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British screenwriter David Wolstencroft is best known for his work on the TV series Spooks. He is the celebrated author of two spy novels. Simon Mirren has gained global acclaim for his work on the hit TV series Criminal Minds. Together, they sweep the reader away to the realm of the Sun King and the construction of the world’s most beautiful palace. Elizabeth Massie has written several historical novels as well as the novelization of The Tudors TV series.

Title Page

1 Spring, 1667

1

SPRING, 1667

She was exquisitely beautiful, young and small in stature yet fully a woman with bountiful curves visible through her sheer white chemise. She skipped ahead across the grass, glancing back over her shoulder, giggling, winking. Louis laughed and followed, trying his best to reach her but remaining several steps behind.

Into a labyrinth of hedge-lined pathways she hurried, out of view for a moment then back in again, patches of sunlight kissing her body. He ached with desire for her, every fiber of his body on edge, needing to have this woman. To hold her, to caress her, to take her and have her.

Through a shady grove of orange trees she danced, plucking ripe fruit from a tree as she passed beneath it. She turned and smiled. It was clear she wanted him, too.

Beyond the orange grove was a rise upon which sat a colossal, sun-bright palace, ornate and brilliant beyond imagination, looking as if the Mansion of God Himself had come down to Earth. Louis’ heart swelled. Though he had never seen this palace before, it was part of him. It was home.

The girl reached the palace and disappeared through an arched doorway. Louis followed and found himself in total, silent darkness.

He stopped.

He waited.

“Kings do not cry, no matter what they face,” came a familiar voice. “No matter what they face.”

He knew the voice. His mother. He turned slowly and she was there in a spear of light, a vision of pride and power, her body spattered with blood. Louis’ younger brother knelt beside her, weeping and clutching her hand.

“Fear is a weakness,” she said evenly. “It can crush a man, destroy him. Even you, my son.”

Louis stood, frozen in dread.

His mother continued, her voice reaching out from the past. “You were anointed by God, blessed by the Sun. But you do not yet possess what really matters. The power. Without it, you will perish, and all of France with you. Of course you are scared. Your mother is dying. The world is on fire. Enemies wait around every corner. If history teaches us one thing it is this – terrible things happen to kings. Which is why you will need the strength of a hundred men. To do whatever it takes. To drag us from the darkness and into the light.”

Louis and his mother locked gazes. He felt he could not breathe.

Then the beautiful girl appeared again, laughing, standing beside Louis’ mother. Both women held out their hands, fingers beckoning. Louis hesitated then reached for the girl. She pulled away and fled. Again he followed.

Out of the darkness and through bright, lavishly decorated rooms they raced, past marble statues, great portraits, and gilded moldings into a dazzling hallway where countless mirrors clung to the walls. Louis saw fragments of the girl’s reflection repeated over and over – a bare breast, a porcelain-white shoulder, the small of her delicate back. She shrugged the chemise from her body and kicked it free. Naked, she ran into the room at the end of the hall.

“I can see Paradise,” warned his mother from behind. “But you must build it for yourself. And let all the world know. Louis the Great has arrived.”

Louis reached the room to find the girl lying on his four-poster bed, a teasing smile on her full lips. Slowly, she parted her shapely legs.

Louis tore his clothes off, flung himself onto the bed, and mounted the girl. With unstoppable and glorious urgency he forced himself into her. Again. Again.

Again.

He awoke as he came, his jaw tight, fists clutching the linen sheets, rising up into consciousness and the shadows of the bedchamber. His semen pooled on his bare belly, hot then cooling instantly. Sweat bathed his chest; his dark hair made a damp frame for his noble face. His eyes burned. He rubbed them, knowing he was awake yet not wanting to be.

A pre-dawn storm thundered outside the royal hunting lodge, the wind and rain battering the shuttered window. Louis’ loyal valet, Bontemps, sat quietly at the foot of the royal four-poster bed. A man in his middle years, his face was patient and kind.

The dream was fading, but Louis held on to one particular image. “Tell the architect Le Vau that I want to talk to him,” he said. “About mirrors.”

Bontemps nodded.

Thunder rolled beyond the walls. Wind caught its breath then hurled another wave of rain at the window.

