by Ian Shimwell
Sensing defeat, the guard shouted, “More Guards, King Louis, I have found the tra…”
Athos withdrew his sword from the dead guard; moved the bolts back and fled his royal nightmare.
The Black Guards surged through the Royal Palace. Their midnight coup deathly decisive. The King’s Musketeer Guards were immediately executed after their belated opposition was crushed. Known troublemakers would cause trouble no more.
King Louis XIV surveyed his Palace; his kingdom; his inheritance by right and smiled exuberantly. When his mother wakes up; the real King; her real son would be back – back where he belongs.
The following morning, the King had ordered a meeting in the Council Chamber. He had summoned his Musketeer; his Chief Military Advisor Torrs and other members of his Royal Council. Men he could rely on – men from the old days.
Aramis was knelt before the King. Addressing all the council, Louis declared, “By ancient tradition, through my full special Royal powers, I declare that Aramis is now a Lord. Arise Lord Aramis!”
Graciously Aramis stood up. “A more than gracious honour, Your Majesty. I am a proud man and will serve my King with loyalty and honour.”
There was a rumble of polite applause from those gathered.
“May I congratulate you King Louis,” continued Aramis, “on a magnificently successful coup de grace.”
Louis nodded with satisfaction. “How gracious of you, Lord Aramis.” The King then turned his attention to his Military Advisor Torrs, his manner changing as easily as a flip of a coin. “Torrs, explain the recent military setbacks on my country’s borders.”
The stern-faced old soldier looked puzzled. “Far be it from me to question your greater wisdom, Your Majesty but I gave a full account of recent events only yesterday.”
Louis left his throne and stood so close to Torrs that their noses almost touched. The King’s eyes bore into the soldier’s. “If you would be so kind, let me phrase my request slightly differently.” Louis flashed his ornate royal sword from nowhere; it stopped inches from Torrs' throat. “Tell me or be executed – now!”
A hushed cry fell over the Council Chamber and Torrs stammered, “Our Border soldiers have suffered setbacks and lost territory mainly through the lack of basic supplies: food, weapons, and reinforcements.”
Louis drew his sword back but was still furious. “Why haven’t my men been given what they need?”
“Because of your own programme, Your Majesty.” Torrs was now surer of himself as he was on the familiar territory of his own pet grumble. “Our Military Forces have made sacrifices to finance help for the peasants – on your own orders.”
“The orders have now changed,” declared Louis with a passionate fury. “The peasants can rot in hell for all I care. From now on, all energies are to be concentrated on recapturing lost territories – and advancing. We all have to make sacrifices.” Louis then seemed to relax all of a sudden and spoke to a servant girl by the doorway. “I tire of company, gentlemen. Is my luncheon banquet ready yet?”
At that moment, one of the Black Guards entered through a side-entrance. “Your Majesty, forgive the intrusion. A Royal Guard has been murdered. He was found in the Palace lower tunnels.”
Looking at Aramis, Louis said, “From my information, the murderer must be Athos. Order all available guards to hunt him down – and to be brought to me, for summary execution!”
Louis looked for a reaction, but the Musketeer simply nodded in agreement. “That is the arbitrary penalty for killing one of the King’s men.”
Queen Anne had been listening to most of the meeting through the nearby, grand double-doors – and could contain herself no longer. She burst into the council chamber and confronted her son. She carefully eyed him up and down before speaking. “I do not know how this happened, but you are not my King. You are not my Philippe.”
“Silence Mother,” fumed Louis. “Recent events have obviously affected your mind. For your own safety, you will be confined to your own quarters. Guards, take her!”
The Black Guards took his protesting Mother away. Louis once again looked at Aramis and wondered at his motivation.
Aramis stared back, his knowing and lined face a mask of calculation.
Tankards clattered and cheers were heard in the noisy but good-humoured joviality of ‘The King’s Tavern’. Making more noise than most was the generous frame of an unruly haired and slightly comical figure known as Porthos. His great stomach shook with laughter, lustfully glancing at the two buxom wenches that he held in each arm. He could not keep his eyes off their mighty breasts as they heaved up and down. Finally he did, however, only to slurp his beer from his tankard, wiping away the white froth from his moustache with the cuff of his tattered coat.
