EIGHT
For the remainder of the afternoon, D'Artagnan and Philippe continued to enjoy each other's company while the black gelding contentedly cropped the grass at the river's edge.
The sun was sinking lower in the sky, and the long shadows of evening stretched across the landscape. Meals cooking over the fires in the hearths of the homes inside the village drifted along the breeze, alerting the Musketeer and his son that it was time to return to the house. Darkness would soon fall, yet both were reluctant to leave the quiet place that they had shared during the afternoon, and they lingered a few minutes longer, savoring every moment that they had together, as if trying to make up for the time that had been lost to them.
Finally, as the sun began to slip behind the hill on the western horizon and dusk began to settle over the countryside, D'Artagnan at last acknowledged the late hour. "I think we had better head back, before Aramis comes looking for us."
Philippe nodded in reluctant agreement. "I have enjoyed spending this day with you, Father," he said, softly.
D'Artagnan looked into the boy's kind blue eyes and felt a tug on his heart. Already, feelings of affection for this lost son were stirring inside him, accompanied by the new and wondrous sensations of openly being a father for the first time in his life. He wanted to take the young man into his arms and embrace him as he had never been able to do with Louis, to express all the love that had been kept inside for so long, but he was unable to do so. His paternal feelings for Louis were strong, but had always been carefully suppressed, for to display too much personal fondness for the young king would be inappropriate, and it was those years of carefully concealing his sentiments which prevented him from openly displaying his growing affection for Philippe. It had been a way of life for so long that, for the moment, he was uncomfortable with the notion of altering it.
"I have enjoyed it as well," he replied, wishing he could have said more.
Unaware of D'Artagnan's inner struggle, Philippe turned to the horse and pulled its head up from the grass.
The gelding resisted for a moment, unwilling to leave the patch of tender grass, but a firm pull on the rope succeeded in asserting dominance over the animal, and it fell in step beside him as he started walking back toward the road that led to the village.
D'Artagnan walked beside his son, his mind still reeling from the events that had been brought to him that day. More than anything, he wished that Anne could have been there to share the day with him and Philippe, but he knew that could never happen. Once they returned to Paris, he must fall back into the role of subservient body guard, keeping a respectful distance from the royal family while maintaining constant vigilance. He accepted the role he must play, for that was the price of his indiscretion, and he was grateful that his profession at least allowed him to be near his son and the boy's mother. As painful as his professional distance could sometimes be, it was better than the alternative of never seeing them at all.
When they reached the paddock area behind the stable, they found that several men were feeding the horses. The village horses were housed in roomy box stalls inside a long low stable constructed of the same stone as the houses. Lanterns brightened the interior of the structure as the men worked, and the black lifted its head and whinnied eagerly as it heard the bins of grain opened up.
A worker stepped outside the wide double doors to see which horse was out, and spotted the two men approaching. Recognizing the Musketeer, he moved forward to take the horse. "I will feed him for you, Monsieur, and bed him down in the stable," he offered, reaching for the rope. "Father Aramis is holding supper for you."
Philippe glanced at D'Artagnan for instruction, and he nodded affirmatively. Almost unwillingly, Philippe turned the rope of his horse over to the man and looked longingly after it as it was led away with a spring to its step as it trotted alongside the worker, impatient to get inside for its feed.
D'Artagnan watched with a knowing smile. "He will be all right. You can take him down to the river again in the morning, if you wish to spend some more time with him."
"Athos will want to work on the sword tomorrow."
"Then you can take him down at a time when you are not working. You won't be expected to work every hour of every day," D'Artagnan reminded him. "You will have some time to yourself."
The kitchen door was open, and they entered to find that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were already seated at the table, waiting for them. The three men looked up as they stepped through the door.
"About time," Athos muttered, resentfully.
Porthos swatted him on the arm, a silent reminder that rudeness was not necessary. Athos flashed a resentful glare his direction, but said no more.
"We saw you coming up the road," Aramis said. "You were gone a long time. We were starting to wonder about you."
"I'm sorry we were so late," D'Artagnan apologized as he went to the wash table to wash his hands in the basin of water. "We decided to soak the horse's leg in the river to cool it."
"How is he doing?" Porthos asked.
"The left front fetlock is still swollen, but the cool water should help take some of the fever out of it."
"I remember when the four of us all rode black horses," Porthos said, thoughtfully. "That was a long time ago. I miss those days when we all had a purpose." He sighed, sadly. "I find I do not have enough to fill my days, anymore."
