In the dark, ruined interior of an isolated Huguenot church, an hour’s ride from Versailles, a man standing in the shadows spoke to the one who had come to meet with him.

“The cipher has been broken?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then we must form a new codex. This will take some time. Until then we will need to meet in person. I do not like the risk.”

The other stepped closer. Beatrice. “They demand my papers,” she said.

“You were sent forgeries.”

“Next to useless. When do I have a replacement?”

“I will inquire.”

Beatrice shook her head. “I’ll deal with my papers myself. Our first priority must be the cipher. If they can read it, they can read our thoughts. However, they do not know we know it, which also means we now have an opportunity.”

Louis woke to the silence of his bedchamber. He rubbed his eyes and peered into the darkness. There! Movement, shadowy figures he could not quite see.

“Is that you, brother?” he asked.

The figures came closer and a faint, yellowed light revealed the faces of Philippe, Rohan, Colbert, Louvois, and Fabien. Their eyes were closed, but when they opened them they were devilish and ghastly bright. Louis struggled to sit up, but discovered his arms were lashed to the bedposts. Philippe stepped to the bed’s side, brandishing a dagger.

“What are you doing?” Louis screamed.

“I’m so sorry it had to turn out this way,” said his brother calmly. “But you would not listen.”

Henriette appeared to Philippe’s right, smiling sadly. Louise appeared at Philippe’s left. She lifted her hands and began to chant the last rites.

“Per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam…”

Philippe raised the dagger. It glistened viciously.

No! Dear God, no!

“You forgot to make your peace with God, didn’t you, Louis?” asked Henriette.

With that Philippe plunged the dagger into Louis’ chest as Louis thrashed and screamed.

He awoke to Bontemps hurrying to his bedside, his eyes wide with worry. “Sire!”

Louis grabbed Bontemps’ shirt, panting, sweating, panicked. “Where is my brother? And Henriette?”

“Both left for Saint Cloud, Sire.”

Louis clutched his head and moaned.

“Your Majesty!” said Bontemps. “You are sick!”

7 Autumn 1670

7

AUTUMN 1670

The King sat upon a lush green hillside, a landscape he knew but could not name. Scattered across the hill were the ruins of once grand, ancient buildings. A white-haired man in a golden robe reclined in the grasses nearby, writing upon a tablet. A godly halo encircled his head, and an eagle stood, alert, behind him in the grass.

Then Louis realized where he was. He was inside Poussin’s painting, Saint John’s Meditation at Patmos, part of the scene yet not belonging.

I don’t want to be here, he thought. I need to be in Versailles!