Fabien waited and watched as patiently as he could, considering this young woman who had abilities that should have been reserved for men. After he’d had enough of her crying, he spoke. “If I’d not seen your work first-hand I might have thought you were a witch.”

Claudine wiped her eyes. “And have me burned.”

Fabien considered this. “I don’t know many unburned witches.”

“We’re all condemned in one way or another. I must examine him. Under the knife. He died by a poison I believe was destined for the King. If I can trace the cause I may find its remedy.”

“And,” added Fabien, “the poisoner.”

Louis stood beneath the portrait of Philippe and himself as children as Rohan entered the bedchamber. The drapes were drawn and the room was dark. Rohan moved cautiously and slowly to the bed, his head forward, straining to see the King.

“You look like death, old friend.”

Rohan spun toward the voice to find Louis against the wall, smiling.

“Praise God!” said Rohan. “It cannot be!”

Louis stepped out and clasped Rohan’s hand. “When a man is ill he retreats to his past, to the perfect summers of youth. You were always there by my side. You are my oldest friend and I am grateful for it. Because of this, I’m giving you this gift – the gift of truth. But in return you will give me the gift of silence on this matter.”

“I await your command.”

“I’ve told my council to inform the entire country of my imminent demise. In this way, I hope to root out all those opposed to me, since they would be the first to make plans for my absence.”

Rohan laughed. “What a mind you have, my friend.”

“You approve?”

“I applaud it. We did the same with our foxhounds in Fontainebleau. Send the bad news down the holes and see what scampers up.”

Louis nodded, satisfied, trusting. “You are my eyes and ears. Ensure the word goes out.”

“I will not fail you.”

Louis pulled back the drapes and the two men sat in a pool of sunlight and talked. Recalling. Reliving.

And while the friends visited, there came a pounding on the King’s outer chamber door. Bontemps ordered the guard to open the door and found Philippe with a crowd of brawny men bearing swords. Their expressions were hard and determined.

“I’m here to fetch my brother,” Philippe said. “It is plain to see his life depends on it.”

Bontemps put his hand on the door. “The answer was no and it remains so, Your Highness.” He turned to one of the guards and snapped his fingers. “Fetch Fabien Marchal at once.”

Philippe snarled. “Your little dog won’t help you now, Bontemps. You forget who you are addressing.”

“Good day,” said Bontemps, and he shut the door.