D'Artagnan tossed the dirty water out the open window and poured fresh water into the basin for Philippe. While he dried his hands on a towel, Philippe stepped forward to wash his hands.
D'Artagnan sat down near Aramis, preferring to remain a respectful distance from Athos, who was seated at the foot of the table. Ordinarily, he would have taken a seat near his best friend, but he knew that Athos still wanted nothing to do with him, so it was best not to provoke him.
Philippe washed his hands quickly and grabbed the towel. "He's going to let me have the horse!" he said over his shoulder, his enthusiasm impossible to contain.
"It isn't my horse," D'Artagnan explained. "I chose to ride him on this trip because he's younger and bigger and less recognizable than my gray. All Philippe has to do is state that he desires the animal, and it is his."
"It is a handsome animal," Aramis said. "He will serve you well, Philippe."
When Philippe was seated at the table beside his father, the priest bowed his head, indicating that the others should do the same. Speaking softly, he said grace, and when they prayer of thanks was completed, they helped themselves to the bowls and platters of food.
D'Artagnan observed the heaping bowls and platters of vegetables, bread, and roasted chicken. "There is so much," he commented. "I had no idea this community was so wealthy."
"There is plenty of food in this area," Aramis explained. "Louis has not yet confiscated it for the army's use. The land is fertile and the crops are bountiful. Life is good here."
"Is everyone in this town a Jesuit?"
Aramis looked up quickly, surprised that he had asked the question. Athos had also looked up, giving a warning glare to Aramis from the opposite end of the table, but the priest chose to ignore it. "Everyone here is not necessary a Jesuit, but they all have ties to the order in one way or another, and all are in favor of deposing Louis," Aramis replied. "The members of the order have migrated here over the past few years, and I dare say they have turned this town into a very nice place to live with law-abiding people. The only place where roughness exists is the tavern and the brothel. You have already seen the tavern. The brothel is next door to it, and tends to attract some unseemly men from outlying areas. Even Porthos won't go there."
Porthos had been quietly eating his supper, but his eyes darted up when he heard his name. "There isn't much point in going there, anyway," he said, quietly. Lifting his glass of wine, he quickly drained it, then reached for the jug again to refill the glass. "There is nothing for me there."
D'Artagnan glanced across the table at him, thinking that a particularly odd comment for him to make, but the table was not an appropriate place to discuss such matters, so he turned his attention back to Aramis and asked, "Outlying areas?"
"Yes. The next nearest village is some distance away, but there are some farmers, winemakers and a few country estates nearby. They come here for supplies and entertainment. Most of them are decent people, but some are a bit more primitive than what we typically see here in the village."
"Was it you who purchased the bulk of the tavern owner's stock of fine wine?" he asked with a sly smile.
"How did you know that?" Aramis asked.
"I could barely choke down the drink he gave me yesterday. Very bitter. He explained that someone had purchased most of his better stock. Given your taste for fine wine, I assumed it would be you."
"I had forgotten that your powers of deduction were as good as your observation skills. Yes, it was I. He attempted to sell me that same . . . sediment, for lack of a better word . . . that he sold you. Well, I would have none of that, I tell you! Especially not for the price he was asking! Highway robbery! I insisted on the best he had, and at a reasonable price, too."
"I finally helped to persuade him," Porthos said.
D'Artagnan's lips turned up in a knowing smile. "I won't even ask how you did that."
"At least that is one thing I can still do satisfactorily," Porthos lamented.
Again, D'Artagnan glanced across the table at his old friend. It was becoming apparent that some sort of personal depression had settled over Porthos during the afternoon. Turning back to the priest again, he said, "Aramis, I would ask a favor."
"Anything."
"Call the Jesuits off of Louis. We are going to replace him; there is no need for these assassination attempts."
"I already have, D'Artagnan," the priest told him. "When you announced that you would join us, and the revelation that Louis and Philippe are your sons came out, I sent out word that a new plan was in the works, and that there should be no more attempts on his life."
"Thank you," the Musketeer said, gratefully, greatly relieved that he would no longer have to worry about his other son being assassinated in his absence. "I have looked after him since he was born, and it has been weighing heavily on my mind that I am not there to protect him."
"The Jesuits will obey their leader," Aramis assured him. "So put your mind at ease and enjoy the time you have with Philippe." He smiled, observing the look that passed between the father and son. "I would say you already are."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
After supper, the men returned to the drawing room to talk for a while, but as the evening wore on, they soon began to grow weary. Angelina had long since returned to the home she shared with her two sisters, and Aramis withdrew his Bible from the desk drawer and read silently for awhile before retiring for the night. Philippe sat yawning at the table, and D'Artagnan stood silently at the window, gazing out into the night, pondering his own private thoughts.
