Fifteen
Philippe was jarred from a sound sleep by a loud clap of thunder, and, recalling how the loud rumbling tended to reverberate inside the iron mask, his hands immediately went to either side of his head, as if to stifle the sound. But instead of making contact with cold metal, his fingers touched soft skin and hair.
Roused by the unexpected contact with his own face, he opened his eyes and lifted his head off the pillow, remembering that he was safely away from the horrors of the prison, lying in a comfortable bed in the company of the kind men who had rescued him. And his father.
A soft smile crept to his lips as the word entered his mind. For the first time ever, he knew someone who was a blood relative; a father, who was currently residing in the same house with him, who would help train him to take the reins of the country and would be at his side to help him with his transition. And, waiting for him in Paris, was his mother, the queen.
A feeling of excitement crept into his heart, rendering him unable to sleep any longer. He folded his hands behind his head, and gazed up at the ceiling, happier than he had ever felt in his life.
He and his father were growing closer, and with each day that passed, the young man was learning new and interesting things in regard to his own background. He had been unaware that his roots were in Gascony, one of the poorest areas of France, a fact which made D'Artagnan's rise to the top of the Musketeer's ranks that much more admirable. Whenever he looked at him, observing his calm demeanor and patient countenance, he had great difficulty imagining his father as the impetuous youth that Aramis had described.
Best of all, D'Artagnan had referred to him as "son" several times the previous day, and after lunch, he had taken Philippe back out to the paddock fence to show him how to strengthen his leg for mounting his horse.
"The middle rail is a bit lower than the stirrup would be on a saddled horse," he had said, "but it is near enough to be serviceable, so what I want you to do, as often as you can, is place your left foot on that middle rail, as if you were going to mount a horse, and step up on it. You don't need to put your other leg over the rail and sit on it; just step up and then back down." He patted Philippe's thigh. "You want to strengthen this muscle right here, so do this over and over, as often as you are able and as frequently as possible. In a short time, you will see a big difference in your ability to mount your horse."
He had spent much of the afternoon practicing his mount and dismount on the fence rails. And paying for it this morning, he thought with a smile as he felt the muscles in his thighs contract as he shifted his weight on the bed. Not only were his legs sore, but his buttocks and his back were also feeling the same discomfort. But in spite of the aches and pains, he looked forward to his next lesson, and eventually, he wanted to take a leisurely ride alongside his father.
Thunder crashed again, and a flash of lightning brightened the room, returning his thoughts to the presence as his body flinched at the startling abruptness of it.
In the room next door, he heard a muffled curse, followed by a banging sound. His smile broadened. That would be Athos, cursing because the thunder had awakened him, and slamming the shutters closed in an attempt to stifle the approaching storm.
Tossing back the covers, Philippe stood up and went to the window, dressed in his nightshirt. Resting his hands on the window sill, he pressed his abdomen against it and gazed out into the night, drinking in the beauty of his freedom.
Lightning flashed on the horizon, illuminating the angry looking gray clouds that rolled across the sky, driven by a strong upper-level wind, and he knew the area beyond the hill was receiving a rain shower. He could smell it on the breeze that caressed his face; the refreshing scent of precipitation. He inhaled deeply. It was a wonderful smell, fresh and clean compared to the unpleasant smells of human waste, unwashed bodies, and moldy straw that he had become familiar with in the prison. Even the thunder was pleasant, now that he did not have to listen to it echoing inside the confines of the iron mask.
The village was silent and sleeping and the windows of the other houses were dark, but as he lowered his gaze to the hard ground below, he saw a faint glow of light coming from a downstairs window directly below him, evidence that someone was up. With the confidence of youth, he leaned farther out to gain a better look. A shadow passed through the light, indicating that someone had walked between the candle and the window.
Without warning, his hand slipped off the outer edge of the window sill and he grunted when his entire weight landed on the sill on his lower abdomen, driving the air from his lungs. Then he sucked in his breath in panic when momentum carried him forward, causing his head to dip and his feet to lift. He clawed frantically at the edges of the window to abort his fall, but he got a much closer look at the exterior stonework than he had ever wanted to see before he managed to pull himself back inside the room.
