ELEVEN

The girl walked slowly along the edge of the river, following the curve toward the quiet inlet that branched off from the larger body of running water. It had been a long day of hard work in the fields and tending to the flock of sheep, and the bank was cool and shady.

Reaching her favorite spot, she removed each of her slippers, and dropped them onto the grass, then knelt down at the edge of the water. The bank was about six inches above the surface of the water, with grassy tufts hanging over the edge, as if reaching for the life-giving moisture. Immediately off the bank, the clear water was knee deep, with a steep slope toward the center of the pond-like inlet. It was the perfect place for a young girl to sit on the edge and dangle her tired feet in the water.

Kneeling on the bank, she reached toward the water and dipped her cupped hands into it to splash it on her face. The water was cool and refreshing, and she reached for it again, then stopped, puzzled. There seemed to be a disturbance in the water, as if something large was moving beneath the surface about eight feet from the bank. Bubbles floated lazily to the surface, and a pale object drifted slowly along the sandy bottom. Curiously, she leaned forward for a better look, expecting to see a large fish.

Without warning, there was a huge splash as the object broke the surface, and a human form emerged from the water in front of her.

The girl screamed in fright, and she took a quick step back as she attempted to rise to her feet, but she tripped on the hem of her dress and sprawled backwards onto the grassy bank.

Philippe stood waist deep in the inlet, water streaming down his lithe body. He had been swimming beneath the surface not far from the bank, and when he felt the need for air, he had abruptly leaped up from the depths. He had not expected to find the girl there, and was every bit as startled as she was. His eyes were large as he pushed the hair out of his face and stared at her.

Recovering from his shock, his first reaction was to step forward to help her to her feet, which is what any gentleman would do, but after taking the first step, he remembered that he was naked. Quickly, he bent his knees so that his body sank to his chin, hoping that the nearly crystal clear water had enough ripples to conceal himself from her.

For several long tense moments, the two young people stared at each other, neither knowing what to do or say during such an awkward and revealing moment.

Finally, Philippe decided that it was up to him to speak first. "Forgive me if I frightened you. I would offer to help you up, but . . ." He glanced down at the water, embarrassed. "Under the circumstances, I do not think it would be appropriate."

Her eyes widened even more than they were already as she understood his meaning. "Oh!" she exclaimed, horrified. Quickly, she turned her face away and shielded her eyes with her hand. "Forgive me, Monsieur! I did not know anyone was here!"

"Neither did I," he told her. The humor and awkwardness of the moment was beginning to emerge, and he found himself grinning. He was trapped, unable to emerge from the water without exposing himself to her, but he knew that they could not remain like that forever. "Perhaps you could turn your back long enough for me to get my clothes on," he suggested.

She groaned, mortified at the thought of standing so near a naked man, even with her back turned. "I will go!" she exclaimed, turning her back as she struggled to stand up. In her haste, her long skirt kept getting under her feet, forcing her back down. Finally, she managed to get herself upright, and stooped to retrieve her slippers.

He knew that she was about to bolt, and this was the first time he had spoken to her. He did not want it to end on a note of such discomfort, for she would not likely ever want to face him again. "No, please! Don't go. Just give me a few moments to get dressed."

"This . . . this could be very compromising, Monsieur. If anyone was to see, they might misunderstand," she said, speaking so rapidly that he had trouble keeping up with her words. "I must not be found here with you like this! My father would be very angry!" She started to move away, pushing her way through the brush.

"Please, wait!" he said, stopping her. "If you must go, then I ask that you wait for me a safe distance away. I have no intentions, I assure you. I just – I just want to talk to you."

She stopped. Her back was still to him, but she had turned her ear toward him, listening.

Encouraged, he continued, "I have wanted to talk to you ever since arriving in your village, but there is always other people around. For years, I have been isolated from everyone else, a long way from here. Please, can we talk for a while? I am living in a house with four other men, all of them older than me. I have no one my own age to talk to."

After a hesitation, she nodded. "Very well, Monsieur. I will wait for you at the bridge." She started to walk away, then stopped again. "I have wanted to talk to you, too," she admitted.

With that encouraging comment, she pushed her way through the brush and disappeared from his sight.