Porthos had pushed a chair against the wall, so that he could lean his head back for support, and had fallen asleep there. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was open, snoring with such loud grating intakes of air that D'Artagnan turned away from the window to exchange amused smiles with Aramis.
With each snore, Philippe's face turned a deeper shade of red as he struggled to keep from laughing aloud. His body was shaking with suppressed laughter, and he kept his hand firmly clamped over his mouth.
Athos, however, found no humor in the noise, and when he had finally had enough, he shoved him roughly. Porthos swayed in his chair, nearly toppling from it, and awakened with a gasping snort that made Aramis, D'Artagnan, and Philippe laugh.
Focusing his sleepy eyes on Athos, he demanded, "What did you do that for?"
"You are snoring loudly enough to shake the foundations of the building," Athos told him.
"I do not snore!" Porthos retorted, indignantly. He glanced quickly at the other men in the room, and found that all were grinning at him, with the exception of Athos, who continued to scowl. "Do I?"
"This is an old building," Philippe said. "I am not certain that it would withstand much more!"
"A platoon of mounted Musketeers on a cobblestone road is quieter," D'Artagnan agreed, inspiring a fresh burst of laughter from Philippe.
"No, you are teasing me," Porthos insisted. He yawned, and his eyelids drooped, wearily. "I believe I will retire for the night." He stood up.
"Goodnight, then," Aramis told him.
After Porthos had stumbled from the room, Philippe also stood up. "I think I will turn in as well." His gaze lingered on D'Artagnan. "Goodnight."
"Good night," the others responded.
"I will see you in the morning, Philippe," D'Artagnan added.
"I will walk up with you," Athos said.
After Athos and Philippe had left the room, D'Artagnan pulled a chair closer to the priest and sat down facing him. "What is going on with Porthos?"
Aramis closed his Bible and set it aside. The serious nature of this question demanded full attention to it. His expression was solemn as he turned to face the Musketeer. "With your own troubles, I did not think you would notice that Porthos is having problems of his own."
"How could I not notice? I've never seen him like this before. Always before, he had a passion for life, as if the day was never long enough for him to accomplish everything he wanted to do. Now, it is as if he has given up."
"In a way, I fear he has. For months now, Porthos has been suffering from the opinion that he is worthless, that his life is no longer worth living. He has been moping around, whining about getting old, and complaining because nothing interests him anymore. Some days are better than others, but he has had a few that have been very bad. He even tried to kill himself a couple of days ago."
Concern immediately flashed across D'Artagnan's face at the news that his old friend had attempted to take his own life. "Suicide?"
Aramis nodded, slowly. "He had been talking about hanging himself for weeks, and I decided that he probably meant it. Figuring he would probably use one of the beams in the barn, where he could jump from the loft, I sawed halfway through the central support beam, since it is the strongest beam and the one that he would most likely use. I then hung a rope from it at the point where I had sawed it so that he would use the rope at that particular spot. Two nights ago, he climbed into the loft, tied the rope around his neck, and jumped."
D'Artagnan winced at the image that came to his mind.
Aramis continued, "When he hit the end of the rope, the beam broke and he fell to the ground. The good news is that it seemed to get the notion of suicide out of his head, for the time being, anyway."
"Wait a minute," D'Artagnan said, staring at him, incredulously. "You sawed the central support beam? That is what holds up the entire structure! Didn't you know that when the beam broke, the barn would collapse?"
Aramis shrugged, and an amused smile fleeted across his face. "Well, no, not at the time. I do now, of course. You saw the remains of the barn out there. The whole structure fell in on him. Fortunately, there was no livestock inside it at the time."
"He was not hurt?"
"No, and now that he's gotten the idea of killing himself out of his head, it is my hope that he won't try it again." He began to chuckle softly, a peculiar reaction, in D'Artagnan's opinion. Noticing his friend's disapproving expression, Aramis leaned closer to the Musketeer. "He was stark naked when he made the attempt," he said, grinning with amusement.
"Naked?"
"He was wearing nothing except his boots. It was not a pretty sight, I assure you," Aramis said. "Athos and I saw him from the window as he walked down the street to the barn, his backside shining in the moonlight. You should have seen the look on Athos's face!" He laughed heartily at the remembrance. "He could hardly believe what he was seeing!"
"Why did he take his clothes off to hang himself?" D'Artagnan asked.
