I care nothing for ugly tapestries if my King cares for me again!

“I’m here in gratitude,” Louis said as he removed his trousers, revealing his readied manhood. He climbed onto the bed with her and straddled her. “For keeping your word to me and showing such hospitality to our guest. You availed yourself very well.” Her nipples hardened against the cool caress of air. “I wish to bestow upon you a gift.”

“I…accept,” she whispered. I am ready!

“The gift is a secret,” said Louis. He reached down to finger her and found her damp and ready. He stroked her, probed her, and she panted. Then he whispered in her ear, “Your daughter is alive.”

Marie-Therese’s eyes opened wide with joy and disbelief. “Oh, my God!” she cried as her King drove himself into her.

Annaba had been startled into wakefulness by the King in the middle of the night. Leaving a frightened Kobina behind in the bedchamber, Annaba was now seated in a coach with His Majesty, rumbling at a mad speed along a road through a dark, imposing forest. Outriders galloped close by on either side. At first Annaba was certain that finally, after so many delays, he was going to spend time with the King to negotiate.

But now he wasn’t so sure.

The King sat silently in the rattling carriage, watching Annaba and then watching the night beyond the window.

“What would you offer me?” asked Annaba, breaking the silence. “The Dutch do not have your hospitality, but they do have money.”

Louis said nothing. What is going on? Annaba wondered. And the coach continued onward.

At long last the coach slowed and came to a stop. The faintest morning light was beginning to stream through the trees, yet Annaba could see no town, no chateau, no structure whatsoever.

“Where are we?”

“A brief stop,” said the King.

Through the window, Annaba watched as Fabien, who had driven the coach, jumped down and walked out into the woods. In the dim light Annaba could determine a small, poorly constructed hut amid the trees. Fabien disappeared inside the hut then dragged out a frail, old, balding man. As they got closer, Annaba noticed that the old man was so terrified, he had shit his trousers. His mouth worked as if he wanted to plead his case but dread had stolen his voice.

“My gardener chanced upon this man on his ride,” Louis told Annaba, his voice cool, even. “His name is Constantine. He fought with my father’s brother against my family in the Fronde. He thought himself safe here in the woods. But I never forget a face.”

As the old man folded his wrinkled hands for mercy, Fabien pulled a rope from his pocket, stood upon a log, and tied the rope around a tree branch. Then Fabien forced the little man onto the log and looped the rope around his neck. It was then the man finally spoke. “God help me!” he screamed. He clawed at the loop, trying to loosen it, but Fabien shoved the log from under the old man’s feet and he swung there, gurgling, his eyes popping.