The largest palace salon was decorated for the party. Candles blazed from the chandeliers and golden and ivory stands, music played in every corner by trios and quartets, servants carried platters of the most aromatic and sumptuous foods. In the center of the room, nobles danced the King’s new dance wearing gowns and coats of such an array of hues that it was as if a rainbow had descended from the heavens. Around, back, bowing and dipping, spinning and circling, all smiling at the King’s dying command.

Suddenly the music stopped. The dancers came to a standstill and looked at each other curiously. The doors opened and a most peculiar warrior entered. He was dressed entirely in armor made of mirrors from helmet to plackart to greave. The armor flashed in the light of the candles and reflected the faces of the nobles, who moved back, a bit frightened. The warrior stopped, turned slowly, and then lifted the visor. It was Louis.

“Your Highness!”

Nobles gasped and fell into bows and curtseys. The King was recovered. The King was among them once more.

In the midst of the celebratory commotion, Philippe threw back his chair and fled the room, and Fabien, his stomach cramping, stumbled out not long after.

Oh, God!

Chevalier stood in the palace prison yard with his arms lashed behind his back, watching as one of the nobles accused of treason was laid out upon the ground between four nervous horses. The man’s arms and legs were each bound with rope, and the ropes’ ends were secured to the harnesses that extended from the horses’ hindquarters. Each horse faced a different direction and was held in place by a guard with a whip. The executioner stood beside Chevalier, watching with eyes bright with purpose.

God, no!

The executioner shouted, “Now!”

The guards whipped the horses. They reared, whinnied then bolted, jerking the man’s limbs and tearing them from his body with a loud snapping of bone and ripping of flesh. Blood sprayed and the man, now a wretched, red-soaked torso, screamed, gurgled, and died.

Chevalier whimpered and vomited on his shoes, a man broken in spirit, broken of hope.

8 Autumn 1670–Winter 1670

8

AUTUMN 1670–WINTER 1670

The day was crisp and bright, laced with spicy scents of wet wood and decaying humus, filled with the rustle of creatures in the undergrowth gathering food for the winter ahead. Louis and Philippe rode side by side through the forest beneath trees shedding golden foliage. For a long time, Philippe said nothing, enraged that his brother had commanded he take this ride.

At last Louis spoke. “There will be others.”

Philippe stared at the ground as his horse stepped over a log. “Not like him.”

“Chevalier’s a traitor. I had no choice. My advice is to take the matter less to heart.”