Chapter Forty-Eight, Fatherhood, by Mordaunt

At the Sign of L’ Espee, the inn at Tours used by officers on royal duty, M. Morant and his three comrades returning with the royal correspondence from Rennes, La Rochelle, and Bordeaux are ready to depart for Paris. 

“Are you certain, Your Grace?” M. Morant knows not to insist when faced with opposition by a man such as the duc d’ Herblay but he also knows that his orders have been to make sure the duc returns safely to Paris. 

“I understand you have your orders M. Morant,” Aramis says, “but I assure you that Brother Ignazio and I know our way.” 

“M. de Rohan insisted that I escort you to Paris, in case there is someone very eager at the gate who either does not know or chooses to ignore His Majesty’s decree that protects you.”

“And M. de Rohan is right, but Brother Ignazio and I will not venture into Paris–not yet at least. Rather, we will return to Noisy-le-roi to make sure our brothers and the Abbey remain unharmed. It is a four-days’ ride from here and we know how to keep ourselves inconspicuous. Do not fret M. Morant. You have followed your orders to the letter and should always count on my recommendation.”

M. Morant sighs, unconvinced. “I cannot dissuade Your Grace, it seems. We have been followed, as you could see yourself, and who those men are or the danger they pose we have not determined.” 

“Well, here is a lesson from an old soldier, M. Morant,” Aramis says. “If those pursuing you are an enemy, then let them find you and show their real faces. We have nothing to hide, and thus we have nothing to fear.” 

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“I don’t like this,” Ignazio tilts his head pointing behind them and bringing his horse to a trot next to Aramis’ horse. 

“Why? They stopped following us after we passed Rambouillet.”

“Exactly. I’d feel better if they were still around. Maybe I miss their company.” 

“Perhaps they decided we are no longer worth their effort. Come my friend, if we press these horses we will be at Noisy-le-roi before the end of the day,” Aramis chuckles, spurring his horse to a gallop. 

“Or perhaps they are preparing an attack,” Igrazio mutters under his breath, pressing his horse to the same pace as Aramis’. 

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They arrive at the Colombes Blanches at Saint-Cyr before sunset. Almost an hour is left to Noisy-le-roi but their horses are exhausted, and, in truth, both men are thirsty and in dire need to stretch their legs. Unlike every other inn they have chosen along their way, the Colombes Blanches is on a well-traveled road, busy with travelers and pilgrims. 

“Is this a good idea?” Ignazio frowns as he dismounts in the courtyard that is bustling with activity–it is the time of day that travelers begin to seek shelter for the night and a warm meal.  

“No one will attack us in a crowded inn,” Aramis assures him, dismounting. “Besides, I know the owner.” He waves to a boy, about ten or eleven, seated on top of a cask at the corner of the building, by the side door to the kitchens. He has been swaying his legs back and forth, while  absentmindedly chewing on a stick. “Phélix!” 

“Monsieur!” Recognizing Aramis, the boy jumps to his feet and hurries toward them. 

“Daydreaming again, Phélix?” Aramis teases. 

The boy smiles a large innocent smile, all teeth and rosy freckled cheeks, his pale blue eyes gleaming joyfully. He picks up the reins of Aramis’ and Ignazio’s horses. “I was thinking about the proverb: Then shalt thou walk in thy way safely, and thy foot shall not stumble… So far, I counted ten people stumbling. Does that mean they are all sinners or that our courtyard is too slippery?”

Ignazio coughs to hide a gasp and a chuckle, while Aramis rests a friendly hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You should not take God’s words literally, Phélix,” he admonishes and the boy bobs his head several times eagerly, with the same large, innocent smile.  

“You will not tell my father I was daydreaming, will you? He does not like that. And I will have to explain about the proverb and I don’t know what ‘literally’ means.” 

Aramis tousles the boy’s black hair. “Of course not. We need fresh horses immediately for we must be at the Abbey before nightfall. Can you arrange that for us?” Once again the boy bobs his head smiling his big, eager smile. 