More awake now, Louis drew his nightshirt down over his abdomen. “How is my Queen, Bontemps? Everyone tells me it’s going to be a boy –”

There was a sudden crashing of glass from outside. Over the noise of the storm Louis heard horses whinnying and men shouting. Then there were heavy footsteps and urgent, angry voices approaching the King’s bedchamber. A moment later, a pounding on the door. Bontemps hurried to open it; Swiss guards poured into the chamber, followed by anxious courtiers. The guards flanked the royal bed, their faces hard. Louis shrunk back, his heartbeat quickening.

“Guard!” Bontemps demanded. “What business here?”

“An attempt on the King’s life,” said one guard.

“By whom? The Spanish? The Dutch?”

“We do not yet know. Fabien is moving to quell the threat.”

“Bontemps,” managed Louis. “Explain!”

“Sire,” said the valet, his voice tight with concern. “Your bodyguards must escort you to the guard room immediately.” He moved to the window and pulled the shutters back. The King’s royal dressers reached out to remove the King’s nightshirt, but Louis shoved them off. “On whose word?” he demanded. He clambered up and went to Bontemps.

“Away from the window!” shouted a guard.

“I do not know these men, Bontemps!” said Louis.

The guards surrounded the King and moved him forcefully from the window. Louis twisted in their grasp. “I’m going nowhere! And my second son will be born here, in Versailles. While I breathe I will show no fear. I will not leave!”

But the guards would not hear him, and the dressers did their duty. Then the guards hastened the King from the bedchamber and down the dark corridor. Wide-eyed courtiers bowed in pale candlelight as the King passed by. Louis managed to get free of the guards’ hands but was unable to fight the human current that carried him along.

“Where is Philippe?” he shouted. “Where is he? Where is my brother?”

The King’s younger brother Philippe, known also as Monsieur, drew his lips away and smiled up at the handsome, wavy-haired fellow in the velvet-upholstered chair. Chevalier, the handsome fellow, was dressed in a white shirt and nothing else. All the easier for Philippe to enjoy the delicious feast between the man’s legs. Philippe’s knack for obediently teasing and tasting had Chevalier gripping the chair’s arms and tipping his head back in pleasure.

“God,” said Chevalier through his teeth. “You are good at that.”

Philippe smiled. Of course he was.

There was a sudden hammering on the door. Philippe glanced over dismissively then looked back at the rock hard, glistening organ before him. He leaned toward it, ready to take it again, but the pounding continued.

A footman shouted through the door, “The King summons you! Monsieur?”

Chevalier scowled. “We heard you the first time!”

Philippe brushed a strand of dark hair behind his ear and gave Chevalier an apologetic grimace. He pushed himself to his feet and shuffled to the door. Chevalier casually pulled at his shirttail and covered himself partway.

Philippe opened the door. “Is the baby born, then?”

“You are to come at once, Monsieur,” said the footman.

Philippe rolled his eyes and yawned. He looked back at Chevalier.

With a wave of his heavily ringed hand, Chevalier said, “I’ll send a for a snack.”

“I couldn’t eat another thing,” replied Philippe. He stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door shut. Before he could complain about the interruption, the footman informed him of the planned attempt on Louis’ life.

Erotic pleasures were instantly forgotten. “Have they caught the men?”

The footman shook his head. “They are still searching, Monsieur.”

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.”

The little boy sniffed. “I’m scared!”

Anne looked at her son, sharply. “Kings do not cry.”

Kings do not cry…

Louis closed his eyes, eased his breathing, and then opened his eyes again. The vision was gone, leaving only his silent subjects watching him. He looked away from them, out the window at the relentless torrents that seemed determined to drown the world.

The door opened and someone entered. Louis recognized the clearing of the throat. “Tell me, Philippe,” he said without turning, “what is going on?”

“Another plot uncovered,” said the King’s brother. “They found four men in the village. Sent to kill you. We must all leave for Paris at once. This lodge is not safe.”

“I decide where I go. I decide what to do.” Louis hitched his head in the direction of the guards and courtiers. “Make them go away.”

“Leave us,” Philippe told the guards. Silently the crowd withdrew from the bedchamber, leaving only the King, his valet, and his brother.

Louis strode from the window to the central table. He leaned on it with his knuckles and studied the wood grain.

“You’ve had the dream again?” asked Philippe.