Porthos’ eyes experienced that familiar, mighty glazing feeling. He was happy – or at least he thought he was. None stop ale freshened his brow – and the eager and willing wenches by his side held much promise for the night. What more could he ask for? There was something though – from years gone by. Now he had to really try – to remember at all.
“Athos!” Porthos spluttered as he blinked to dispel the illusion.
Athos hurriedly sat and put a finger to his lips for quiet.
“Shh,” said Porthos as he did the same, although he then left some froth on his enormous nose.
“I must speak with you alone Porthos. It concerns the honour of the Musketeers,” Athos urged.
“Oh must I?” Porthos’ puppy dog eyes elicited no trace of sympathy from Athos’ stony, determined expression. “Oh very well then. You may wait for me upstairs mademoiselle. A ménage-a-trio, with good ol’ Porthos as the prize. Don’t start without me!” The girls giggled as they hitched up their skirts and left the two Musketeers.
Two more tankards of overflowing ale were slammed onto the table by the barman. Porthos grabbed his eagerly; Athos almost reluctantly. The tankards clanked together amongst Porthos well-worn cry of cheers.
“Now we may speak,” said Porthos at last.
Athos looked around him. “I’ve been looking for you all day; I might have known I’d find you in here.” Athos looked into his friend’s eyes hoping that some of the old spirit was still there. “I need your help, Porthos. Aramis has betrayed us all – I witnessed it with my own eyes.” Athos told him of the remarkable recent events. He then looked at Porthos who seemed to be digesting the information – or something. “Well man, what do you say?”
Porthos belched. “Another drink?” Again that stony expression greeted him which forced another response. “Aramis betraying D’Artagnan or his legacy… I’m confused. What can we do about it anyway?”
“I have a plan,” Athos proudly announced.
“I had a worrying feeling you were going to say that.”
“We will meet tomorrow at dusk.”
Porthos looked up from his ale. Athos had gone. “I suppose I’d better agree then,” he said to himself and then smiled as he thought of the delights waiting for him upstairs. He finished the rest of Athos’ ale too and staggered up the stairs.
The landing creaked as Porthos moved along it. His eyes widened with undisguised glee as he opened the bedroom door. The two gorgeous wenches were in bed waiting for him, their hands cupped, enticing him nearer.
“I hope the legend of Porthos’ prowess is true.” “You know what they say about men with big noses,” giggled the girls.
Porthos was about to get his hands on them when the countless tankards of ale took their toll. The ageing Musketeer collapsed, undignified, on the floor.
The girls looked at the unconscious Porthos and then at each other – and burst out laughing.
Inside the Palais de Versailles; the Palace of Versailles; the Royal Palace of King Louis XIV, one of the world’s richest ladies felt as though she had lost everything. Queen Anne was in tears, crying on her bed. Two Black Guards outside her bedroom, she was a prisoner in her own home. But it was Philippe she was thinking of. A son she was losing all ove
r again.
At dusk, Athos met Porthos by a gathering of trees and bushes.
Porthos looked at his sword suspiciously. “I hope I don’t have to use this – I haven’t even touched it since D’Artagnan’s, since D’Artagnan’s…”
“Come on,” was all Athos would say. He moved a small boulder aside and they entered a passageway that would reach beneath the Palace itself. They eventually stopped when they reached a thick-set heavy wooden door. “By rights this should be locked or guarded.” The door not only creaked open, there was no Black Guards to greet them either.
“This is a trap,” said Porthos.
“Or we are being helped,” added Athos mysteriously as they ventured through the lower-levels of the Royal Palace.
As if struck by a sudden thought, Porthos said: “What is the plan, by the way?”
“To rescue the King of course! The Philippe King.”
“Oh, just wondered.”