“Good boy! We are thirsty but we will not take long.” 

“Will you ask my father about the Abbey, Your Grace? Even if I will never understand any proverbs?” 

Aramis smiles. “Don’t worry. Now get our horses!” He turns to Ignazio as they walk into the inn, not through the main door but from that side door through the kitchens: “Phélix is the only son that M. Raguet, the innkeeper, has left. He had three older sons. Two were taken by the wars and one by the pox. Phélix was born early, his mother also stricken ill. She did not survive but, miraculously, the baby did. You saw him. He is simple-minded and has not grown past the age of five or six and never will. He wants to join the brothers at the Abbey and we will take him in willingly but his father dotes on him, his aunt too–she is the only other family member left, and she works here, at the inn with her brother. A good and pious woman. The sad truth is that they can do little for the boy here.” 

“Your Grace! You honor our humble house!” The innkeeper, a tall middle-aged man, wipes his hands on the clean linen towel hanging from his belt and shakes Aramis’ hand.  

“We thought to enter discreetly through the kitchen. I hope it is not an imposition.”

“No of course not, Your Grace! ! Sister! Look who honors us!”

The innkeeper’s sister stands from where she was stooping by the large fireplace, removing a heavy lidded cooking pot from the hearth oven. She is a handsome young woman, and strong, barely thirty. She smiles, a kind genuine smile. “Your Grace! Will you not take something? There’s roasted beef and stuffed cockerel, a hearty stew, fresh bread and our cheese and wine. You know our food is always good here and we are always happy to serve you and your company.” 

Ignazio would not mind. There is something very fragrant in the lidded cooking pot, but he is immediately reminded of that other verse about the spirit being willing and the flesh weak.

“We are only thirsty, and we must be at the Abbey before it is too late. Besides, it is very busy around here this evening…” Aramis begins to object. 

“Oh no, Your Grace!” the innkeeper says. “You do not have to sit out there…” he points toward the noisy hall outside. “Our private rooms are all taken–there is a big company from Versailles, all very fashionable people– but if Your Grace does not mind, you can use the family room. It is small, but it is clean.”   

Aramis seems to weigh the urgency of their departure, against the innkeeper’s hospitality. “I suppose we can,” he concedes after a moment. 

It is indeed a neat and clean room. M. Raguet hurries to set the table as soon as they walk inside. “You are very busy today!” Aramis remarks.  

“It has been very busy, like this, almost every day lately, Your Grace. His Majesty seems to prefer Versailles for his hunting this season, and, as the weather has improved and the roads are no longer flooded, it feels that all of Paris has descended upon us!” He chuckles. “Not that we mind.” 

“There were bad floods this winter and the courtyard is still all mud–needs a new wall, and the stables too–we will need to build them again and larger,” his sister says as she brings the food and wine to the table.

“Ah, enough sister,” M. Raguets says. “His Grace is here to rest, not listen to our little grievances.” He smiles apologetically to Aramis and Ignazio. “But being busy brings money, and” he shakes his head, “I am collecting it for the dear lad. I know what his heart really wants.” 

“You don’t have to pay for his upkeep,” Aramis says gently. “And we will take him without an oblation, any time that you decide to let him go.” 

The innkeeper smiles sorrowfully, his eyes filled with tears. “Ah, you see right through me, Your Grace. The Brothers are very generous to my poor lad. But I am his father and I swore to his poor mother on her deathbed I’d provide for him. God knows, he’ll need that all his life. I know it is a sin to stir the dead thus, but he reminds me of his dear mother and his dear brothers.” He turns to Ignazio. “A simple, good lad, all heart–through and through. And all he talks about is joining the brothers at Noisy-le-roi.” 

“We met him. Asked him to prepare fresh horses for us,” Ignazio says. 

“Oh, that he will!” M. Raguet exclaims proudly. “He can learn a few things, but he learns them well. Never forgets a thing. He will correct you too if you stray an inch from what he knows.” 