Stepping back a safe distance from the window, he listened carefully. If anyone had heard the scrambling sounds he had made in his attempt to recover himself, there was no indication of it. Grinning sheepishly, he rubbed his nose where it had collided with the outside wall, grateful that no one had been there to witness what had nearly been a nose-dive out the window, and thankful that his nose was not bleeding as a result of his carelessness.
He was now wide awake, any lingering sensation of sleepiness having been driven from him by his brief scare, so he pulled his nightshirt off over his head and dressed in a pair of breeches and a loose white shirt which he did not bother to tuck in. Opening the door quietly, he stepped into the hallway. Treading carefully in his bare feet to avoid waking anyone, he padded quietly along the dark corridor and down the stairs, turning toward the drawing room, the room in which the light was burning.
Pausing at the open doorway to look into the room, he observed his father seated alone at the rectangular wooden table in the flickering candlelight. Several leather straps were lying on the table in front of him, and as he watched, D'Artagnan positioned an awl over one of them and tapped it lightly with a hammer, so that it punched a hole in the leather. He was mindful of the table, careful not to mar the wood with the point of the awl.
"You may come in, if you wish," D'Artagnan said without looking up.
"I did not want to disturb you."
"You could never disturb me, Philippe," he replied, his voice very kind.
Philippe stepped into the room. "How did you know I was there?"
"I heard you coming."
"No, you couldn't have!" the boy protested. "I am not wearing shoes, and was very quiet!"
D'Artagnan looked up, smiling. "Yes, you were very quiet, but I heard the creaking of the stairs as you made your way down them, and also your breeches were rubbing together as you approached the door."
Philippe gazed at him for a long moment, amazed that he could detect something as minute as the faint whisper of cloth rubbing together as he walked. And he had not even noticed the stairs creaking as he had descended. His eyes were shining with admiration. "Porthos is right. You are good."
D'Artagnan turned his attention back to the straps, his expression mildly amused. "Porthos thinks I'm good?"
"He said you always know when others are around; that you can tell when someone is watching you. And Athos says that you see everything."
D'Artagnan chuckled, softly. "Not everything, I am afraid. I have the scars from old wounds to prove it. I have no special gifts. It is simple observation from a lifetime in the service of the king." He glanced at the clock on the mantle, which read 4:20. "What are you doing up so early?"
"The thunder woke me," he said, sitting down at the table across from him. He indicated the leather straps. "What are you doing?"
"I found a damaged bridle in the stable yesterday when I collected my tack for your riding lesson. It has a broken strap, so, since I was unable to sleep, I decided to put my time to good use by attempting to repair it. It is quite simple, actually; simply a matter of cutting some strips of leather to the right size, punching the holes for the buckle, and attaching it to the headstall. I was able to find all the tools I needed. However, it has been a long time since I have done work such as this. At the palace, we have stable hands to look after our tack."
Philippe fell silent, watching as the Musketeer continued to work on the bridle, tapping holes in the leather strap at intervals with the awl and hammer. When completed, the holes would make the strap adjustable, so that it would fit comfortably on any horse.
Looking up from the strap, his gaze fell upon his father's face, studying his appearance. D'Artagnan was decidedly handsome, but his sharply chiseled features and dark hair were very unlike Philippe's softer features and golden brown hair. Other than their blue eyes and the fact that they were about the same height, there was very little resemblance between them that the young man could see.
D'Artagnan could feel his son's eyes upon him, studying his features, and knew it was inevitable that the boy would have a myriad of questions regarding his origins. The amazing turns the boy's life had recently taken were bound to have inspired a great deal of curiosity, and he had known that it was only a matter of time before he was quizzed about them.
"You have questions," said the Musketeer.
Philippe stared at him, impressed. Again, D'Artagnan had been one step ahead of him. "Yes, but . . ." He hesitated, apparently uneasy about bringing up a subject that was very personal. "I mean no disrespect, but . . ." His voice trailed, and he averted his eyes to the tabletop, uncertain how to proceed.
"You may speak your mind," D'Artagnan encouraged as he continued to work on the leather straps. "After everything you have been through, I would say you have earned that right."
