Chapter Three: Dawning of the Sun king
The royal army moved freely about the countryside. The villagers turned out in droves, in hopes of catching a glimpse of their newly crowned king. The rebel Bourbons fled Paris as soon as they received word of the approaching army and the capital was retaken without a shot. By in large the population went to great lengths to prove that they were done with rebellion and that the princes were not acting in accord with the will of the people. As soon as Duval's forces returned from Saint Germaine with the court, the majority of the blade-bound army made ready to continue their journey to the southlands.
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"What do you think of it all Sirrah?" the captain of the violet forces asked, breathlessly surveying the now peaceful capital. As a slave, Siroc had known the man as Lieutenant Malcolm de Leon, of the Cardinal's Guards. But since the Lieutenant had gone against his former master's orders to help the young musketeers save Ramón from the dark lord's Citadel, Malcolm had literally "turned his coat," becoming once again Valerian, the blade-bound violet cousin. Now he led others with the courage to renounce their pervious allegiance to flock to the king's banner when the blade-bound were called into play.
"Truthfully," Siroc told his former trainer, "I'm a bit concerned at how easily we took the capital. I expect Condé and his mercenaries will fortify one of the southern cities and we'll have to lay siege to drive them out."
"Couldn't you think of a way to undermine the wall or crush the gate or some other tremendous weapon to level the playing field?" the captain of the former enemy forces asked.
The genius frowned and shook his head. "I could…but I won't. Mazarin once forced me to build such a weapon and I nearly got my friends killed because of it. Such knowledge gets out of hand much too easily. I will not be responsible for letting such horror loose on the world."
"I suppose you are correct…I was called into being as a soldier. We value expedience. You were created as a visionary. Far be it from me to question the validity of your vision."
Siroc smiled. In the darkest part of his life this man had been his companion as well as his guard. It was good to be on the same side, supporting the legitimate king. "You trust my vision. I trust your strong arm, reflexes and courage. Together we will fall on the bourbon princes and restore peace once more."
"The reign of the Sun King dawns, let all the world bask in its splendor!" the captain announced. Enthusiastically, the word spread across the camp and from that time to this, Louis XIV was popularly known as the Sun King.
Louis took the field with his spectacular 'Royal Army' and pursued Condé's forces into Burgandy, a province long considered to be a holding of the Condé family. But the king could allow such a man no place of safety. The prince's men entrenched themselves in the town of Bellgarde. Louis tried to force open conflict with his cousin, surrounding the town to contain the rebellion, where it could not continue to poison the rest of the country. He disliked harrying the defiant nobles like woodland creatures, but except for several small skirmishes their quarry refused to meet them on the field of honor in civilized combat.
Even the people of Bellgarde cheered the arrival of their king from the battlements. 'Will they never stand and fight?' Louis wondered in that serious, grown-up way of his. The cheers seemed genuine; the people knew what it was to live under Condé's shadow and saw the king as their liberator. Still, the gates were closed and the rebels hid among the rest.
Brother Philippe knew the value of psychological warfare. "They are trying to make us reluctant to fight. We must turn the tables. Be bold. Show them our might. Show them we aren't afraid to rout the traitors out." It seemed like sound advice. Louis arrayed the mighty army, rank and file, in a grand review. Proudly, he marched before them, trailed by a knot of De Batz's guards.
The people cheered louder than ever. Then suddenly, musket fire rang out from the battlements and a young guard fell dead, almost at the king's feet. The other guards closed ranks around the young monarch, immediately spiriting him out of danger. But it was not so quick that he failed to notice the crowd on the wall turn ugly. They identified the sharpshooter, and tore him to bits.
The gates opened shortly thereafter and the town was theirs. But the first casualty had fallen and nothing could give that young man his life back. Louis was deeply affected and stayed to the tent for the next few days while his brother wore the crown in his stead.