“If he wants to join the brothers at Noisy-le-roi, why not see it as his calling?” Ignazio says.  

“You think so?” the innkeeper replies eagerly. 

“It is true,” Aramis says. “God only sees the heart, and a loving heart is what Phélix is. How can this not be his calling? You can visit him at the Abbey. He will learn some letters there. He will learn how to be useful and not just the work of a stableboy. We can take him,” Aramis adds, slanting a meaningful look toward Ignazio who replies with an imperceptible nod. “We can take him with us now if you agree.” 

M. Raguet sighs, and wipes his eyes with the towel around his belt. “I will let Your Grace finish your supper. I… I know it is a sin to keep him from his calling… I know that I have reached this point many times before and every time I cannot let my lad go.” 

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They finish their hearty supper quickly and in silence. 

“So we will take the boy with us,” Ignazio says. “Is it not dangerous?”

“If the father agrees. And no, it is not dangerous. We’d have been attacked by now, if that was the purpose of those following us. From now on and for the next hour we will be traveling a busy road–you heard M. Raguet, Versailles is fashionable this season,” there is a faint sneer in Aramis’ tone. “None of those who could be pursuing us would attack us on such a busy road, this busy road in particular, teaming with fashionable Parisians, for everyone to witness. If they attack it will be meant as a show of power and what show of power would that be? Attack a man traveling with a simple-minded boy and a monk with a cat to the Abbey?” He shakes his head. “No, no. The purpose of any attack now would be a show of power. This signifies the exact opposite.” 

“I hope you are right,” Ignazio sighs. 

“We are ready to leave, M. Raguet,” Aramis announces to the innkeeper who has stepped inside. “The supper was excellent. Give your sister our thanks.” He sets a heavy purse on the table as he and Ignazio stand.  

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The innkeeper sounds tentative. “I have talked it over with my sister too.  This is as good a time as any for Phélix. To be honest… all these fashionable Parisians coming and going…Some of them are… how shall I put it? They have vices, Your Grace, and he is a simple lad and we are too busy with work to protect him. I fear what may happen to him… And the sin of keeping him from his calling…The lad has been God’s gift to me, a poor sinner.” 

Aramis rests a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. “We will take him with us now.” 

“I will see to it,” Ignazio says and hurries through the door behind the innkeeper. Aramis reaches for his hat and gloves, ready to follow, but stops midway, at the sight of an elegant young cavalier who is blocking his exit. 

“We finally caught up it seems,” the young man says, closing the door behind him.   

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Aramis sets his hat and gloves back on the table. He bows. “Monseigneur.”

“Monseigneur!” the cavalier scoffs. “Is this the best you can do?” 

Aramis does not dare fathom his meaning. “What else?” 

An angry chuckle escapes the young man’s lips. “Philippe? It would be a start.” He throws his hat and gloves on the table too and leans against the back of Ignazio’s chair and over the table. “Do you take me for some simple-minded fool? Some naive, clownish idiot?” 

It is the unfathomable Aramis realizes. “Monseigneur…,” he ventures.

“No!” the young man seethes. “I will not be treated thus. My Brother and my Mother have been keeping their precious confidences for God knows how long. She and her Godgiven miracle of a son. Only not so much of a miracle is he? And then there’s me. Frivolous, silly Philippe. Well, I demand differently from you! You owe me that at least!”

“I will give Your Grace the best answer possible,” Aramis evades. 

“That is not good, damn it! I don’t care about your best possible answer. I care about the truth. My Mother will never reveal it,” he chuckles angrily, “my Brother… well… Can you imagine? To know the truth is one thing but to have to admit it to your frivolous little brother who embarrasses you by simply breathing…who is doomed to live in the shadow of your—supposed— Godgiven grace! What a humiliation. How are the mighty fallen!” 

“You are very angry,” Aramis says gently. 