Philippe looked up again with searching eyes; searching for his roots, D'Artagnan realized. "Well, I was just wondering. My mother was married to the king, and the whole country believes that Louis is his son. That is why he is on the throne, because he is presumed to be the son of the king. How do you know . . . I mean, how can you be sure . . . " Again, his voice trailed.
"That you and Louis are my sons and not the king's?"
"Yes. I know that the others accepted it without question, and I know that I should too, but ---" Again, his voice trailed off, as if shamed that the thought had ever crossed his mind.
"It is a reasonable question, Philippe. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis did not question it because they knew that the king and queen lived apart their entire married lives. You could not have been aware of this, but it was a well-known fact that they did not like each other. It was difficult for them to even be in the same room together, let alone engage in marital behaviors. Many people feared that they would never produce an heir."
Philippe looked greatly relieved, and D'Artagnan realized that the young man had so readily accepted him as his father that he had been worried that his questions might reveal otherwise. "If they disliked each other so much, why did they get married?"
"It was an arranged marriage in which your mother had no say. She was a child bride, only fourteen years of age, and was married to him long before I ever arrived in Paris. In all those years, no child had come from their marriage. It is rumored that he preferred the company of his gentleman favorites, the king's companions, to the company of his wife. There may have been mistresses as well; that I do not know. What I do know is that he virtually ignored her and avoided being a husband to her. It was clearly a marriage for appearances sake, and I dare say that both of them were very unhappy."
Philippe fell silent for several moments, thinking about that and pondering an even deeper question. Finally, he asked, "But if they were not living together as husband and wife, the king must surely have realized that she had been with another man when she became pregnant. Did that not concern him?"
D'Artagnan's hand froze in mid air, the hammer poised over the head of the awl. He had expected many questions, but somehow he had not anticipated the most obvious one.
Aware that he had caught is father off guard, the boy averted his eyes again and apologized quickly. "Forgive me. I had no right to ask that. I overstepped my position."
After a long moment, D'Artagnan sighed heavily and placed the tools on the tabletop. Folding his arms on the edge of the table, he looked at the younger man who sat across from him. "Philippe, what happened between your mother and me was not a casual affair. I want to make sure you understand that. We never intended to act on the love that we felt for one another. It was a moment of weakness on our parts that led to yours and Louis' conception, and it was never repeated."
"I don't judge you," Philippe said, earnestly. "To the contrary, if you had not gotten together, I would not be here. So for that I am grateful."
D'Artagnan could not resist smiling at the sincere comments. "Still, what we did was a very serious offense, one that could have literally cost us our heads had we been caught."
"The guillotine?"
"Mm-hm. What we did was high treason, a very serious offense against the king and country, for we not only betrayed the king, we also compromised the integrity of the entire government."
Philippe lowered his gaze to the tabletop again, as if studying the wood grain as he thought of his mother being forced into a marriage she had not wanted, and longing to be with the man she loved. "It must have been very difficult for my mother, being trapped in a loveless marriage while loving someone else."
D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes, it was. I observed her from a distance, struggling with her unhappiness, even before we discovered that we had feelings for one another. Many people found it amusing that she and the king were so obviously mismatched, but I could not bring myself to laugh at her misfortune. She was far from her home and her family, and the loneliness and sadness I saw in her eyes touched me in ways I cannot even express."
"I know something of loneliness and isolation," Philippe admitted. 'Year after year, I was locked in that prison cell, with no hope of ever getting out. It must have been very similar for her."
"I imagine it was. When I first became a Musketeer, I rarely saw her except during festivities, when I was assigned the duty of guarding the ballroom. She and the king always entered together, shared a dance, and then she would retire to her room, her duty to the king's guests fulfilled. Even during the dances, I could not help but notice the despair in her eyes. Even now, I sometimes see her standing at her window during the daytime, staring out at the horizon, as if she was longing for freedom and a different life."
"Her own prison," Philippe said.
