Philippe drew up his mount. “You have put my dearest friend behind bars! Yesterday he witnessed a most grisly execution. He may be next! How else, then, would I take it?”

“Your dearest friend was plotting against me.”

“He was trapped. He’s gullible. He meant no harm.”

“I took the decision as your King, not as your brother.” Suddenly, Louis spurred his horse into a gallop, off through the trees, and with a huff, Philippe set off in pursuit.

The two men knew the forest well, the risings and fallings of the land, the densest thickets and outcroppings of great boulders. The horses knew the land, as well; they snorted with the sudden adventure of speed and competition, leaping ditches and fallen trees with what seemed like true abandon.

Ahead was an ancient black poplar tree where Philippe and Louis had, many times before, ended their races. Philippe slowed his horse and let Louis pass the tree ahead of him.

Louis spun his horse back around. “You could have won, brother!”

“But then the King would have lost. And we can’t have that.”

They turned back in the direction of the palace, their mounts breathing heavily.

“If I were of a suspicious nature,” said Louis, “I would have you arrested, too.”

“You believe I would plot against you?”

Louis shook his head sadly. “I believe you are capable of anything,” he answered, and then urged his horse into a gallop in the direction of the palace.

Claudine hurried with Bontemps through the main palace corridors, trying to keep her composure, hoping no one would see through the ruse. Bontemps had said she looked presentable dressed as a man, complete with the black clothing and hat of a physician and wearing a small mustache she had affixed to her lip with a sticky concoction, and it seemed true; courtiers she passed gave her no more than mildly curious glances. She feared her voice might give her away so Bontemps had recommended she speak as little as possible. It had been the King’s decision that she serve as his physician and that she no longer sneak in and out. The disguise was the only solution.

Yet greater than her fear at discovery was her fear for Henriette. Claudine entered the room and found her in her bed, muttering incoherently, her lady Sophie mopping her brow with a damp cloth, the King holding her hand and watching her intently. The bed sheets were soaked in blood.

“Doctor Pascal, Sire,” said Bontemps.

The King looked over and Claudine curtseyed.

“It’s customary for men to bow to the King,” said Louis.

Claudine bowed awkwardly.

“Your services are required, doctor.”

Claudine whispered a quick prayer, opened her medicine box, and went to work. Yet for all her efforts, within the hour Henriette delivered a tiny, miscarried fetus. Sophie wept, the King was silent, and Henriette, at last, fell asleep, worn out from pain and her fruitless efforts.