“Yes, I am. No, not with you. Not yet, anyway. I believe that you truly love my Mother and she deserves to be loved. She was never loved by her husband. This is where my Brother and I are different, you see. This is what he fails to grasp, and why should he? Love comes easily to him, it is in the air around him,” he waves his arms mockingly, “it comes with being dieudonné. The precious son. But what about me? What about silly Philippe?” He fixes a seething gaze. “Was I a mistake she abhorred or the obligatory second she was forced to endure?”

“Your Mother loves you.” The young prince raises a disbelieving brow. “No!” Aramis admonishes him sternly. “I will not have you…I will not have anyone think of your Mother thus!”

“I love my Mother,” Phlippe declares fervently. “Even if she cannot see past her precious son. Even if she keeps me out of their secret confidences, I love her.” He eases his tone. “Just as you do.”

“Is this not unfair, then?”Aramis says quietly. “Ask yourself, what choice does she have?” 

Phillipe fixes his eyes on Aramis. “What about you?” 

The question catches Aramis by surprise, even though it shouldn’t. But he knows he has no good answer. All these many years, all the many iterations of this moment he has played in his mind, and he has never come up with a good answer. 

“I was fortunate to serve your Mother, your Brother too, and you, Monseigneur–whenever I was permitted near you.” 

“You are not answering!” There is frustration in the young prince’s voice, and tears gleaming in his eyes. He walks close to Aramis. He repeats the question, stressing every word. “What about you?”

“I have chosen to protect those I love in the only way I know, Monseigneur. That is everything I can hope for.” It is the only answer Aramis can offer, true and inadequate. 

“You are a courageous and honest man, and I am an arse.” Philippe whispers, shaking his head. “What a way to recommend oneself to one’s own f…”

“You don’t have to recommend yourself to me or anyone else, Monseigneur,” Aramis interrupts him.

A faint, bitter chuckle escapes Philippe’s lips. “Still…I would have preferred it if, in this instance, I could…”

They lean with their backs against the table, side by side, father and son, knowing that neither of them can speak the truth. “I thought I could understand him, until recently,” Phlippe says, and Aramis knows that he means his brother. “He wants everything for himself. Even the slightest space where you can be yourself, where you are master of your own life, even that he will seize, claim it for himself. He sweeps everything, everyone near him. You either exist for him or not at all. He tramples on people’s feelings, they mean nothing to him, unless they serve his purpose, that is all that matters.”

“Perhaps it is not what he wants, but what he must do,” Aramis says. 

“I try to tell myself that, but there are times when I am certain he enjoys it. Do you know whom he chose as his new Captain of Musketeers?” Aramis did not know that Marchal is no longer Captain but decides not to press the issue–after all this is not about Fabien Marchal. “M. Mancini.” Aramis holds back a gasp. Mazarin’s nephew. The last person Aramis would imagine could ever have been considered for this or for any military position–what is Louis thinking? Who is guiding him to make such bad decisions? Giulio? “Of all the people!” Philippe scoffs. “Is that not what you thought the moment I mentioned the name? Well, I will tell you why he chose Mancini. So that I have to bear the sight of his new Captain, every single day, every time I meet with my Brother or my Brother meets with me. He enjoys the pain he inflicts. It makes him feel righteous.” 

Aramis is aware of the early passion between Philippe and Mazarin’s nephew and he can see in Louis’ actions the inclination, unfortunate and true for Louis, to shape the world in his image, including his brother. But Louis is a clever tactician too, and Aramis cannot see that he’d make such an obvious faux pas without another purpose in mind. Could he be guided by Giulio to such a degree? And Guilio means Rochefort–there has been too much proof of that connection, starting with Mazarin’s own words upon his return to France, France’s alliance with Florence instead of Venice, and later the proof was sealed by the events at Stenay. 

“I thought fatherhood might change him,” Phillipe is saying. 

Aramis gasps. “Fatherhood?”

