesn't take kindly to interference. But you said yourself, tonight is an unusual night." Aramis said blandly, concealing his anger. He wanted to slam François back against the wall and knock some of the arrogance from him. The fop was almost worse than Louis. Almost.

"Perhaps if you told me why you're asking..." François said, curiosity disguised as careless interest. The hand gave him away, though; it tightened perceptibly on the back of the chair.

Got him, Aramis thought; now to pull him in. He looked at André and asked, with a doubtful glance back at François, "Should we tell him, do you think?" His tone made it seem he was far from eager to do so.

André followed his lead at once. He frowned repressively. "The fewer who know, the better." François' eyes went from face to face.

"Surely someone closer to the king than we are should know, in case of danger?" Aramis feigned a worried sigh, his brow wrinkling as he spoke.

"Maybe you're right." But André's tone was grudging. He shot an only half-simulated scowl at François.

Aramis turned back to François with his mind apparently made up. "Well ... what I tell you must go no further, Chevalier. Your word on it?"

François gave it at once. He gestured them to chairs, at last, and called to the sullen servant for wine.

Once they were alone again, Aramis began his story. "It's true there was trouble tonight. A Huguenot group tried to kidnap the king during the ball." François couldn't quite suppress a gasp of surprise. The Huguenots were France's Protestant minority. The Edict of Nantes, signed by Louis' grandfather Henri IV in 1598, had guaranteed them partial freedom of worship after horrific massacres earlier that century. Since then an uneasy truce had existed between the Huguenots and the Catholic majority.

"The Huguenots? They're always a problem, it's true. But why would they...?"

"They're afraid Louis might revoke the Edict and start the persecution again. The king has a brother, one of the old king's bastards, who was fostered by a Huguenot family; he looks a lot like Louis. So much so that they trained him for a year to take his place. The woman Carlotta," who'd been Louis' partner at the masked ball, "was planted at court to catch Louis' eye and get close to him. It worked for a while, till Louis dropped her when he met Christine. Then they had to think of something else." Aramis stopped and took a meditative sip of his wine; not one of the better vintages, he noted wryly. The servant's unspoken comment, no doubt. François hadn't sent for better, though; there was more than one way to administer a snub.

"They planned the attack for tonight, during the ball; lots of masks, easy to hide." Another sip, his eyes on François over the rim of the goblet. "But Carlotta, not Christine, had to be there with the king, to drug his wine and send him back to his rooms where the brother was waiting. So she sent Christine a 'letter from Raoul', to stir things up in hopes of a breach. It worked; Louis quarreled with Christine and Carlotta was beside him tonight instead. Carlotta's gone, by the way. We think she ran as soon as she knew the plot had failed." Aramis knew that the real Carlotta was innocent of any wrongdoing. She'd only stayed for the ball at Louis' insistence. Immediately after it ended she'd left for her family's country seat to prepare for her forthcoming marriage. No harm would come to her in the provinces as a result of her unwitting role in his tale. He would swear François to secrecy, of course, and with luck nobody else would ever hear this story about her, though with François one could never be sure. He made a mental note to speak to André later about her security.

François had tried to court Carlotta himself once, but she'd only had eyes for Louis; his vanity had required he ignore her thereafter. Aramis would have wagered he'd salve his pride by putting her lack of interest in himself down to the exigencies of the plot from now on. But outwardly, at least, François' attention was on other matters. "When did they plan to make the switch?" He leaned forward, his pose of indifference slipping.

"The king left the ballroom in a hurry, remember? Carlotta put something in his wine. He felt ill, and when he went to his rooms ..." François was bound to have seen Louis clutching his stomach as he ran from the ballroom; most of the courtiers had. Aramis went on smoothly. "We've had a man in the group for a long time. We knew something was about to happen, but we didn't know when. Then our man got word to us it would be tonight. Carlotta let the brother into the king's apartments to wait for him, but we managed to get in there too, just in time to prevent the switch."

"You got into the king's rooms? How?" The brown eyes were indignant. François' vanity was wounded, Aramis could tell, at the realization there was something he didn't know; he'd often boasted of his close relationship with Louis and all the privileged knowledge that entailed.

