“Sire? He seems to talk only of his opposition to you. He takes contrary positions to your plans and declares it to anyone who will listen.”

“And long may he continue.”

Bontemps hesitated then stepped closer. His face looked oddly pale. “I’m…sure I do not understand, Sire.”

Louis felt a rush of rage stirring within. It was not rage at Bontemps, but other things. Other deep things. The dark things…

Louis looked at the window, forcing himself to change the subject. “What news of your son?”

Bontemps did not reply.

Louis turned back. His valet was shaking and sweat had popped out on his forehead and cheeks.

“Bontemps?”

The valet’s eyes rolled up in his head and he fell with a crash to the floor. Louis dropped down beside him, took his hand, and called his name over and over. This can’t happen! Louis thought. I can’t lose you now!

Then slowly the valet roused, panting and moaning. Louis helped him up and into a chair as maids cleaned the blood he’d spilled when his head hit the floor.

“The doctors made every effort to help my son,” Bontemps said, looking at his hands, his throat ragged and raw, “but the pox was too strong. It took him. Dear God. He made a braver man than I will ever be.”

Louis spoke gently. “I am with you in your loss. Go home.”

“You are my home, Sire.”

“Be with those you love.”

“I am, Sire.”

“Ah,” said the King, looking at the ceiling. “God is punishing me by hurting those closest to my heart.”

“He’s testing you, Sire, offering a gift. Vengeance and mercy are His to choose. They are also yours.”

Louis looked down; his expression altering, darkening.

“I believe,” Bontemps continued, “God placed this child in your care for a reason.”

Louis held up a hand. “No. I’ve heard enough.”

“She is strong, let her live.”

Louis leaned dangerously close to Bontemps. “And then what?” he screamed. “Answer me!”

“Sire…I do not presume any judgment…”

“Of course you don’t! No one does!”

The silence held long, King and valet considering one another, friends yet separated by the vast sea of their positions. Then Louis’ voice quieted but remained regally cold. “A secret such as this has the power of a tide. Once released it will go where it must, beyond our control. It will wash away everything in its path. And that will be the end of everything we know.”

“Sire,” whispered Bontemps. “I only meant –”

“Grieve your loss. But do not forget your place.” Louis went to the door and the ushers opened it, revealing a crowd of courtiers waiting to see him. Always there, always waiting, always wanting. The King looked at them then motioned for the doors to be closed once more. He walked to the window, put his hands on the sill, breathed on the glass.

“Sire,” began Bontemps. “Please forgive me.”