As soon as she was gone, he rushed for the bank, fearful that she would not wait long for him, but it was difficult to run in the water, and the resistance slowed him. Water splashed loudly as he forced his way to the bank. In his bare feet, he ran to the spot where he had left his clothes, and hurriedly began pulling them on. His body was wet, and the fabric clung to his skin, making it difficult to dress.

Frustrated, he pulled and tugged, nearly falling as he struggled to get his legs into his breeches. When he finally succeeded, he dropped down on the grass to pull on his socks and shoes, then snatched up his shirt and pulled it over his head as he ran after the girl.

As promised, she was waiting for him at the bridge, and a soft blush crept to her cheeks when she saw him coming. She turned away from him, her gaze falling on the slow moving water of the river below the bridge.

His face was somewhat warm as well, and he stopped a short distance from her, wringing the water from his long hair. "I must apologize for what happened back there," he said, breaking the awkward silence. "I have been going there to swim, but I never thought that anyone else went there as well."

"It is my favorite place, Monsieur," she said, keeping her eyes averted. "I go there sometimes in the evening after chores to put my feet in the water."

"I usually go in the morning," he said. "That is how we missed each other. I have been taking fencing lessons, and I was hot and sweaty, so I wanted to rinse off . . . " He stopped, realizing that a girl would not be interested in hearing about sweaty men and fencing lessons. "I guess you don't want to hear about that, though."

Her eyes remained averted, refusing to meet his gaze. "I saw you and that other man working with the sword, Monsieur," she said.

"You did?" he asked. His heart lifted with the knowledge that she had been watching him, and he grinned, almost giddy with happiness.

She nodded. "Yes. You are very good."

"Not really, but I am learning. Would you do me a favor?"

Her eyes darted briefly to his, then looked away again. "What, Monsieur?"

"Call me Philippe. That is my name."

"My name is Bernadette," she responded.

"That is a beautiful name," he said, softly. "And you are very beautiful, too."

"You speak too boldly, Monsieur," she said quickly, then corrected herself. "Philippe."

"I am sorry if I appear bold. I merely speak the truth."

She did not respond, but he knew by the soft smile that turned up the corners of her mouth that she was enjoying the compliment.

"I don't want you to feel uncomfortable around me, Bernadette," he continued. "Getting cleaned up after being sweaty is a perfectly natural thing to do. I just like to do it in the river, so I don't have to empty the water. I am unaccustomed to having an audience, though. I must remember to do this in the morning, when no one else is around."

She blushed, furiously, wishing that he would change the subject.

Finally, he moved on to other things. "I have seen you and some other women caring for the lambs."

"My cousins. Our fathers are brothers. They jointly own most of the sheep. They shear them, and we clean the wool and then sell much of it to be made into clothing and coats."

"Is that a lucrative business?" he asked.

"We do all right."

Awkward silence fell over them again. Philippe desperately wanted to make a good impression, but his isolation had left him without much in the way of interesting conversation. His mind struggled to come up with something that they could talk about, but he was unable to think of anything. The primary topic in his life was the fact that he was the twin brother of the king, but Aramis would skin him alive if he revealed that fact to her!

After a time, the girl said, "I must return home, now. It is time for me to help start supper." She turned to leave.

"Bernadette," he said, desperately, hoping that she had not become bored in his presence.

She stopped and turned to face him again.

"Are you going to the river tomorrow evening to put your feet in the water?"

Her cheeks colored slightly again. "I hope to," she answered.

"Would you mind if I sit beside you and put my feet in the water as well?" he asked.

She smiled. "I suppose not."

"I will be there."

She started walking back toward the village, and he rushed to catch up.

"I will walk you back." He fell in step with her, and they walked slowly back toward the village.

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D'Artagnan was still seated comfortably in a chair near the window reading his book when Aramis strode into the room nearly two hours after Philippe had left for the river.

"Have you seen Philippe lately?" the priest asked.

"Not lately," he replied, turning the page.

Reaching into his pocket, Aramis withdrew his watch, flipped open the cover, and glanced at it. "He has been gone a long time," he said, impatiently. "It is almost supper, and I had hoped to work on his posture a bit more before then."