Aramis made a show of reluctance at parting with secret information. "D'Artagnan, of course. He knew all along. He let us in through a secret passage," François digested that; Aramis could see him storing it away for future use, "and guarded the hall while we bundled the brother away after he attacked Louis. The king was badly shocked by the whole thing,

on top of not feeling well from the drug, but he insisted on going back to the ball. You know what he's like when he makes up his mind." Who didn't?

"So that's what it was." François seemed relieved. He settled back in his chair. "He did seem strange. I was beginning to wonder whether this plot you speak of might have succeeded after all. Are you sure ...?" He didn't finish. The king's behavior during the latter part of the ball, so out of character for Louis, had been the subject of much eager speculation.

"Sure of what?" Aramis prompted him.

"That incident with Christine ... he just seemed..." He shook his head decisively and picked up his wine. "It doesn't matter. It must have been the shock."

This man was no fool; Philippe's life depended on convincing him. Aramis sought for other ways to reassure him. The queen. Use the queen. "His mother came in after that. She spoke to him, remember?"

"That's right, she did ... and she would know, surely. Strange that she was even there, though." The queen didn't usually attend evening festivities, preferring to keep to her rooms. François went on, struck by a sudden thought. "Then it wasn't the king in the boat?" Too late, he caught himself, his eyes darting to Aramis' face.

"In the boat?" Aramis' voice was silky. "What boat, Chevalier?"

François opened his mouth and shut it again. Aramis sensed him gauging the consequences of frankness. "Well, the boat ... the boat at the water gate." Suddenly impatient, "Everyone knows. Tongues wag in the palace, you know that."

"The king ordered it kept quiet. But since you know already ... besides, I'm sure he didn't mean you." Aramis smiled inwardly as François preened. "The man in the boat was the brother. He got free during the fight that followed and somehow in the confusion he convinced D'Artagnan he was Louis."

François' jaw dropped in surprise. Aramis held his breath: would François believe D'Artagnan would not know Louis? Aramis went on impatiently, waving aside François' stuttered questions, "If you'd seen them together you'd know; they're almost identical. And the brother trained a long time for this. The king wasn't himself still, what with the drugged wine and the business with Christine. The other one was very convincing for a while."

"Even so ..." François' lower lip jutted as he considered this. "Then what made D'Artagnan suspect him in the end?"

"He overdid it. He was too arrogant even for Louis." It sounded plausible. Louis had been out of control after the episode with the boat, storming through the corridors surrounded by soldiers. He'd pushed Philippe along in front of him, D'Artagnan grasping Philippe's arm to save him from falling. If François' spies had reported it, Aramis' description would fit. "Then after Christine was killed ..."

"Was killed?" François' head came up like a dog on a scent. "She killed herself, surely."

"Christine was murdered to stop her telling what she knew." It was a lie, but Aramis didn't hesitate. Restoring her good name was all they could do for her now. It seemed a small enough sin. "She'd heard Carlotta in the king's chambers when she let the Huguenot in. Christine was coming down the secret staircase to leave a letter for Louis. She heard the door open and thought it was him, so she ran back upstairs, but not before she heard Carlotta's voice and Carlotta heard her. Then later, the general's letter drove it out of her mind. Fortunate timing for them. But eventually, if the plan had worked ... she'd have remembered that Carlotta had been there, and Carlotta's usefulness to the group would have been over. They decided not to take the chance."

For once François was lost for words. He sat turning his goblet in his hands for a moment with the air of a man overtaken by events. Then he rallied. "You were saying ... D'Artagnan and the Huguenot?" The hooks were sinking deeper.

Aramis was not one to lose an advantage. "D'Artagnan knew Louis loved Christine," insofar as he ever loved anyone, "but his reaction to her death seemed a little too callous, even for him. It made D'Artagnan begin to suspect he'd sent the wrong one to the Bastille. He set a few small traps until he was sure. Then he sent word to us to meet at the prison. But the Huguenot was suspicious and had him followed. We'd rescued the real king and were trying to get him out when he arrived with the troops."

"I heard rumors of ... a mask?" François inquired delicately. "Some sort of iron mask on his head."