“You didn’t know? Of course not, how could you? Well… The little Spaniard is with child. He has done his duty to France. You’d think it would change him, but it has not. It has made him worse. He hears nothing, his heart immune to everyone–if he has a heart. Not even his mistress touches him and she has turned out to be an honest girl. He has brought La Valliere back and lavishes her with gifts. At night, after their encounters, she uses the discipline to mortify her flesh, but he doesn’t care, not even for the scars, only that he does not see them.” Aramis’ winces. “Lately, he speaks to no one, not even his valet. He locks himself in his chamber with someone they say. Some secret advisor and then he orders that brute Marchal whom he has promoted to do his bidding. He trusts no one, not me, his own brother and I am all he has. Our Mother, you, and I, we are all he has.” 

It is an alarming account even if it sounds too dramatic. Aramis, however, does not doubt that the young Prince sees something in his brother, something in Louis, that no one, not even their mother, can see. “He has summoned me to court,” Aramis says carefully. “It is not much, but it is something.” 

Philippe smiles ruefully. “I would not read much into it. This is our Mother’s clever bargain.”  He fixes a tearful gaze. “But I am glad you will be there.”

“I am always there. Know this,” Aramis stresses every word, “for you and for your Brother and for your Mother.” 

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The journey to Noisy-le-roi continues in a haze of busy roads and falling darkness and Phélix bombarding Ignazio with questions about that damned cat—thank God for that cat, Aramis thinks, his mind reeling. Was it Philippe’s men following them? How did Philippe learn the truth? Not that it matters, but Aramis would like to know, just as he would like to know why the Musketeers are under a man as incompetent as Philippe Jules Mancini, Mazarin’s nephew, and whose advice Louis is receiving. Anne would never condone such a monstrous and ridiculous move. What a sad end for their celebrated regiment. Is this Mazarin’s guidance? Is Giulio the man Louis meets secretly? Giulio works only for himself and his family–an undeniable fact–but he is also tethered to Rochefort. That is another fact and inescapable. There is too much that Aramis does not know. He has been away from court and from Paris for a long time, but Philippe is right, being summoned means very little.

Aramis dismounts in the courtyard of the Abbey, his mind still reeling, with enough clarity to tell Ignazio to take care of Phélix. He fails to notice the cavaliers in black uniforms waiting at the other side of the courtyard. He fails to recognize their leader, Fabien Marchal and the rest, men that he knows well: M. Rochois, M. Falaize, and M. Bennart. He even fails to recognize most of the faces of the brothers clustering to welcome him. It is only when Brother Timoléon, the Abbot, speaks that Aramis returns to his senses. Not so much the Abbot’s agitated voice but his words: “His Majesty has been waiting for you for hours.”

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“Your study is beautiful. The art is magnificent.” Louis remarks. He is standing with his arms crossed behind his back, seemingly admiring a small painting, one of the smallest in Aramis’ collection, depicting St. George fighting the dragon. “This one is striking,” Louis continues, without turning his back. “A Raphaël, is it not?”

Aramis signals to Brother Vitus, his secretary, who has escorted him, to close the door, and sets his cloak on the back of a chair as he moves inside. “Indeed. I had in mind to send it to His Eminence as a gift.” 

Louis chuckles. “Wasted gift. Although he would die to have this painting.” He turns and he does not look amused. “Is he on your mind? The Cardinal?”

“Only if he is on yours, Your Majesty.”

“I see Philippe has been talking to you. Does he expect that I rule based on his grievances? Did he list them all? My little brother has a long list and he has been keeping it since he can remember. Peeved and grieved–this describes my Brother.”

“Loyal and loving this describes him too,” Aramis ventures. 

“I see that he has found a sympathetic ear. He is fickle, I warn you.”

“It matters not, Your Majesty. I am your servant and so is he.” 

Louis bites the corner of his lip. He is irked with no intention to hide it. “My Mother worries about your well-being. I have assured her. Of course it all depends on you.” 

“I have always served your Majesty…” 

“Too well,” Louis interrupts him. “It’s what has brought us here isn’t it?” He draws in a deep breath to help ease his tone and turns toward the window. “Who is that boy?” 