He looked up in response to the priest's annoyed comment. "He's probably still at the river swimming."

"Swimming?" Aramis echoed, as if shocked that the young man would be doing something so frivolous when there was work to be done. "There are things he needs to be doing. Some clothing and shoes modeled after those of the king have just arrived. I want him to try them on to make certain they fit properly."

"He's young, Aramis," D'Artagnan reminded him.

Aramis stared at him a moment, annoyed by his appalling lack of concern. "I know he's young, but by the time you were his age, you were already a commissioned officer in the Musketeers who had seen battle in the army and fought many duels. You understood responsibility!"

This time, D'Artagnan glanced over the top of his book. "I was not hidden away for my entire life, isolated from the rest of the world, the last six in an iron mask," he said, rather sharply. He regretted the words immediately. "Forgive me; I was not trying to make accusations. I'm just saying that his upbringing was different than mine. He's never been able to do the things that young people do. Under the circumstances, you are expecting too much from him." He glanced at the clock on the mantle. "However, you are right. He has been gone quite some time. I will go see what is keeping him."

"I would appreciate that, D'Artagnan. These delays are going to affect my health. I can't seem to get any cooperation around here! I spend half my day working up a schedule, and then no one is ever around to put it into effect."

D'Artagnan set aside the book and rose from his chair. "There is no need for such dramatics, my friend. Life cannot be lived on a schedule, and everything is going to work out. As a priest, I believe you should improve your faith a bit more!"

Aramis shrugged and nodded his concurrence. "I am not a patient man," he admitted once again. "Yes, I suppose I must work on that."

"Philippe will accomplish the tasks ahead of him," he paused to say. "But he needs some time to himself, as well, to enjoy his freedom."

Aramis nodded, reluctantly. "I guess I cannot very well overrule his father, can I?"

D'Artagnan smiled. "No, you cannot."

Leaving the room, he went outside. Pausing just outside the door, he glanced up and down the street to see if his son was anywhere in sight. When his casual observation failed to turn up any sign of the boy, he began walking toward the edge of town, where he would follow the road to the river in the hopes of finding this secluded inlet that Philippe had told him about.

The two men who had been clearing the remains of the collapsed barn were tossing the final clumps of thatching and broken boards into the wagon, but this time, instead of staring at him with suspicion and mistrust, they raised their hands in a friendly greeting.

"Good afternoon, Captain," they said, respectfully.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he replied as he passed them, wondering how they knew who he was. He could only assume that either Aramis or the doctor, Bonnierre, had revealed his identity to them and probably others, and that he was on their side.

As he reached the edge of the walled city, he almost immediately spotted his son walking slowly up the grassy slope toward the village, and beside him was the young woman he had seen the morning before.

He smiled with fatherly amusement, observing that Philippe had finally gotten up the courage to speak to the girl. The two were walking side by side, not touching or holding hands, but it was apparent that they were enjoying one another's company. Philippe's hair was still damp, but was beginning to dry, and his smile was easy and content.

Quickly, D'Artagnan stepped back inside the wall to avoid embarrassing the boy, and he walked swiftly back to the house.

Aramis looked up as he entered through the drawing room door. "Well?"

"He's coming up the road now. He has a girl with him."

Aramis and Porthos rushed to the windows to look.

"It is a girl!" Porthos exclaimed, excitedly. "That sly little dog. He will be following in his brother's footsteps sooner than we realized!"

D'Artagnan frowned his disapproval as he leaned close to the window with the others. "I should hope not! Louis changes mistresses like he changes his shirts, but he has more regard for the shirts than he does for the women!" He grasped Porthos by the sleeve. "Come, he should not see us staring out the window at him. It would embarrass him."

Athos entered the room, and a puzzled expression crossed his weary face when he saw the three men huddled at the window looking outside. "What are you looking at?" he asked. "Embarrass whom?"

"Philippe has a lady friend!" Porthos told him over his shoulder, then turned back to the window to gawk.

Curiously, Athos moved to the window for a quick look, watching as the young couple strolled into town together. "What is so strange about that?" he asked. "You are acting like you've never seen a young man walking with a young woman before."

"My sentiments exactly," D'Artagnan said. "Let's move back before he sees us."