Athos urged silence. They had reached their destination, Philippe’s Gaol. Unfortunately a troop of Black Guards encircled the prisoner. The two Musketeers caught their breaths and hid slightly from view as Louis himself surprisingly entered the scene.
“Belch now old friend and we’re dead men,” Athos whispered who then caught Porthos’ innocent yet guilty look.
The two Kings faced each other, like reflections of a mirror. Addressing his identical twin behind bars, Louis said, “As the eclipsed Sun King, I come to bring darkness into your life, dear brother.”
“You and the traitor Aramis will not get away with this, Louis,” Philippe said unflinchingly.
Louis smiled, “You know my name but not your own, Philippe. I have now realised that you made a pitiful and weak false King.”
“But I am not without friends.”
“You are though. In fact you look decidedly lonely – so lonely that I have brought with me an old friend to greet you. You see, I am not without mercy.”
“I don’t understand, brother.” Philippe dared not to even think…
I am no brother of yours.” Louis snapped his fingers. A guard unlocked and opened the cell door. “Here is your old friend – I hope you’ll be very happy together!” Another guard brought forward an old wooden box and opened it. The lifeless but immensely solid Iron Mask stared impassionedly from it.
Philippe backed away. “No, no – anything, anything but that,” he cried with mounting horror.
Louis arched his head back with maniacal laughter.
Philippe screamed with the dread of an entire empire.
The man in the Iron Mask was once more.
THREE
Athos
Athos flinched as the Mask was fastened, burnt and finally sealed in place onto the helpless Philippe. Louis’ mocking manor fuelled his hatred. How could his fellow Musketeer, Aramis not only allow this to happen but be actively involved? He turned to Porthos and quietly said, “There’s too many Black Guards at present. We must retreat for now and devise a different strategy.”
Porthos gruffled his agreement and they left the Royal Gaol. Passing a side-tunnel, Porthos remarked, “You are going the wrong way, my sincere friend. The way out is that way.”
Athos continued marching straight on. “I said we are retreating, my unreliable oaf – not fleeing altogether.” Porthos shambled forwards sulkily and Athos patted his shoulder. “My fellow – and loyal Musketeer.” Porthos smiled and they went on their way.
“Yes,” said Athos, “I thought it was here.” He pulled a wall torch and yet another secret passageway was revealed to them. They were in a small stone-walled room that had a religious air to it with a monk-like sculpture; the remains of a Holy Bible and Latin inscriptions on the walls. “A Priest’s Parlour,” Athos declared. “A 15th century hideaway for Jesuits. Aramis told me about it.”
A worried Porthos said, “If Aramis is supposed to be the enemy, aren’t we in danger here?”
“We will have to take that chance. We need time to plan.”
“If Aramis is the enemy, why don’t we just kidnap him?” Porthos looked crestfallen. “I know – it was a stupid idea.”
Athos though grabbed Porthos’ arms and smiled like a man inspired.
Aramis was about to walk inside the Queen’s bedroom but two Black Guards blocked his way.
“No one must enter – it is the King’s order,” said one.
“Except the King’s Musketeer. King Louis wishes for me to speak with the Queen Anne.” The guards still looked unconvinced so Aramis produced two small pouches of gold and placed them in the guard’s hands. “Maybe this will help to clarify the situation.” The guards moved aside, Aramis knocked and then entered.
The Queen was again in her revealing white nightdress. Aramis could tell she had been crying.
“How did you get in here, Aramis? Why have been behaving strangely? Where is my Philippe?”
Aramis slowly took her protesting hand. “You must simply have faith in D’Artagnan, in his legacy.”
Anne pushed the Musketeer away. “I cannot believe that.”
“Look into my eyes and you will see D’Artagnan,” implored Aramis. “I am here though for another reason – to enact another directive of D’Artagnan.”
She stared into the eyes of the Holy Man before her and almost dared not to ask. “Which is?” she quivered.
His strong hands touched, tenderly, the side of her soft face. “That I should take you.”
“But you are a Bishop and the Jesuit Leader.”
