Using the book codex, Fabien sat at his desk and labored over the cipher. Laurene stood by, thrilled at having accomplished something so important, even as the work took the time of one and a half candles burned down. At last Fabien stood and put on his jacket. “A meeting is planned today. Is my horse ready?”

“Fed and watered this morning.”

Fabien waved the letter at her as he strode out the door. “You have done well!”

Bontemps and Claudine entered the King’s chamber through the secret door to find him gone and the guard staring at the wall.

“Guard!” demanded Bontemps. “Where is the King?”

“His Majesty ordered my eyes to the wall but he has not yet ordered them back.”

Leaving Claudine in the bedchamber, Bontemps hurried out of the King’s apartment and into the corridor. There, he stopped in his tracks and stared at his master with pity and horror.

The King was dancing. In the center of the corridor, in his sweat-stained nightshirt, he was pivoting and circling, his head wobbling back and forth to unheard music. He spotted Bontemps and motioned him closer. “There you are! I cannot decide whether this will be a courante, a pavane, a passacaille, or a gavotte.”

Bontemps spoke as softy as his fear would allow. “Sire, you must return to bed. Your doctors –”

“Bontemps! I’ve created a new dance! And I wish my court to perform it.”

“Very well, Sire, but first –”

Louis stopped for a moment. “Everyone must learn it immediately. Bring me pen and paper. And a gardener.”

Bontemps glanced over at the guards who stood nearby, then back at the King. “Gardener?”

“Jacques! My gardener. Bring him here. I see this dance unfolding in a garden, an orangery full of blossoms.” Then Louis began dancing again. He tipped his head toward his valet. “Bontemps, dance for me. Now. Follow me. First, a pied largi, then sissonne, pirouette, then pas de bourree, contretemps…”

Bontemps, mortified yet always obedient, tried to follow the King’s steps but stumbled awkwardly.

“The dancers will orbit the sun in the order of rank,” said the King as he twirled. “The King, an Emperor, a Pope, a laborer, a child, on down the line of precedence. You can be Pope if you like, Bontemps.”

Bontemps bowed uncertainly. “If these are your steps, Sire, then your dance is a passacaille.” How pale he is! How weak! I must get him back to his bed lest he die!

Louis stopped dancing. His eyes narrowed and his head lowered like that of an animal ready to strike. “I do not trust you. I do not trust you at all. Guards! I do not know that man!”

Bontemps stepped back. “Sire, please!”

“I need my gardener! My enemies are coming!”

Bontemps turned to the guards. “Avert your eyes!”