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”

“The boy who arrived with you.” 

“A simple-minded boy. Son of a good, Christian man. The brothers will take care of him here.”

“And the young monk? He looks like an Indian.”

“A brave and loyal companion.” 

He turns. “Do they look up to you, all these youths you protect? Do they look up to you like a father?” He sounds bitter.

“I have no such aspirations, Your Majesty. I cannot replace anyone’s father. I have always wanted to be a father. Raise children of my own. Sons. Daughters. But that has not been my path in life. I do not regret it.” 

Louis raises a peeved brow and begins pacing the room. “What would it have been like I wonder? What would it have been like if your life had taken the path you claim that you desired? What would it have been like for me?” Aramis knows not to answer. Louis stops pacing and chuckles to himself. “Would I have been following in my father’s footsteps, you think? I would have liked that. To have friends I would be devoted to for life. To have shared with them barracks and trenches, victories and losses, loves and disappointments. To have squandered with them reckless nights at taverns playing cards, drinking, and wenching. To know each other’s mind and each other’s heart. That is true friendship. To have been Raoul’s friend–I would have liked that.” He sounds full of regrets. He sounds sincere. “Instead, here I am. Someone recently, a very clever man, whose perception and intelligence exceeds any man I have ever met, described my situation aptly: the most vulnerable pawn, he said, placed at the most vulnerable position, for the king is always the most vulnerable, his view restricted, unable to see the game, besides what his vulnerable position permits him.” Louis points an accusatory finger at Aramis, his voice trembling with anger. “You placed me there. You and my Mother.”  He straightens his shoulders and draws in a deep breath, his tone aloof. “I will play then. As I must. The King is afforded a few moves, every one crude.” 

Aramis says nothing, only bows respectfully. Who is this clever man with incomparable intelligence and perception, this avid chess-player, who’d dare speak to Louis thus; who’d know enough to speak to Louis thus? No, the man is not Giulio. After all, Giulio is terrible at chess. It is not Raoul either, for Louis regrets losing Raoul’s friendship. Only one man comes to mind who fits the description and the alliance is unthinkable–the consequences devastating. 

“Are they planning a rescue?”

“Your Majesty?” Aramis clears his throat trying to gather his thoughts. “I fear I do not understand Your Majesty’s meaning.” 

“Are they planning to rescue Henri Bernard from Vincennes?” There is scorn in the faint singsong tone that Louis chooses, to repeat his question. Aramis returns an astonished look and Louis clicks his tongue impatiently. “Those noble and brave prodigies of yours. The new cohort in the footsteps of the Celebrated Four.” He tilts his head slightly, pointing outside the window, his tone scathing. “No, not Fabien. Thankfully, his kind does not breed the sort of devotion required. But he is an obedient dog and will be rewarded for as long as he remains that.” Louis fixes an angry gaze. “Well? We know they plan something. Fabien’s spies have been all over their houses for weeks and have come up empty-handed every time. No one is that careful, unless they are planning something.  And where is my Spymaster? As for his perfidious wife–I’d count her among your prodigies, she was raised by all of you to be too clever for her own good– well, she seems to have quite abandoned her hapless lover Henri Bernard for the most unlikely lover of all. Oh you did not know? I suppose pamphlets from Paris are difficult to reach…” he chuckles, “wherever it is that you have been. Rohan they say. She is now Rohan’s lover. Her best friend’s most loyal and adoring husband.” He frowns. “Ruse upon ruse. But I recognize all four of them in this. Raoul, his wife, and unfortunately Rohan and his wife, both of whom I considered immune and above this sort of scheming.” 

Raoul left Glénay with Agnes Bernard. There is also the unanswered question about where Olivain has taken Thomas de Renard. Aramis, like everyone else who fought at Saintonge is certain that the man did not perish as Raoul claimed. Like everyone else too,  Aramis asked no questions but has no doubt that, where Raoul is concerned, there is a clever plan…perhaps even two plans…and one of them concerns Agnes and her son. “Your Majesty, I know nothing,” Aramis says gravely. “I was not even aware that Henri Bernad was arrested, let alone that he is kept at Vincennes.”