“I have resigned. I know of this sin. I lost a lover myself, long ago. However I am prepared to sacrifice all – for the sake of D’Artagnan.”
Despite herself, the years of control and yearning melted away. She fell into Aramis’ arms and their forbidden passion was unleashed with frenzied desire.
King Louis was tapping his cane impatiently in one of his private rooms upstairs.
The Royal doors opened and a bowing and scraping Royal Advisor – Crope walked or almost crawled in. “You summoned me my Majesty – I mean I summoned you Your Majesty. I mean…”
“Silence, you grovelling fool,” Louis roared and then said, “Where is Aramis?”
“I know not, my King.”
“Never mind. I am bored – bring me a whore.”
“From one of the local taverns?”
“Of course not – an aristocratic whore.”
“Where would I find one of those?”
“Just see to it immediately – or bring your head to me on a plate instead. Dismissed.”
“Yes your Majesty. You can rely on me.” Crope scurried away with the frightened look of a caught rabbit.
Louis resumed his tapping again – and smiled. It was good to be King again.
Athos was pacing up and down the Priest’s parlour. “We will strike at midnight when our fair-weather Musketeer will be sleeping.”
Porthos sighed. “Well, stomping around like a mad man won’t help. Sit down man – we’ll both need our energies for the task ahead. You’re tiring me out just looking at you!”
Thankfully Athos sat down. His thoughts drifted to when his son, Raoul was so excited at joining the French soldiers that he couldn’t sit down. He remembered saying much the same thing as Porthos did. A lone tear dampened his crusty old face. To lose him when he was so young… “It makes my blood boil!” he shouted.
A startled Porthos said, “Or turn cold,” trying to be helpful.
Athos resumed his pacing. “That Louis as good as murdered my own son. To see him lording it about as King again – and aided by Aramis, I despair.”
Porthos stood up and held Athos by the shoulder. “I know, my friend and your son – and D’Artagnan will be avenged by taking the fallen Musketeer away from his beloved Louis,” Porthos said with surprising force.
Later, Aramis was back in his Study. He was slightly surprised and a little concerned when the High Priest entered.
“There has been a setback,” the Priest announced solemnly.
&nb
sp; Worry drained Aramis’ face of colour. “Is it serious?”
“I believe so, Aramis.” The religious figure clasped his hands together. “So serious that I have called for the services of The Rector.”
“The Dark Rector? I forbid it. His methods are steeped in darkness. It is believed that he follows the crooked path.”
“You cannot forbid anything – you are no longer the leader of the Jesuits. I come only to impart the news. Believe me though, it is the only way.”
The High Priest departed. Aramis felt as though the Palace itself was crumbling around him. Would everything go wrong? Only remaining loyal would see him through this – remaining loyal and keeping faith in D’Artagnan.
Midnight, the twelve chimes resonated through the Royal Palace even penetrating the Priest’s Parlour in the lower-levels.
“Come,” said Athos icily, “it is the appointed time.”
The two Musketeers crept through the lower-levels and cautiously emerged into the Palace itself. When the coast was clear they ran up the grand stairs. Athos peeped round into a hallway. A Black Guard was walking straight towards them. Athos flattened himself against the wall and encouraged Porthos to do the same. The guard walked obliviously by. They entered the hallway and bumped into a blustering figure. The Musketeer’s swords flashed towards the man’s throat to prevent a surprised cry.
A wry smile formed on Athos’ lips. He recognised who it was. He and Porthos withdrew their swords. “My apologies Royal Advisor Crope – you startled us.”
The cautious Crope surveyed them suspiciously. “The King has ordered your execution, has he not?”
“Crope you are seriously ill-informed. The situation has changed. We have joined Aramis and therefore are the King’s Musketeers. If you delay our progress, the King will have your head for it.”
Crope felt his endangered throat nervously. He bowed and the Musketeers passed. Should he report his suspicions or not? In his mind’s eye that picture of his head being served with an apple stuffed in his mouth haunted him. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.