Athos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan moved away from the window and seated themselves at various positions around the room. Only Porthos remained, his face pressed against the window. He sighed, wistfully. "I wish I was that young, again."

"But you're not, so get over here and sit down," Aramis commanded.

Reluctantly, Porthos moved away from the window and seated himself.

Philippe parted company with the young woman at the door of her home, and then he proceeded to the house he shared with the men. As he entered the room, they turned to look at him, and he noticed quickly that his father, Aramis, and Porthos were all smiling at him in obvious amusement. Only Athos remained expressionless.

Stopping just inside the door, Philippe quickly looked down to make certain his trousers were properly fastened, for it was the only thing that came to mind which would inspire such amusement from the older men Finding everything intact, he looked up, curiously, his eyes meeting each in turn.

In response to the young man's questioning look, Porthos asked, "So, did you and the young lady go swimming . . . together?"

Philippe felt his cheeks grow warm, which encouraged Porthos's laughter.

"You did! I knew it!" he cried, exuberantly, thumping his mug of ale down on the tabletop so forcefully that it sloshed over the rim. "No wonder you were gone so long! I am very impressed!"

"That is not what happened!" Philippe said in the young woman's defense. "She came to the inlet while I was swimming. She did not know I was there, and we sort of startled each other. Nothing inappropriate happened, for I did not wish to compromise her. She retreated to the bridge to wait for me, and we walked back together."

"Are you telling us the truth?" Porthos teased. "We would not think less of you!"

"It is the truth, I swear!" Philippe insisted, his blush deepening. "Nothing else happened!"

Aramis finally stood up. "All right, I think we have embarrassed him enough, Porthos. Philippe, I have some clothing I wish you try on, and there is no time like the present. Come, we must make sure everything fits properly."

Reluctantly, Philippe followed Aramis from the room, and spent the next hour trying on the clothes that the priest had ordered..

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Long after most of the residents of the house had retired for the night, D'Artagnan stepped outside the drawing room door and walked casually toward the low stone wall that ran alongside the bare patch of ground and the few tufts of straw that was the only remnants of the barn. When he reached the waist high wall, he stood silently for several minutes, enjoying the peace and tranquility of the country setting. Behind him, in the stone stable, he could hear the horses shifting about in their stalls through the open windows and doors. In the pasture that stretched down the slope toward the river, he heard the occasional lowing of the cattle.

There was no one else around, the residents having retired to their homes and to their beds, so he sat down on the stone wall and lifted his eyes toward the sky, absorbing the rare moments of solitude that he seldom found at the palace.

It was a beautiful night, calm and still, with no clouds to obscure the brilliance of the constellations. A host of stars winked and twinkled in the heavens, and the nearly full moon hovered just above the distant hill, casting a silvery glow over the landscape. Crickets chirped a continuous chorus, and an owl circled overhead, searching for a hare or a mouse on which to dine.

As he gazed at the gently rolling hills and valleys that surrounded the walled city, his mind drifted back to the night when he had, completely by chance, encountered Anne, who was taking a moonlight stroll in the rose garden. She had managed to slip out of the palace without her escort to enjoy the rare moments alone. Already, she was the love of his life, and he had watched her for several minutes, mesmerized by her beauty, before he had made his presence known to her. They had walked together for a long time, cherishing the rare time alone together, enjoying each other's company, and the magnificence of the rose garden at night. It had been completely innocent, two young lovers walking hand in hand where there were no prying eyes to invade their privacy. It had been one of the most memorable nights of his life, until it was overshadowed by the other encounter, the one that had culminated in the physical consummation of their love that had changed the fate of the country.

As her image washed over him like a warm embrace, bringing with it that familiar sense of yearning for what could never be, he wondered what Anne was doing at that moment. Was she in her bed, cradled in the peaceful oblivion of slumber, or was she perhaps gazing up at the same stars, wondering where he was and why he had departed Paris in such a hurry?

