Thick, acrid smoke lay across the battleground in the Spanish Netherlands. Hundreds of troops littered the scorched field like butchered cattle, the mortally wounded writhing pitifully, weeping for lovers, for home and the dead. Most were the green-uniformed Spanish. Fewer by far the French in blue.

Philippe, in his armor, walked proudly across the field, surveying the carnage. Here was glory! Here was victory!

As he paused to study the strangely peaceful expression on the face of a dead trooper, a young French soldier shuffled past with a heavy, bloodstained sack on his back.

“The siege is broken,” Philippe called. The soldier continued walking. “Where are you going? Our camp lies the other way.”

The solider turned slowly, mechanically, his eyes dulled in shock. “I promised our mother I’d bring him home,” he said. It was then that Philippe noticed that in the sack were an arm, a leg, a ragged torso, and the raggedly severed head of a young man with eyes still open to the world.

Upon tables in the medical room of Masson’s house, the bodies of the Parthenays lay wrapped in muslin. Claudine waited in the corner, her head bowed respectfully.

Louis and Bontemps stared at the wrapped bodies. Neither spoke for many seconds, and then the King ordered, “Let me see her.”

Masson unwrapped the first body. The foul smell of decay was strong on the air. Louis’ cheeks hitched but he said nothing. These were his friends, had been his friends. He nodded for Masson to unwrap the second. The stench was the same, the proud and putrid odor of death.

“She bled,” said the King, brows furrowing. “Yet he did not?”

“I believe she was shot from a very short distance, Sire,” said Masson. “And…and he was shot from afar. Those shot with muskets do not bleed very much.”

“Why?”

“Ah, well, that is the way the wounds behave, Sire. They are very large.”

“Which would produce more blood, not less.”

Masson licked his lips. “Ah, indeed, Sire, um…”

Claudine spoke up. “What I believe my father is saying is that the musket shot tends to fragment. It makes channels twice as large but also crushes the flesh around the entry wound. It seals the blood where it sits so it cannot flow.”

Masson looked at Louis, clearly mortified that his daughter has shown more knowledge than he.

“I see,” said the King. “Thank you…Masson. Now, the boy.”

Masson lifted the sheet, keeping his eyes averted.

“And where is Charlotte?” asked Louis. “The Parthenays had two children.”

“I do not know, Sire.”

Louis turned to Bontemps. “Find Fabien!”