"Yes. But, to answer your question, the king himself unwittingly provided your mother with an answer to her dilemma. She had been noticing that the king was becoming intoxicated more and more often, presumably consumed by his own unhappiness. One evening, after she witnessed him staggering into his chamber following a late-night bout of drinking, she gave him sufficient time to get to his bed and fall asleep. Then she slipped through the passages and got into bed with him. When he awakened the next morning, he was shocked to find her there, but naturally assumed exactly what she had hoped he would assume – that he had been a husband to her that night. She took a great risk, for had he remembered that he had not invited her there, it would have guaranteed his wrath. Fortunately, her ploy worked, and because of that, she was soon able to announce that she was carrying a child. He did not question it, assuming that the child was his. He must have been greatly relieved, believing that his duty to the country was done." He lowered his gaze. "It was the best thing that could have happened for Anne's sake, yet it was also the worst, for it meant that I had to step back from my child, and see him raised as the son of another man."
"That must have been difficult for you."
D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes. We had escaped the guillotine, but we both knew it was imperative that we back away from our relationship. Such a thing could never happen again. We stopped seeing each other, except on affairs of the state when it could not be prevented, and always our meetings were formal. Duty and responsibility took a forefront in our lives. We forced our heads to rule our hearts, and we avoided ever being alone together again. No one watching us would have known that our hearts were breaking. She spent her confinement in her apartments, never venturing outside. I saw her once at her window, her abdomen swollen with the life we had created, and I wanted so badly to be a part of that life. It grieved me terribly that I could not."
He fell silent, and Philippe knew his father was thinking about that long-ago moment. After a time, he picked up his tools again and resumed his work on the bridle.
"You still love her, don't you?" Philippe asked. "After all this time, all these years, you still love her."
"My love for her is eternal," he replied without hesitation.
"Now that the old king is dead, why can't you get together?"
"I would like nothing better, but I am but a Musketeer, a servant, far beneath her. The scandal would be tremendous."
Several moments of silence passed as Philippe processed the information he had been given. Finally, he shook his head with disapproval. "There is no fairness in such expectations. She should be able to marry the man she loves. It should not be the concern of anyone else."
D'Artagnan shrugged. "Things are the way they are, and traditions and beliefs which are passed down through the ages are not easily altered. Most widowed queens eventually retire to a convent. I have lived in fear that Anne would follow that tradition, for I would probably never see her again if that happened."
"Perhaps if I am king, things can change favorably for you," Philippe suggested.
D'Artagnan looked up again, quickly. "I appreciate the thought, but you cannot change what has always been. You have no idea what you are suggesting. There would be much gossip and disapproval. As much as I would love to be with her, to share our lives as husband and wife, I could not ask her to endure that kind of criticism, and I do not want you to fall under that kind of scrutiny. That is something that Louis would never, ever do, and you must not call attention to yourself by even suggesting such a thing. And furthermore, I do not want you basing your decision to become king on how you might help me."
Philippe nodded, visibly disappointed. "I'm sorry. I just –"
D'Artagnan reached across the table and affectionately grasped his son by the wrist. "You have a kind heart, Philippe, and you are very considerate to think of me in such a way, but you must be careful about your behavior, especially at first. Any changes that you wish to make must be made slowly and must initially be minor ones, things that will not attract unwanted attention. You must not take up the problems of your mother and me. You have enough to consider without adding to your burden."
"I lie awake and worry sometimes at night," the boy confessed. "I'm not sure I'm up to ruling the country. Louis has known from the beginning that he was a prince and that he would be ascending to the throne upon the king's death, and he was specifically trained for that, but I have only recently discovered my heritage, not the least of which is that I have an opportunity to seize a throne which is not my right by birth."
"Philippe, we have been through that and you must move beyond it. Even though you are not a blood relation to the former king, there is no one else who is qualified to take the throne. The old king did not leave a direct heir, so bringing all this into the open would be detrimental to everyone concerned, and could even bring down the country. The only way to make a smooth transition is to place the one person on the throne who looks exactly like Louis. That is you, Philippe."
Philippe was nodding his head as his father spoke, understanding the reasons even though they did not alleviate his inner concerns. "What if I take the throne, and then fail?"
"You will not fail. Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and I will be there to help you settle in and establish yourself. We will advise you on the tough decisions until you are comfortable with making them on your own. And your mother will be there as well, and she would be delighted to help you in any way possible."