"That's right. The brother had Louis put in an iron mask so nobody would recognize him. The group sent one to Louis some weeks back, threatened if he didn't continue to guarantee protection they'd put him in it. That's one of the ways we knew." François nodded. Gossip had spoken of a mysterious wooden box delivered to the king late one night and with it a letter that had upset the queen.

"You can see the Huguenot community would be in serious danger if any of this got out. They're mostly hardworking people who just want to be left alone. That's why nobody must know but us. You understand, Chevalier?"

"Of course, of course." François was suddenly expansive. His smirk of self-important pleasure gave him away. Appeal to a courtier's vanity, Aramis thought dryly, it almost always works. It was too soon to relax, though. François went on, "But I don't understand ... Why risk so much to impersonate the king? Why not just kill him? Horrible as that would be,of course," he added hastily.

"To murder the king would lead to riots. St Bartholomew's Day would look small by comparison." Charles IX, convinced the Huguenots represented a danger to the throne, had ordered a massacre on that day in 1572. "No, their plan was brilliant as it was. Nobody would know about the substitution; the brother would convince people he was Louis. That would be risky, but he'd trained a long time. He'd pretend to be Catholic for a while. Then, when he judged the time was right, he'd pretend some sort of religious awakening. He'd turn Protestant and France with him; the true Church would be persecuted. It would be England all over again." That ought to throw François off the track; Aramis smiled to himself at the thought of François sniffing for Protestant sympathies in Philippe and finding none.

"Brilliant," François breathed, impressed despite himself by the audacity of what he'd heard. "Wicked, of course, but brilliant. Thanks to you, though, it seems, it didn't work." He paused, struck by a sudden thought. "But D'Artagnan charged his own men, including the Lieutenant here. You all did."

"And how did you know that, Chevalier?" André had sworn the musketeers to secrecy. Too late, François saw his mistake.

He caved in at once; duplicity would not serve here. "Well ... I went to the barracks tonight. I heard what happened." So François had a spy among the musketeers. Aramis had suspected as much, but it was useful to have it confirmed. He saw André making a mental note to find and punish the one who'd talked. François went on, unabashed. "I heard the four of you and the prisoner fought the lieutenant and the musketeers. You even charged them. Why would you do that? Your own men?"

"Three of the men were spies, we knew that. The lieutenant saw to it they were in the front row when the battle started. They had to die, you see, and it had to look realistic. We couldn't leave that threat to the king. So we made it look like a battle, with us as the traitors."

"You took a great risk."

"The soldiers aimed high. They didn't want to kill D'Artagnan." A useless precaution as it turned out, Aramis thought bitterly.

François turned to André, his voice incredulous. "And you knew about this all the time? I heard you fought well against the four."

André took refuge in the truth. "D'Artagnan told the others to spare our lives if they could. He pulled me out of Athos' way himself." If François had heard those details from his own source, so much the better.

François stared at him a moment, then shrugged, apparently convinced. "The impostor killed D'Artagnan then? My condolences, messieurs. I know you held him dear." His voice was condescending; his own past experiences with D'Artagnan made a mockery of his words, and he knew they knew it.

Aramis felt a wild surge of rage; he wanted to strike François, but too much was at stake. He controlled his temper with an effort; beside him, he sensed André do the same. François went on, either unaware of the reaction he'd provoked or unconcerned by it, "And where's this traitor brother now?"

"He's gone and the king is safe. That's all you need to know. We have plans for the brother ..." Aramis allowed his voice to trail off dangerously and saw François' sudden smirk.

Aramis let a moment of silence elapse. He watched François closely as the courtier played thoughtfully with his goblet of wine. Had he believed the story? For Philippe's sake, best to make sure. Suppressing his distaste, Aramis plunged on. "So you see, Chevalier, no-one must know that such a man exists, or of the plot tonight. We tell you because the king trusts you above all others." Careful, he thought, don't overdo it. François, himself a master of self-serving flattery, would surely recognize it in others. But François was smiling, oblivious. "And then, we need your help."

"My help?" The eyes were suddenly narrow, calculating.

"One way or another, the king's had a difficult evening. The effects are likely to linger, particularly with Christine dead. He's appointed us - myself and the others - as part of his royal council, as no doubt you know already. For his own good, we wish to know if he seems troubled or unsettled in any way." His master stroke: recruit the enemy. He held his breath, willing François to agree.