"From what I could gather, he had been attempting to entertain himself in an empty stall in the horse stable with Angelina and her sisters. Yes, all three of them at once," he added in response to the quizzical lifting of D'Artagnan's eyebrows. "Apparently, he was not able to . . . respond favorably to them, if you understand my meaning, and it must have pushed him over the edge. He simply got up and walked to the barn without bothering to dress himself."
D'Artagnan nodded. "I see." He leaned back in the chair and thoughtfully stroked his well-groomed mustache. "That explains some of the peculiar comments he has made this evening. Is that why he has been drinking so much? Because he thinks his usefulness is over?"
"You have noticed his self-depreciating comments too, eh?" Aramis asked. "Yes, rarely is he completely sober these days. Drink is apparently the only thing in which he can find pleasure."
"He seemed fine this morning, even happy."
"Your arrival took his mind off his problems for a bit, I suppose."
"When Philippe and I came back from the river this evening, there was a profound difference in him during just that short time. What happened?"
"He and Angelina spent part of the afternoon together. I suspect things did not go according to his expectations, and apparently they have not gone well for quite some time. I am at a loss as to what to do about him anymore. Nothing I say seems to have any influence on him. Here we are on this important mission, trying to instruct Philippe to take the reins of the country, and Porthos is absolutely no help whatsoever. Instead, he has become more of a hindrance, another burden to carry." Reaching out, he grasped his friend by the wrist. "I am sincerely grateful that you have decided to join us. At least now, with another level head to contribute to the cause, maybe Philippe will have a chance." He smiled, encouragingly. "What about you? This has been an extraordinary day for you. How are you holding up?"
"I am still in a state of shock," he admitted.
Aramis's smile broadened. "So are we."
"There were two," he said, softly, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. "Last night when I retired, I had only one son; tonight, I have two! All these years, I have maintained constant vigilance over Louis, always aware that he was my son, never knowing that I had another son, one who looks so much like Louis that it nearly took my breath away when I saw him!"
"I regret that you had to find out the way you did. That was a very cruel way to tell you. I assure you that had I known, I would have found a different manner of informing you. I felt I needed to go to greater lengths to convince you, which is why I showed you the mask."
"You had no way of knowing," D'Artagnan said, dismissing the priest's guilt over the method in which he had been informed of Philippe's existence.
"No, I did not. And you are right; the resemblance between them is quite astonishing," he agreed. "It is that great resemblance that makes our plan so viable."
"And yet, as I look at him, I can scarcely believe that he is truly my son. I know that he is, for he is Louis' twin, but the things I am feeling are very complicated and very confusing to me. He is my son, but I do not know him, Aramis. And admitting that . . . " He stopped, unable to complete the sentence.
"Makes you feel like a bad father? Like you are betraying him?"
"Yes. I had time to prepare for Louis. Anne told me when she discovered that she was pregnant, so there was time to adjust to the idea of becoming a father. But with Philippe, his presence was dropped into my lap with no warning whatsoever. I do not wish to sound uncaring, but I feel like my own son is a complete stranger."
The priest's smile was kind. "He is a stranger to you, D'Artagnan. There is no need to feel guilty about that. He looks like Louis, but he is an entirely different individual with different thoughts and feelings; a different and unique soul. A different personality entirely, as I am certain you have already noticed. Did you think that you would instantly know everything there is to know about him? That you would instantly feel like a father to him?"
"No, I suppose not." He paused to lift his shoulders in a shrug. "Yes, maybe I did. It is all so confusing. This is the last thing I expected to find when I got here. And I do have feelings for him; fatherly feelings of great affection. But I do not know anything about him except what you have told me and what he told me this afternoon at the river. All day, my thoughts have been in turmoil. One moment, I am feeling angry with Anne for withholding his existence from me, and then only a short time later I find myself wishing she was here to experience this with me, as a family. The family we will never be."
"This has been difficult for the queen as well," Aramis reminded him. "When the twins were born and she was told that the younger of the two had died, she probably wanted to spare you the grief of losing a child. You were already suffering enough with the fact that your child could never truly be yours; that he would be raised as the son of the king. The death of the other son would have been an unnecessary burden for you."
"I know that, Aramis, but when she found out the truth, she should have told me. I had the right to know that I had another son, a son who had been cruelly cast aside by the old king."
"There was no easy way to deal with this situation, D'Artagnan. By the time she found out that she had been deceived, it was many years later and she was already firmly caught up in that tangled web of deceit through no fault of her own. It is I and the former king who are deserving of your anger; not her."
