The town square of Versailles was dark, rain-drenched, and deserted, for the town folk had not yet awakened. Fabien, chief of the King’s police force, stood in the center of the street, holding the reins of four skittish horses. His hazel eyes were narrowed with focus and determination. Another moment. And another. Then, yes! There they were. Four Spaniards, cloaked and furtive, came into view from an alley and turned in Fabien’s direction.

The largest man stopped and looked at Fabien. He jerked his head in the direction of the empty hitching rail at street side. “Where are my horses?” he shouted over the sound of the rain.

“These horses?” called Fabien. He dropped the reins, slapped the horses’ hindquarters, and the animals galloped off.

The man’s face twisted in rage and he stomped through the mud toward Fabien. And at that moment, twenty guards appeared from side roads and surrounded the Spaniards.

“Have you lost your way, gentlemen?” said Fabien.

The large man snarled, clearly aware there was nothing left to do. He roared, grabbed a hatchet and carbine from beneath his cloak, and rushed at Fabien. He did not even have time to stumble on the puddle-rutted road, for at that moment the guards shot him to pieces. He fell into the mud. Fabien stepped on his head to hold him down as he thrashed and died. The remaining three spun about to run but guards blocked their way.

“Drop your weapons!” said Fabien.

The Spaniards tossed their carbines to the ground and stood still, backs to one another as lesser animals gather to protect themselves from predators. Fabien approached them, caught the gaze of the youngest – little more than a boy – and gave him a smile as cold as the rain.

Louis shrugged off the hands of the guards who tried to keep up with him as he returned to his bedchamber. So many reaching for him, pressed in around him, cloying. Get away! his mind screamed. More faces, staring, true and perhaps feigned concern mingled into one distressing image.

Get away from me!

In his room at last, he stood at the window and leaned on the sill. His breaths were heavy and rapid, clouding the quarry glass and obscuring his reflection. Bontemps, guards, and a handful of courtiers stood at a distance, shuffling nervously. Louis felt their gazes on his back staring, waiting, silently demanding.

Go away….!

Then he heard a familiar child’s voice, a boy’s voice. Faint. Rising up from the past.

“Maman,” the boy whimpered. “Where are we going?”

Louis turned his head and through a blur of distress saw a vision of his mother, Anne of Austria. She bustled anxiously about a lavish bedroom, packing boxes of jewelry into a large chest as a lady-in-waiting snatched gowns and slippers to pack a second chest.

Mother…

“We are leaving Paris,” said Anne, her aristocratic face taut with purpose. “And we are never coming back. Hurry.”