Philippe gazed over D'Artagnan's shoulder toward the window, which brightened briefly with a flash of lightning. Thunder rumbled, and a few moments later, they heard the soft, soothing patter of rain on the windowpane. Philippe's thoughts drifted to his mother, and he wondered if he would ever see her if he declined the throne. He would never be able to enter Paris otherwise, for his resemblance to Louis would be immediately noticed.
Across the table from him, D'Artagnan attached the strap to the bridle by threading it over the crown. "All done," he announced. "Not a professional job to be sure, but it is serviceable."
He set the bridle aside and to conserve them he blew out all the candles except one, which he left on the center of the table. In the shadows that fell over the room, the Musketeer stood up to stretch his legs and his back. He then went to the window to look out across the street, although he could see little through the darkness and the rain. "The rain will be good for the crops," he said, quietly. "I have noticed that the farmers have been carrying barrels of water in their wagons to the fields from the river. This will greatly relieve their burden, especially if it keeps up for a while."
Philippe lingered at the table for several moments, watching him. Feelings were stirring inside him; pleasant, yet unfamiliar, feelings. Being in the presence of his father seemed to strengthen those new sensations, and even though he had never known them before, he understood what it was. For the first time in his life, he was experiencing feelings of love; not the deep affection he had felt for Yvette, the woman who had raised him, but genuine unconditional love that consumed and filled him in ways he had never imagined.
"I am glad for the farmers, but will the rain interfere with my riding lesson?" he asked after a short time.
D'Artagnan smiled over his shoulder at his son. "If the paddock is too muddy, we can move to a grassy area outside the walls once the rain has stopped," D'Artagnan replied. "And if the rain continues all day, you can ride up and down the aisles in the stable, so do not worry; you will have your lesson."
Philippe felt immediately guilty. "I suppose I sound selfish, worrying about my riding lesson when the farmers here need rain for their crops."
D'Artagnan's expression was one of great fondness. "You are not selfish, Philippe. There is a difference between selfishness and eagerness, and I do not fault you for being eager to complete your lessons."
"I am," Philippe agreed. "There are so many things I want us to do. Like take a ride across the countryside together."
"We shall do it," D'Artagnan promised. "I also promised that we would go fishing, and we will do that as well."
"I look forward to it."
The darkness of the room began to relax the younger man, and he yawned, sleepily and rubbed his eyes.
D'Artagnan smiled. "There is still an hour or more before daylight. Why don't you go back up to bed? You look like you could use some more sleep."
Philippe yawned again, bigger than before. "I think maybe I should before I fall asleep here at the table." He stood up and walked to the door, but then turned back to his father. "I appreciate you telling me about you and Mother."
"I will answer any question you might have. I will see you at breakfast."
Slowly, Philippe climbed back up the stairs and lay down on the bed without bothering to undress. Almost immediately, he was lulled to sleep by the gentle drumming of the rain on the eaves.
With the bridle completed, D'Artagnan carried it and the candle down the corridor and into the kitchen. The candle was placed on the table, but the bridle was hung on a peg near the door. It would be returned to the stable later, after the rain had stopped, but for the moment he moved to the door and opened it wide, allowing the freshly scented air to permeate the room.
The thunder was now just a distant rumbling, but on the horizon he could see occasional flashes of lightning. Rain continued to patter softly on the ground, forming puddles on the hard surface, and streamed down the rooftops and over the eaves. Leaning against the door jamb, he folded his arms across his chest to watch it, marveling that he had found such contentment in this small village.
Life at the palace was very stressful, keeping constant watch on an irresponsible king who took neither his own safety nor his responsibility as seriously as he should. Always, there was one crisis or another that required his attention, from the random young recruit accidentally injured during training maneuvers to the occasional breach of security that threatened the life of the monarch.
In this village, he was isolated from the demands that had become his daily routine, and he welcomed the tranquility. It soothed him, leaving him with a sense of peace that he had not known in many years. His only anxiety was the one that would always remain; his heart ached for his queen, the love of his life, but he would never find relief from that yearning no matter where he was.
