The new architectural designs were rolled out upon the table in the War Cabinet room, and Louis studied them carefully. They were first drafts, but well imagined, and the King was pleased. Liberal Bruand, the young architect, stood back as the King considered each detail.

The door opened and without announcement, Rohan strolled in, smiling widely. “Good day, Sire,” he said. “I’ve good news.”

Louis looked up. “Say.”

“I visited some of the soldiers. For all their ailments and woes, their affection for Your Majesty is undimmed. They will soon tire of this petty show of rebellion. Stand firm, make no compromises and the field will be yours.”

“I am pleased to hear it.”

Rohan saw the papers on the table. “Another day, another edifice?”

But Louis stepped over to block Rohan’s view. This is not for your eyes yet, friend. “A matter of government,” he said. A brief look of disappointment crossed Rohan’s face but then it was gone. He bowed and left the room.

Louis turned his full attention back to the drawings.

“Sire,” said Bruand, “I would put the courtyard here and the chapel here.”

“With respect,” replied the King, “the other way around.”

Bruand tilted his head and thought, then nodded. “A fine idea, Sire.”

As the two studied the architectural plans, the guard at the door announced, “Monsieur Marchal.” Fabien entered with a placard beneath his arm and a scowl on his face.

“Sire,” he said, “this sign was found in the town.”

Louis took the sign and held it up. Bruand’s eyes darted nervously from the sign to the King. It read: FIGHT FOR JUSTICE AGAINST THE TYRANT LOUIS.

Without a word, Louis tossed the placard onto the floor and turned his attention back to the drawings on the table.

Fabien fumbled for a moment, shocked at the King’s lack of rage. “Sire? Word of the builders’ grievance has spread. A man called le Roure has taken up their cause, traveling town to town gathering support and spreading sedition and revolt. Do you wish me to act?”

“Not yet.” Louis waved his hand to end the discussion, leaving the chief of his police force confused, troubled, yet silent.

Sophie sat at the table in her mother’s chamber, her face in her arms, weeping piteously. Beatrice stood over her, exasperated and desperate.

“What do you expect me to do?” Beatrice demanded. “Tell you this all ends happily?”

“I have no idea who I am!” Sophie cried into her arms.

“Twenty-one years ago you were born. I loved you, cared for you, and kept you safe in any way I could.”

“Where was I born? Pau?”

Beatrice hesitated. “La Rochelle.”

“And my father? A noble?”

“A kind man. An artist. Crushed by the strictures of the King.”

Sophie looked up. Her eyes were red, her face creased. “Why would the King crush my father?”

“Because of who he was.”

“A criminal? A traitor?”

“Worse. A Protestant.”