Louis moves closer, and speaks in whispers, stressing every word. “Of course he was arrested. I can do little to rid myself for good from his constant threat. Lesé Majesté. You and my Mother placed me in this position, remember?” 

Aramis decides to take the risk. After all, he must understand the game Rochefort is playing–this is Rochefort’s game: “I daresay, Your Majesty, it was his adopted father, the Comte de Rochefort who did that.” 

“You are very good, Monsieur, your reasoning flawless. But I have overgrown whatever influence you think you had over me in those early days, when my Mother saw it fit to make you her Prime Minister. That includes figuring out the truth, because remember, in the vulnerable position where you have placed me, at the corner of that chessboard, where I am condemned to be helpless, raw truth is my only weapon. So let me give you that truth in case you have forgotten after so many years. Henri Bernard is alive today and a constant threat to me only because of you.”  Aramis tries to appear inscrutable although his mind reels. How can Louis possibly know this? Anne never knew anything, so it cannot come from his mother–and why would she tell him if she knew? Louis shrugs. “It happened a year and a half before I was born, so perhaps you and my Mother were not… In any case, you were sworn to protect your King, and there was his mother, Marie de Medici…I don’t envy him, that mother. She was ruthless. Richelieu too.” He clicks his tongue dismissively. “Kill a baby! Who’d have obeyed such an order? Fabien would. But not you, you and your friends are a different breed. I admit I understand you better than I will ever understand Fabien, but look where we are now. Look where you are. Do you have any regrets I wonder?” 

“There is only regret when one acts against one’s conscience, Your Majesty,” Aramis says gravely. 

“What about acting against one’s King?” Louis pushes. 

“A good King, who is placed on this earth from God, cannot demand that any man defies his conscience to serve him. King Louis was good and just. He feared God. That order did not come from the King.” Louis gasps and steps back and Aramis eases his tone. “King Louis is blameless.”

“King Louis was the sort of King I cannot afford to be.” Louis fixes a sorrowful gaze. “You are right. My father acted on his conscience and as any honorable and Christian man would. So now I ask you again. Will they attempt a rescue? I know I would. As the son of that honorable father. Had I been afforded the luxury to follow my noble conscience, had I been given the chance to become the devoted friend I would have liked to be, I know that I would attempt a rescue.”

“I have been too removed, to know anything Your Majesty,” Aramis evades carefully. “But if you suspect such a plan, it is advisable that…”

The fleeting grin that crosses Louis’ lips alarms Aramis, for he sees a man he does not recognize instead of the young prince he has known. “That I take action? Oh, I have done that already.  The poor wretch is no longer at Vincennes,” Louis says dismissively. “I brought him here with me.” 

Aramis gasps. “Here at the Abbey?”

“At Versailles. Bringing him to the Abbey did cross my mind, I admit. Leave him up to you once more. What would you choose this time, your honor and conscience or your…King?” He raises a peeved brow. “But bringing him to the Abbey would have been a very bad move, I agree. He cannot be seen– he is forced to be masked but bringing him here would expose him to too many inadvertent witnesses. And then, there would have to be some explanation for Brother Timoléon. No, no. It was an enticing idea, but impossible in its execution. At Versailles he will be comfortable enough until he is removed for good without a drop of his blood spilled. On the other hand, your honorable prodigies and the friends who assist them, every single one of them who is committed to their conscience–just as you have raised them– and committing treason, will find themselves in a trap, facing Fabien’s men, should they attempt what I suspect they are planning. You see, I cannot afford to be the sort of king that King Louis was. He could afford men of your breed, who served him only to the extent that their conscience and their honor allowed. That can no longer be, it is my rule now. And you made that happen.” 

This is not the young prince that Aramis raised. He bows. “I follow Your Majesty’s orders in this and every other matter.”