He now began to gain some understanding of why she had become a pious recluse, shunning public functions, remaining secluded in her apartments, emerging only in the evening to walk to the chapel for her prayers. He had thought that it had been to avoid him, for whenever they encountered one another in public, she kept her eyes averted, as if afraid that he would see into her heart; but now he knew that the guilt and sorrow of being unable to free her son from the prison must have been an overwhelming burden to bear. Her trips to the chapel had clearly been to pray for the son she had never seen since the moment of his birth.
As the dusky light of early dawn began to turn the eastern horizon from black to gray, the sound of booted footsteps approaching broke into the softer sounds of the rain. He listened carefully to the stride as it came down the corridor, and easily identified who it was.
"Good morning, Aramis," he said without turning around as the individual entered the kitchen.
Aramis pulled up short, amazed. "Do you have eyes in the back of your head, D'Artagnan?"
The Musketeer glanced over his shoulder with an amused smile. "Nothing so miraculous as that. The three of you each have a different and distinct stride. I do not have to see you to know which of you is approaching. All I have to do is listen."
Aramis smiled in reply, finger combing the tangles out of his wavy hair. "As head bodyguard to the king, it appears you have had to develop senses that the rest of us take for granted."
"There is always the threat of assassination," D'Artagnan acknowledged. He paused before speaking the painful words, "Especially with this king."
Aramis's expression was sober. "I heard there were a number of attempts over the past couple of years."
"Unfortunately, you heard right. I have had to be constantly vigilant; I can never let my guard down. I have devoted my life to his safety, even though I know he takes my presence for granted. He is careless, always assuming that I will be there to protect him."
"And so you have been."
"Yes. And so I have. But there have been close calls for both of us. All three of you have commented on my awareness of the things around me, but I have to be constantly alert. It is imperative that I know the position and identity of every person who is near the king, and whether or not that person is a threat."
"That degree of vigilance must be taxing," Aramis said.
"I never realized until now just how taxing it is." Changing the subject, he said, "You're up early."
"I always rise early for morning prayers," the priest replied. "How long have you been up?"
"Some while, actually. I heard the storm coming in, and was unable to go back to sleep."
Aramis's eyes fell upon the repaired bridle that D'Artagnan had hung on the peg near the door. "I see you put the time to good use. I was less ambitious, I'm afraid. I was startled awake several times by the thunder, but I simply turned over and went back to sleep. The rain is very soothing, once the thunder moves out of the area." He observed his friend for several moments, noticing differences in him that most people would not perceive. "I detect a profound change in you, D'Artagnan. You seem to have found an inner peace."
"That is true. I do not know if it is this place, the casual atmosphere here, being in the company of the three of you again, the release of the burden I carried for so many years, or a combination of all of it, but I have found a feeling of peace here that I have never known before. A part of me wishes I could remain here forever with Philippe; to never go back to Court."
Aramis moved to the door and leaned his shoulder against the opposite jamb, facing the Musketeer. "You two have become very fond of each other."
"He is easy to love, and that will help him become a good king. For the first time ever, I know what it is like to feel pride for my son. I never felt that with Louis. I love him, as a father loves his child, but it has always grieved me terribly to see him raised as an arrogant, self-centered fop with no regard for anything except his own pleasures. I had to watch him grow up from a distance, unable to teach him proper conduct, how a gentleman should behave, and to have regard for others. I had hoped, as he matured, that they would come to him naturally, but alas that has not happened. If anything, he has become even more self-indulgent. He abuses his power, and I have seen him do many things that disgust me. But he is still my son."
Aramis lowered his gaze and cleared his throat, uncomfortably. Now that they were alone together, it was a good time to bring up the subject he had been dreading. "D'Artagnan, I've been meaning to talk to you about Louis and what will happen to him once the transfer is made."
"I know what you are planning to do with him, Aramis," he replied, somberly, his eyes riveted on the puddle of water that was forming just off the stoop. "It is painful for me to accept, and it will be especially painful for his mother to accept, but . . . " He paused and closed his eyes briefly. "I will not prevent it."
Aramis was greatly relieved. "We feared you would object."
"The part of me that is his father does object," D'Artagnan said, honestly. "But to fully understand humility, an emotion he has never known, he must first understand the suffering he has placed on others, and there is no harsher teacher than experience. It hurts me to think of him being imprisoned and forced to wear the mask that he condemned his brother to wear, but I know that for a while it must be so."
