Montcourt smirked behind the cloth over his mouth. “How much are they paying you, gentlemen? I can assure you, it is not enough.”

There was a rustling in a tree and a policeman glanced over to see a crow flying away. And in that second, the outlaws fired.

Emissaries, diplomats, and generals flanked the table in Philippe’s tent, eyeing one another as King Louis XIV lifted a white quill pen and held it above the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle. Marie-Therese had been brought in from Versailles for the occasion and she stood behind her husband, her hands folded, dressed in purple, her dark hair piled high and threaded with pearls. Philippe waited by the tent’s door, watching it all, his gaze tight, his arms crossed.

Louis dipped the pen into the inkwell and with dramatic flair, signed the paper, and dated it May 2nd, 1668. The war was over. The attendees applauded politely. Philippe pushed his way out of the tent where countless soldiers waited for him. They burst into applause, much louder than that inside the tent.

The following morning, the King’s carriages traveled back toward Versailles along the rutted road. Louis and Marie-Therese rode together without speaking. The velvet curtains were drawn over the windows and the interior of the carriage was stuffy.

At last Marie-Therese spoke. “You are troubled, husband. Tell me.”

“It does not concern you.”

“Concern me? This war was fought for me. You killed my countrymen to defend my honor. At least, that was your excuse.”

“Your father made a promise to me he did not keep. I lost five thousand men to make him honor it.”

“But the treaty is signed. What war remains?”

Louis ran his hand along the fringe of the curtain. “When I was ten years old, I learned what fear was. I saw my mother scared to death. The nobles were coming for us and she thought she was about to die. Ever since then I have had a plan to ensure that will not happen again.”

“But you have guards, a palace, and an army who march at your command.”

“They obey me but do not fear me.”

“What power does any man have over you?”

Suddenly something heavy slammed into the side of the carriage. Marie-Therese gasped. Louis flinched, rose, and yanked the curtain back. It cannot be thieves! It will not be assassins! I have my guards!

There at the window, clinging to the side of the carriage like a monkey, was Philippe.

“Are we there yet?” he shouted gleefully as his hair batted in the wind.

Louis scowled.

“I am bored!” said Philippe. He pulled open the door and swung inside, wavering, laughing then plopping onto the seat, quite drunk.

“We’ve no wine if that’s what you’re looking for,” said Louis.