"You want me to spy on him?" The eyebrows came into play again. François was silent for a moment. Then, "Tell me, Father, were I to agree to this, shall we say ... unusual proposition, how would it ..."

"Benefit you?" Aramis finished for him, hard put to conceal his contempt. "I think you'd find, Chevalier, that we would not be ungrateful."

"I ... see." François' voice was oily with gratification. But his family hadn't reached its present prominence by taking things at face value; greed gave way to native caution. "You understand, Father, Lieutenant, these are troubling times. One must be careful who one trusts. The man in the king's rooms - he is the true king of France?"

"You doubt our word?" Beside Aramis, André clenched his fists suddenly. Aramis cast a sideways glance at the young lieutenant. Lines of strain were etched around his eyes. The outright lie could be further than he was prepared to go tonight.

François was unperturbed. "Not under normal circumstances, of course, Lieutenant, but tonight is hardly normal. What you've told me ..."

Aramis raised his hand and cut him off with icy civility. "It is we who demand your word, Chevalier. We've made you privy to knowledge that could mean death to many. As royal councilor, I demand your oath of silence."

François seemed to weigh up his options. Aramis prayed André would hold his tongue. At length, François spoke. "Very well. His Majesty's safety must be our first concern." Not to mention his own. "You have my word on it."

"Then we thank you for your cooperation and we bid you goodnight." Aramis rose without haste, bowed and turned to leave, André close behind him. François bowed in return. He made no move to show them out, but his eyes followed them reflectively to the door.

Outside in the gallery, the door closed firmly behind them by the yawning servant, the two looked at each other in disgust. François was a treacherous worm, but a worm with power and connections. And he clearly had his own sources of information. That, so close to Philippe, made him a threat that could not be ignored.

"I congratulate you, Father. For a priest, you lie like a courtier," André murmured with half-grudging admiration. "Do you think he believed

us?"

"Hard to say. His sort always prevaricates. But at least we've given him a reason why Philippe might seem off now and then. The king, upset! Louis wouldn't thank us for that."

"Not much he can do about it, is there. We'll have to keep a close eye on the Chevalier."

We, Aramis noted. Would André have sworn to a lie for Philippe if he hadn't intervened? He'd never know. But the young lieutenant had held to the story they'd agreed on. For the moment, he was still on their side. Aramis sighed as they left the main building of the palace and crossed the square to the chapel. "It's not a perfect solution, by any means. But we've done what we can for now." He'd done his best to protect D'Artagnan's son, he reflected silently. In his own imperfect way.

************************************************

Athos was waiting for them just inside the chapel, his face set. Porthos limped forward as they entered. "How did it go, then? You saw the Chevalier?" He dropped a hand on Athos' shoulder as he spoke, as if to steady himself. Aramis noticed it stayed there longer than necessary; Porthos was not supporting himself alone.

Athos seemed unaware of it. His eyes bored into Aramis, intent only on the news he brought. "What happened? Did he believe you?"

"We think so. He's not a fool, he knows something's up. But he seemed to accept the story." Quickly, Aramis brought the others up to date. "He thinks he's in the inner circle now. It'll pay us to keep it that way."

"Good work." Athos clutched at his ribs suddenly, sagging slightly with the release from tension. Aramis was by his side at once. This time Athos didn't shrug him away but let his friends help him to a nearby seat. Porthos sat down beside him and held a battered metal flask, fished from his own pocket, to Athos' lips.

André moved awkwardly closer, his face creased with concern. "Shouldn't you ... rest a while, at least? There's nothing more we can do tonight. I'll have a room prepared ..."

"No!" Athos was adamant. He coughed slightly as the spirit stung his throat. "No, we'll ... I'll ... stay here. With him. For as long as it takes." He gestured at the coffin.

"Athos, please. Rest." Aramis' voice was soft with compassion. Athos was nearly at breaking point, he could tell. Athos shook his head mutely, unutterable weariness scoring ever deeper lines on his face. Aramis gave up and turned back to André. "Thank you, Lieutenant, but our place is here tonight. We'll rest when it's over."