Aramis's head came up, startled, "For a while?"
"Ever since I made the decision to join you in replacing Louis, I have struggled with what will be done with him once he is off the throne. And I have found only one alternative to a permanent existence in the Bastille."
"What is that?" Aramis asked with unease.
"There is a house in the country that was owned by a branch of the royal family that has since died out. The property has passed back to palace, but is never used. I have no idea what his plans are for it, but I would like to have it modified to contain Louis, so that he might live out his life there."
Aramis was shaking his head with great worry. "It would be a risk, D'Artagnan. Should he escape --"
"Obviously, there are details that need to be worked out, but we must work them out. I cannot bear the thought of him spending the rest of his life in the filth of the Bastille wearing that damned mask. He is my son, Aramis. I cannot . . . ." He broke off, shaking his head slowly. "I cannot bear it."
Aramis placed a comforting hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. "We will discuss this with Athos and Porthos, and try to work something out," he agreed. "Plans for the modifications will need to be drawn up, and the work will not be able to commence until Philippe is on the throne, for altering the house must come at the king's orders, so Louis will have to spend some time in the Bastille. That cannot be avoided, but I will see to it that the work is done as rapidly as possible. You have my word." He paused, briefly, thinking of the pros and cons of such a plan. "If the details can be worked out, it would go a long way in convincing the queen to go along with our plans, for you and she will be able to visit him if you wish."
Aramis felt some of the tension go out of his friend's shoulder. "She will appreciate that, but I fear he will not welcome my visits, for he will know of my betrayal, of the role I will play in removing him from the throne."
"Think of it not as a betrayal, D'Artagnan. By removing him from the throne and confining him to a secure place, you will be saving his life, for if things remain as they are, eventually he will be assassinated."
"I know. But what kind of life will it be?"
"It will be a better life than he would have at the Bastille. There, he would be confined to a dark, damp cell, while at the estate he will have a certain amount of freedom and clean rooms to live in, good food and fresh air. You must draw comfort from that, D'Artagnan, for there is no other way."
"I know. But it is so hard; so very hard. I have one request that must be adhered to; Louis must never know that I am his father. In taking away his throne, we must not take away his identity, for it is all he will have left. Besides, he could do a great deal of harm to all of us if he decided to use that knowledge against Philippe. I know him well enough to know that he would do everything he could to upset Philippe's reign, even if it meant exposing himself as the bastard son of a Musketeer."
Aramis nodded. 'You are probably right."
"Does Anne know that Philippe is free?"
In response to the long moment of silence, D'Artagnan turned toward his friend, and saw a shocked expression on the priest's face.
"Forgive me," Aramis said quickly. "It startles me to hear you call her by her name instead of by title. The closeness the two of you shared still astonishes me. At the moment, the queen mother believes her second son is dead. We left a body in Philippe's cell wearing an identical mask, and I am quite certain that the jailers will have notified Louis by now that the man in the mask died of the fever, and he will have passed that information on to his mother."
Concern clouded D'Artagnan's brow. "The grief she must be experiencing, believing that her son is dead. She must be told as soon as possible."
"I intended to inform her of our plans when I traveled to Paris for the meeting at the docks, but circumstances took that out of my hands. Perhaps you should accompany me when I go. You were . . . You two were obviously very close . . . I'm sure she will be happy to learn that Philippe survives, but I may not be the appropriate one to inform her of the rest of it."
D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes. The news of what will be done to Louis should come from me."
With the matter settled, Aramis started to turn around, intending to stoke up the fire in the hearth, but was stopped by D'Artagnan.
"Aramis."
The priest turned to face him again.
"Thank you for freeing my son from that prison. I owe you a debt that I can never repay."
"You forget; I'm the one who put him there in the first place."
"But you were under Louis' orders, and you did not do so willingly."
"No, I did not," Aramis agreed. "My conscience has been in turmoil ever since. But you came here to save my life. You owe me no debt, D'Artagnan. If anything, I owe you."
"Friends help each other," D'Artagnan told him.
Aramis smiled, feeling a weight lift from him. "That they do," he agreed. "And rest assured, I will help you with your plans for Louis."