Jacques Lepont was strolling past the royal encampment one evening and heard quiet sobs coming from within. Seeing that no one else patrolled nearby—as 'the king' was in the middle of a war council with the various captains—the female musketeer slipped around and entered the tent. The queen's first born son sat cross-legged in a nest of satin pillows, tears running down his flushed cheeks. Seeing Lepont, he hastily tried to wipe them away, but more replaced them.
"Majesty, the city is ours. Why do you cry?" She approached, concern in her eyes.
"Please tell no one about this." He sniffed. "I will not always be a child."
"Be easy Louis, even the heart of a king can ache. Those Bourbon rascals will be dealt with, I assure you." She attempted to comfort the young man without revealing how he brought out her maternal instincts and thereby giving away her disguise. But the king did something altogether unexpected.
As she knelt nearby he lunged at her, wrapping his arms around her waist and surrendering to tears once more. "How many more will die in the meantime?" he sobbed. "You? D'Artagnan? De Batz? My brother? I have met so many of those who would willingly give their lives for me…and I do not want to lose a single one."
The female musketeer did her best to make herself comfortable and gently rubbed Louis' back as if he were the child he claimed to be. But his words revealed more of the man he would one day become. "Shhh, it's all right," she crooned and made those small comforting noises that somehow ease a wounded soul. She toyed with his short cropped hair, bereft of its royal wig. This was Lew laid bare. She had only seen him this vulnerable once before, when the people ransacked his sleeping chambers. But then it had been his brother that he had clung too and wept upon.
This incident, as did the other, would leave its mark on this young man. She hoped it would make him a better king and not drive him to build a wall around his heart. She knew too well what it was to keep people from getting too close because of your fear of losing them. In truth, that was one of the reasons she had not yet told d'Artagnan how she felt about him. A soldier's life was just too precarious. One stray musket ball or a lucky sword thrust was all it took to shatter her world again.
In time the young king ran out of tears and slept peacefully in her lap. It was rather late when Philippe returned from the meeting. The torches were lit outside, but only diffused light leaked through the tightly knit fabric of the tent. The prince entered quietly, expecting his brother was already asleep and began to strip off his kingly raiment before noticing the musketeer.
The likeness the two brothers bore to one another once the disguise was stripped away was uncanny. Then, the prince had his blouse off revealing several deep scars marking his back and shoulder blades—souvenirs from his years of imprisonment. Jacqueline cleared her throat before he could begin unlacing his trousers as well.
The prince caught his breath with a start, "Sorry, I didn't know he had company." Philippe faltered, not exactly sure how to interpret what he was seeing. No denying, private Lepont was one of the few who shared their complete confidence. He knew his brother was fond of the musketeer, but hadn't thought things had gotten quite this far. After all, Philippe figured Jacques and d'Artagnan a more likely pair. Some time ago he had even placed a surreptitious wager with private de la Cruz to that effect. "S-should I go?" the young prince faltered uneasily.
Jacqueline shook her head, wanting to put the record straight right away. "He was upset, nothing more. I happened by and didn't think he should be alone," she explained carefully. "Now that you are here, I can go. But I don't want to wake him."
Philippe breathed a sigh of relief. Rumors were one thing; reality was quite another. "Once he is well and truly asleep my brother does not wake easily. Just give him a shove and he will roll right over." The prince gave her an impish grin. "I rolled him right out of bed one night and he barely stirred."
The young musketeer was hesitant but found Philippe was entirely correct. She carefully disentangled herself from the sleeping monarch with a little help from his brother and dusted herself off, smoothing her doublet as she did so.
"Humph." Philippe snorted suddenly.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Does he know you are a woman?" The ever observant prince asked.
"What?" Jacqueline gulped, surprised how anyone could notice such a thing in the half-light.
"Don't worry; I do not care about such things. I will not say anything… But you had best go. I expect d'Artagnan is wondering what is keeping you." He grinned, at the expression on her face at the mere mention of the legend's son and was already looking forward to the love poem he was going to get Ramón to write for him as payment for winning their wager.