D'Artagnan continued to look at him, refusing to admit that there was any justification in withholding the truth from him. "I could have helped him."
"Let me ask you a question," Aramis continued after a long pause. "What would you have done if she had told you the truth when she learned it?" He raised a hand quickly to block the impulsive answer that D'Artagnan almost made. "For many years, only two people knew the exact location where the child was being raised; the old king and myself. The queen never knew, and still does not know, that it was I who took her child away, and even after the king revealed the truth, he never told her where he had been raised. She never knew where he was imprisoned, and when he revealed that fact to young Louis, he withheld it from the mother. Young Louis did not tell his own mother where his brother was being kept; do you believe he would have told you? Would you have risked your life and the queen's by bringing this into the open? What would you have done? What could you have done?"
Angry frustration surfaced briefly. "I don't know!" he replied, hotly. "I don't . . . " The anger faded as quickly as it came, as the voice of reason returned. "He was my son," he said, helplessly. "It was my son that you did this to, Aramis."
The agony in his voice was so great that Aramis bowed his head, visibly ashamed. "I know. And I will bear that guilt for the rest of my life."
D'Artagnan covered his face with his hands, not to weep but to bring his frustration under control. His exhale was loud in the silence of the quiet room. "I feel so helpless," he said, withdrawing his hands. "I wish I could have spared him so much pain, but I could not because I never knew he even existed."
"D'Artagnan," Aramis said, softly. "What I did, I did out of loyalty to my king. You know something of that kind of loyalty. I am not suggesting that I do not deserve your anger or even your contempt; I just want you to understand that it was not something I wanted to do."
"I know you didn't. I just feel like I have been deliberately denied the chance to get to know my own son, to give him a better life than what he has known."
"I don't pretend to understand what it is like to be a father, and to have these feelings that you are now experiencing, but I do know that it is good that you two have these next few weeks that you can get to know each other. He is a good boy," he added with emphasis. "Where Louis has let you down, Philippe will make you proud. I guarantee it. He is everything that we ever hoped to find in a king. But at the moment, he is very much like a child. I'm sure you have noticed that."
D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes. His inexperience with worldly matters and his lack of confidence is very obvious."
"That is because he has been isolated for so long. He has had almost no socialization with others."
"He told me some of his upbringing this afternoon at the river, about the priest and the woman who raised him. Were they aware of his identity?"
"It was necessary to inform Father Laroque what he was being asked to involve himself in. When he was told that the order had come directly from the king himself, he understood the sensitivity of the situation, and agreed to find a proper home for the child with the required discretion. He found a wetnurse for him until he was weaned, and then located Yvette to raise him. She was a childless widow who had become a hermit since the death of her husband. She never ventured away from her cottage, and no one went out to see her, so she was considered the perfect surrogate mother for him."
D'Artagnan fell silent for several moments, then said, quietly, "He said that she was good to him."
"When I took him away from her, she ran after the coach, begging me to leave him." He exhaled a long breath of regret. "I hated doing that to her. She had apparently grown fond of him."
"I must see her, and tell her that he is well."
"D'Artagnan, I think that might be ill advised," Aramis warned. "You risk exposing yourself as an accomplice to those who helped to free him."
"I will tell her nothing of his identity, but she should know that the boy she cared for is safe, if for no other reason than to ease her mind. To keep it from her is cruel."
"I can see where Philippe gets his kindness of heart."
"It is not only for the sake of kindness that I do this, Aramis. She raised my son. I owe her a debt which I can never repay."
After a long moment of deliberation, Aramis nodded his agreement. "Very well, but it will be me who makes the journey, not you. If Philippe accepts the throne, he will need your guidance far more than he will need mine. And I must make amends to her for taking him away from her."
"All right, but if there is anything she needs, I want to know about it."
"I will see to it." He paused to observe the Musketeer. "I saw his face as he bid us goodnight, the way his eyes lingered on you. He is desperate to be loved by you."
D'Artagnan started to speak, but the words he wanted to say were not for the ears of the priest, but for Philippe. Instead, he rose from the chair. "I appreciate your candor, Aramis, and also your help in settling this matter with Yvette."
"Goodnight, my friend," Aramis replied.
D'Artagnan nodded without speaking, then slowly climbed the stairs and walked down the narrow corridor toward his room. He paused briefly in the middle of the hallway, gazing at each closed door that lined the walls, wondering which one belonged to Philippe.
After a few moments, he proceeded to his room and closed the door. The boy was probably in bed asleep by now. They would have plenty of time to say the things that needed to be said, once the Musketeer became comfortable with actually speaking the words.