"As you wish. I'll have food and wine sent, and blankets. There are men just outside if you need anything else." Andre turned to the door of the chapel, then swung back, irresolute, as if he had something more to say. But the words would not come.

Aramis helped him. "Then you're with us, Lieutenant?" He smiled faintly, ironically. "All for one?" The eyes of the other two swung round to André.

André hesitated, then spoke with a rush. "Yes. I'm with you." The words fell like stones into the hush of the chapel. Aramis went to him and clasped his hand. Athos and Porthos levered themselves painfully to their feet and did the same. André nodded silently at them all; then, with a last lingering look at the casket, he swung round and left the chapel.

Nobody spoke in the silence that followed. Athos and Porthos settled themselves back on their bench. Athos slumped forward, elbows on knees, head in hands, until the discomfort from the wound on his ribs - a shallow graze, already clotted over - forced him upright. He leaned his head back on the stone wall behind him and stared unseeingly up at the vaulted roof. Aramis took up his station beside D'Artagnan's coffin and resumed his prayers. He sagged slightly as he knelt; the effort of maintaining the public front had cost more than the others knew.

Porthos spoke to Athos, muttering something Aramis didn't catch. Athos didn't respond, only closed his eyes and seemed to shrink even further inside himself. Porthos, not to be denied, reached out and shook him. This time his voice was louder. "Talk to us, damn you! You think we don't feel it? I loved him too. We all did."

Athos opened dead eyes and looked at him. "What do you want me to do, Porthos? Weep and wail? Will that bring him back?" He was beginning to lose control of his voice as the brandy broke down his iron will. He looked across to where Aramis prayed in the light from the circle of candles, their tiny lambent flames sparking answering glints from the silver of his crucifix.

"How easily you pray," Athos said bitterly. "What a comfort it must be to seek absolution on your knees and know you'll find it."

"Absolution?" Aramis was off his knees in a second. "You think I seek absolution? For him," he gestured at the casket, "yes. Not for myself, not any more."

"Philippe is in the king's bedroom. You've made good your sin, I'd say. Wouldn't you?" He didn't seem interested in the answer.

"With this victory", Aramis leaned on the word, sourness in his mouth, "I've brought us to? I'd sooner have died myself." His knuckles whitened around his pectoral cross.

"I told him," a groan of sheer agony doubled Athos over, "I told him he'd never known what it was to be a father. And all the time ... all the time, when I threatened Louis, he knew I threatened his son." Each choked word was jagged with anguish. Porthos' hand closed unheeded on his arm.

"But you didn't know. You couldn't have known." Aramis circled closer until he was beside him on the bench. He risked an arm around Athos' shoulders.

"Your God takes that into account?" Athos turned burning eyes on him.

Aramis' arm tightened. "God is a merciful judge. And we don't judge each other." His face, as he looked at Athos, was infinitely tender. "Philippe is D'Artagnan's son too. We will protect him for his father's sake as well." D'Artagnan hadn't even needed to ask as he lay dying; he'd known they would.

"With my life." Athos' voice broke at last. His chest heaved with huge, gulping sobs as the first tears slid down his cheeks. "With my life." Aramis pulled his head fiercely to his shoulder and held him fast.

"And with mine," Porthos rumbled, stretching his arms around them both.

Aramis nodded through his own tears. And with my soul, he added silently. He had failed D'Artagnan; he took a silent vow, as he grieved with his friends, that he would not fail his son.

*************************************

Lying in bed staring at the windows paling with the first gray light of dawn, François thought back over the night's events. Was the priest's story really true? It would explain everything, as far as he himself had information to confirm it. And he was flattered to be asked for help on confidential royal business. It could only enhance his standing at court with those in the inner circle of power.

One thing still troubled him, though: the scar. The king hadn't let him approach too closely tonight, but he could have sworn he'd seen a scar. François had assisted at Louis' baths for years; he knew his body well. And the scar - an old scar, if that was really what he'd seen - hadn't been there before, he could swear to it. What if ...? If only he could be sure his eyes hadn't played a trick on him in the flickering candlelight.

He would wait. Wait and watch. Sooner or later, if anything were amiss, someone would make a mistake. And when they did, François would be ready. He'd consider his options carefully. Either way, he couldn't lose.