Louis snarled. His brother knew him too well. “You held her hand,” he said at last.

“You could have done the same.”

“They would not permit me that honor! My own mother…” Louis began to pace from the table and back to the window.

“Who permits the King but the King?” prodded Philippe.

“You will never understand! There is something bigger than you.”

Philippe shook his head and made to leave, but Bontemps held up a hand. “The King has not given you leave.”

“My dear Bontemps,” Philippe scoffed. “I know that look well. And someone is about to get hurt. I rather it was not me.”

Louis pointed a finger at his brother. “They mean to kill me. Let them come. Let them try!”

“The power lies with you,” said Philippe. “Believe it.”

Louis returned to the window. His gaze wandered out through the rain, seeking something beyond the storm, seeking the faint outline of the royal woods in the distance. Slowly the distress of his soul began to fade as he imagined the trees, the rivers, the tangled and beautiful wilderness. “The deer in our woods follow the same tracks as their ancestors,” he said. “Going back hundreds of years. It’s instinct. They simply follow. Once in a while one will turn. But those that challenge never win. For one reason. If you blindfolded me in that wood, turned me around a hundred times, I would find my way back. There’s not a path I do not know, a tree I have not climbed. This is where I hunt.” Louis looked around at Philippe. “You can leave now,” he said brightly.

Philippe and Bontemps exchanged concerned glances as Louis looked back through the rain-drenched window glass.

At last, as if weary of itself, the rain eased, leaving the town of Versailles chilly and sodden. Flaming torches held aloft by Fabien’s guards flickered and danced, reflecting on the road and the faces of the men.

The remaining prisoners had been beaten without mercy, and could barely stand as guards searched their clothing. There was not much to find, save some coins and a serrated hunting knife. But then a guard discovered a rolled paper in one prisoner’s coat and handed it to Fabien.

Fabien held the paper up to the light of a torch and watched as a complex code became visible along the edge. It was a cipher, a collection of symbols and letters. It was what he’d been looking for.

Glancing up with smug satisfaction, he nodded at the guard with the hunting knife. “Hobble them.” The guard leaned down and slashed the older prisoners’ Achilles tendons with such force that their feet were nearly cut from their legs. The prisoners crashed to the earth, screaming in agony. The remaining boy closed his eyes and prayed.

Jean-Baptiste Colbert, the royal accountant, was a dutiful man. He sat in his office in the village of Versailles, collecting taxes and recording them in his ledger. Nearing old age, the man had no fondness for others, especially not those from whom he took money, yet his work was paramount. As he waved one smelly exciseman away from his desk and prepared to take the coffer from the next in line, Louvois, the King’s War Minister, burst into the office, followed by Fabien and several guards. Louvois ordered the crowd of taxpayers out and shut the office door.

“You know,” said Louvois, letting out a grunt, “I woke yesterday in a goose-down bed with a view of my lands five miles to the river. Here, I sleep in a cupboard. We will finish the reckoning in Paris. Safe and sound.” Then to the guards, “Secure the coffers and load the carriages. Four men to each.”

Colbert rose behind his desk. “What is the meaning of this? I have work to do!”

Fabien rubbed at a bloody spot on his jacket. “Four Spanish mercenaries were found plotting an ambush in His Majesty’s hunting grounds. They were prevented from doing so.”

“Good,” said Colbert. “They mean to end our new campaign with a single strike?”

“Madrid is not happy about our desires for the Spanish Netherlands. Neither are the Netherlands, for that matter.”

Colbert swept a hand toward the coffers as the guards began to collect them from the desk. “They may be in luck. We cannot finance a war with this income. We could hardly finance a swordfight.”

“The Queen must have her dowry,” said Fabien. “They did not pay. This is their reward.”

Louvois crossed his arms. “We really are out in the wilds here. Defenses are porous, nonexistent. The sooner we return to Paris, the better.”

Fabien began, “The King is hunting this afternoon, I doubt very much we would leave –”

“I postponed the hunt,” interrupted Louvois. “We can reconvene at Fontainebleau.”

“Surely Monsieur Bontemps must –”

“I do not believe the King or his valet appreciate the full picture of this threat. In any case it’s not up to him. The ministers, the council, we all must guide the ship. You think the country is governed by one man?”

