FADE IN:

From the BLACKNESS before the first images, we hear a young

woman's tortured SCREAM, muffled by her own will. We see her

mouth, open in agony; her face, beaded with sweat. Her name

is ANNE, and she is Queen of France. She lies in

A ROYAL BEDCHAMBER

The royal DOCTOR kneels at the foot of her bed; her own royal

mother grips her hands...

On the opposite side of the huge bedchamber, and separated

from the queen's bed by an artistically painted screen, are

royal ADVISORS sweating and anxious for any word to take to

their king. They wince as the Queen moans again in the pain

of childbirth.

Her fingers claw out for help, but her Doctor ignores her

need to be touched and comforted; he is concerned only for

the baby. Only her PRIEST, FATHER BELLES, sits at her head,

stroking her hair gently and rapidly whispering prayers.

DOCTOR:

The head is born! One arm... the

other arm... it is a boy!

The advisors, disregarding the Queen's privacy, scurry around

the screen to see the doctor lift the beautiful baby, wet

with birth. The mother -- the Queen -- is still in agony,

yet she struggles to lift her head.

ADVISOR 1

I shall tell the king!

ADVISOR 2

I shall tell him!

They hurry for the door. But their race to be first to bring

this great news to the King is interrupted as the Queen emits

another cry; it surprises the doctor.

DOCTOR:

M'lady...?

He kneels again to examine the Queen.

DOCTOR:

Another...? It is another!

The joy vanishes from the faces of the advisors. They look

gravely at each other, as they hear a second BABY'S CRY.

SMASH TO:

A DARK COURTYARD - NIGHT

A door groans open in a hidden corner of the palace courtyard

and into the darkness steps a dashing figure. His face is

hidden in shadow, but we know from the silhouette of his

cloak and plumed hat that he is a MUSKETEER.

He carries an OBLONG BASKET.

A carriage is just rattling onto the flagstones of the

courtyard. The Musketeer steps into its interior, with a

sharp word to the driver --

MUSKETEER:

Away.

The whip CRACKS and the carriage plunges into the night.

TIME DISSOLVE:

EXT. ESTABLISHING THE ISLAND FORTRESS PRISON - DAY

On a gash of rock thrusting upward from the sea along the

southern coast of France stands an island fortress, a prison,

like an Alcatraz of the Mediterranean. Just off a coastline

renowned for its beauty, the fortress is horrible and

foreboding. As we SUPERIMPOSE:

1662

TWENTY-TWO YEARS LATER

INT. THE FORTRESS PRISON

With the camera as our moving POV, we survey the prison. It

is a horrible place: dungeons where prisoners lie in their

own filth; corners where jailers rut with unresisting captive

women; long twisting corridors lined with cells, from which

prisoners whimper, or moan in madness. Up a long winding

staircase our POV moves; we push through the barred window of

a cell... It is somewhat cleaner than the rest of the places

we've seen, but still a prison. We PAN the cell.

And we see a man. A MAN IN AN IRON MASK. It is terrifying,

to think of anyone imprisoned in this way. We push in on his

eyes... They are blue, childlike.

A greasy jailer -- the prisoner's KEEPER -- puts his face to

the barred window of the door, and speaks with bored cruelty.

KEEPER:

You dead yet?

MAN IN THE IRON MASK

No, Keeper.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. ESTABLISHING PARIS - DAY

SUPERIMPOSE:

PARIS:

EXT. PARIS STREET - NIGHT

Through the narrow streets of the old city gallops a dashing

figure, his cloak flying behind him and catching the

moonlight, his horse's hooves clattering along the

cobblestones as he dodges the beggars living in the filthy

shadows. He is a magnetic sight, riding the horse as easily

as if they were racing across an open field and not through a

cluttered street, and guiding the stallion as if its grace

and power came not from the animal but from the rider.

Sitting lightly in the saddle is

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