She had been aware that he had requested a leave of absence, and would be gone for a few days or perhaps a few weeks, but he had not had a chance to speak to her about the reasons why he was taking his journey. Their last meeting had been brief and hurried, speaking only a few hasty words in the corridor in passing. It had been his intention to seek her out to say a proper goodbye before leaving, but when he had overheard the conversation between Louis and the general regarding the interrogation of the Jesuit and the meeting at the docks, it was imperative that he depart without delay. He had not spoken to anyone except the young Musketeer who had fetched the black gelding for him.

Here, in this quiet village, he was once again surrounded by his friends, united with them toward a common goal. However, the others had no idea how painful this objective was for him, for by placing his second son on the throne, it was necessary to give up the first, the son he had known since his birth, whom he had watched over and protected throughout his young life.

Only now was he allowing himself to consider what would be done with Louis. Aramis had not yet revealed to him the plans he had made for the deposed king once Philippe was on the throne, but the prospects were all the more troubling for D'Artagnan because he knew that Louis would not go quietly. As painful as it was to think about, he suspected what Louis' fate would likely be, and he struggled with the necessity of it. For all of Louis' faults, for all the misery he had placed on others, he loved his son as only a father could.

"Ah, Louis," he murmured, sadly, speaking to the stars and the nighttime. "How have we come to this?"

There was no answer in the stillness of the quiet evening, only the soothing sounds of evening that failed to offer consolation for the father torn between the welfare of two very different sons.

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Dressed in his nightshirt, his long thinning hair framing his face on both sides, Athos stood quietly at the window of his bedroom and watched as D'Artagnan sat alone on the stone wall.

Having retired to his bed earlier, he had found himself unable to sleep, plagued by his own troubling thoughts. Over and over, his mind replayed the duel to which he had challenged D'Artagnan. At the time, he had been deadly serious, but now, having had plenty of time to think about it, he was beginning to experience regret for his harsh words and brusque actions. It was a credit to D'Artagnan's character and friendship that he had resisted the challenge, however tempted he might have been. And it had surprised him when Philippe had declined his instruction, only to return minutes later with the revelation that his father had sent him back to resume the lesson, insisting that Athos teach the boy what he needed to know.

And then there was the blow to the head that could easily have killed the Musketeer. Philippe's words repeated inside his head, reminding him that none of them, Philippe included, would have known that D'Artagnan was his father had the blow been fatal. The consequences of his reckless actions would have denied the boy his chance at a family for the first time in his life. And it would have robbed him, Athos, of the best friend he had ever had.

Tormented by these troubling thoughts, he had finally risen from his bed and moved to the window to gaze out into the night to ponder the events of the day and the past weeks, to try to make some sense out of everything that had happened. There, from the second story, concealed by the darkness of the room behind him, he had seen D'Artagnan walk away from the house, and from years of kinship with him, had realized that he was equally troubled.

An aching sense of longing crept into Athos's heart, longing for the times of joy that they had shared as best friends. At any other time in their lives, he would have immediately gone to him to offer comfort and support in the way that a best friend would. But things had changed. It seemed inconceivable that they had become enemies. No, that was not entirely correct. D'Artagnan had never regarded him as an enemy. It was apparent that he was growing tired of the continued hostility, but the only one with bitterness in his heart was Athos. D'Artagnan had quickly reacted to his challenge of a duel, only to return the sword to its sheath as soon as he remembered that Philippe was present, but Athos knew that his reaction had been spontaneous and without malice.

Finally, after nearly a half hour, D'Artagnan returned to the house, and a few minutes later, Athos heard his footsteps coming up the stairs.

On impulse, he went to his door and grasped the knob, determined to make things right between them again. The footsteps were passing his room, proceeding down the corridor. All he had to do was open the door, and D'Artagnan would turn back, and they could talk in the privacy of his room, to clear the air and become friends again.

But he could not force his hand to pull the door open. After a moment, he eased the knob back into position. Already, tears were crowding into the back of his eyes; tears that would flow unchecked if he spoke to his friend. Tears he was not yet ready to shed.

At the end of the corridor, he heard the Musketeer captain open his door, and a moment later it closed again. The moment had slipped away.

Athos stepped back from his door, tamping down the buildup of tears until the burning stopped. Turning, he went to his bed and stretched out on it, but he lay awake, unable to sleep, tormented by the losses he had incurred; the loss of Raoul and of D'Artagnan.