With that, Louvois ushered the guards and coffers out to the street as Bontemps made his way in. His face was twisted with concern.

“Bontemps,” said Colbert, “is the King informed of this? What does he say?”

“I…do not know.”

Fabien angled his head. “Then where is he?”

Bontemps shook his head. “He told me he would be here.”

Fabien clenched his fists and took a loud breath of air. “Then we must find him.”

As Bontemps spun toward the door, Fabien grabbed his arm. “But,” he warned, “calmly.”

The pounding of the mare’s hooves were like a heartbeat, rapid, powerful, driving down into the earth and up through Louis’ body so that he felt he was one with the animal, one with the misty morning air, one with freedom. He leaned forward in the saddle, clutching the reins as they galloped along a woodland path of the royal hunting grounds. Yes, Philippe would be looking for him. Yes, Bontemps would be anxious. A search party would have already formed. But they were far behind him, and in this moment he felt the same joy and abandon as he had when a boy.

“Ah!” he shouted to the sky.

Around a bend in the path they went, Louis’ cape lifting and falling like a great wing. Warblers pecking the ground flew up in a mad spray to get out of the way.

Up ahead the trunks of ancient oaks bowed toward each other, their branches linking overhead, creating a dense, green canopy. Louis dug his heels into the mare’s sides, spurring the animal onward into the lush tunnel. He glanced up at the spots of blue beyond the green then back down again in time to avoid being knocked from his saddle by a low branch. He ducked and laughed at the near calamity.

Onward they raced.

At last the path reached a narrow river and small grove. Louis urged his horse through the underbrush into the clearing and dismounted. He stood in silent awe, breathing in the simple beauty of pink wildflowers, waving grasses, and rippling water. He walked to the riverbank and knelt on the damp ground. For a moment he considered his reflection then cupped up some of the cold water and splashed it on his face.

Freedom. Clarity.

Suddenly his horse snorted, started, and galloped off.

Louis leapt to his feet and spun around.

A wolf was emerging from the undergrowth, lean, mangy, clearly hungry. The animal’s lip lifted in a snarl. Louis tensed and moved his hand slowly to his short sword.

Ah, king of the trees, he thought. You dare challenge the King of France?

From the corner of his eyes he saw two other wolves, equally gaunt and hungry, moving out from the brush, heads low and eyes narrowed. Louis’ fingers wrapped around the hilt of the sword. His own eyes narrowed. He was ready. Let them come.

“What are you doing?” came a furious cry. A horse was there then, skidding to a halt beside Louis, its rider’s face red and angry.

The wolves shivered and ran off.

Philippe slid from his saddle. “You could have been killed, brother!”

Louis released his sword and shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” Philippe shook his head then chuckled in spite of himself. “Sometimes you surpass even yourself.”

Louis glanced about to make sure the wolves were indeed gone, and then looked back at his brother. What a moment this was, just the two of them. Now he could speak freely.

“You and I have never been more alone than we are right now,” he said. “We will never get this chance again. So I want you to listen. I am about to drag this country out of the darkness and into the light. A new France will be born and this palace will be her mother.”

Philippe’s brows drew together. “What palace?”

Louis pointed north through the trees. “That one.”

“Our father’s hunting lodge?”

“Versailles.”

Horns and barking dogs could be heard back up the path. The search party was closing in.

“Neither one of us chose this,” said Louis. “Fortune may have placed us here. We must build our own destiny. Right here.”

The horns and barking grew louder.

“With great change,” Louis continued, “enemies are quick to follow. We will soon know this for ourselves. I only need to know one thing. In this moment. No matter what. Are you with me, brother?”

Philippe let out a breath.

“Do you have my back?”

Philippe held Louis’ gaze. “Where am I now?”

Louis considered his brother for a moment then nodded, satisfied. Taking the reins he swung up into the saddle then pulled Philippe up behind him. Louis spurred the horse back onto the path as the search party reached them.

“The King!” a guard shouted, but the royal brothers calmly rode past without a word. Fabien, Bontemps, and War Minister Louvois watched silently. Then the search party turned their heavily breathing mounts around to follow.

Back at Versailles, Louis sat down upon a bench in an anteroom to take off his boots as guards and nobles watched, clearly relieved that the King was safe.

“I’m hungry,” Louis said simply as he dropped a boot onto the floor.

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