Page 100 of The Darkest Oath

“It has been an honor to serve the crown faithfully for six hundred years. And, there will always be Frenchmen who regard your family as the true kings—I will serve your son, and once he passes, his son or your brother. Just as it were when the House of Bourbon took the throne, I’m sure other descendants of Hugh Capet will vie for it once the people realize your death will not be sufficient for them.”

Rollant shook his head at the coming bloodshed. He’d seen it in the Hundred Years War, the Wars of Religion, and the War of the Henrys. More blood would be shed even in the new Republic.

“But I will miss you, Your Majesty, as I miss all your ancestors. I doubt I will ever see you again, but I know you will see Sophie and Louis Joseph and all your friends already passed in the Lord’s fold. The Queen, Louis Charles, and Marie-Thérèse, they will all see you again one day in the far future.”

Louis was silent for a moment before speaking again. “When the world ends, and the Lord comes in his might, I’m sure the sorceress’ magic will also end, and then, my friend, I will see you again.”

Rollant’s lips pressed tight. Louis spoke of heaven with certainty, of peace and reunion. And yet, for six hundred years, Rollant had been denied such solace. Death offered no end, only a brief escape before the torment began again. He envied Louis—envied the finality of his fate. If the sorceress’ magic ever did end, what would be left of him? A man without faith, without family, without purpose, and without the only two women he had ever truly loved.

“To death, then,” Rollant lifted an imaginary toast.

Louis nodded and pursed his lips as he lifted his imaginary glass. “Or rather, to a new beginning.”

Rollant smiled. “To a new beginning,” he whispered.

The Captain of the Temple Guard approached, and Rollant pulled a prayer book from his pocket and loudly said as a cover, “As requested, here’s your prayer book.”

Rollant lobbed the small-bound leather book on the desk as the Captain opened the door. He glanced at Rollant and then at Louis before sneering.

“Lights out,” he barked and shut the door after Rollant left Louis. “And you,” the Captain addressed Rollant, “you’re retiring for the night. The procession starts at eight in the morning. Be ready.”

Rollant dipped his chin. “Yes, Captain.”

The January cold seeped into the walls as Rollant settled into the barracks for the night. A fire crackled faintly at the far corner of the room, its warmth too distant to reach him. His breath fogged before he closed his eyes. He tugged his coat tighter around him, but the chill wasn’t just from the stone walls.

Élise’s tear-streaked face came unbidden to his mind, a memory that cut sharper than the draft. He’d told himself a thousand times she was better off without him and safer in Charonne with Hugo. He clung to it, though it never quieted the ache. He had traded love for duty and lost both.

Her name trembled on his lips like a ghost of hope. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer, not for himself, but for her. For her safety, her happiness, and for the hope that one day, she might forgive him.

There would always be a crown, he mused. And it would always keep him from Élise, from knowing love, and he had done it to himself. He wondered if she was happy in Charonne. He hoped the violence in Paris had not seeped into the countryside. He hoped Élise had followed his advice and not spoken her mind, for he feared the radicals in the Convention would not stop with Louis. They would go after any supporter of the King, any who disagreed with their clown trial and vote of execution. Robespierre was not a man to be trifled with. He prayed to God that Robespierre would keep his hands off Louis Charles. But prayers meant little in this new world, where faith was scorned, and virtue twisted into terror.

Rollant’s curse might have made him eternal, but it also made him helpless. Perhaps he could protect Louis Charles from assassins, but what shield could he offer against a mob baying for royal blood? Against the guillotine? The royalists and the Austro-Prussian forces would reinstate Louis Charles as King if they won the war, and if the child died, the crown would fall to Louis’ brother, the Count of Provence, who had fled the country. What service could he offer an absent king?

CHAPTER38

The Blood of Kings

PLACE DE LA RÉVOLUTION, PARIS, JANUARY 1793

The Place dela Révolution was a sea of faces, each more ravenous than the last. They surged toward the scaffold at the center of the square, their voices a discordant symphony of jeers, cheers, and cries for vengeance. Élise stood among them, her brown scarf pulled tight against the January cold, her breath clouding in the air as she stared at the looming guillotine. They had been standing in the cold for hours and barely made it in before the city gates were closed.

Hugo and the rest of the community had ventured into the city walls to witness the heresy. Though Hugo had begged them not to go, something stronger than her fear had pulled her back to Paris. The Revolution had taken so much—her friends, her city, her sense of safety—and now it would take the king.

She hated what Louis represented, but watching him die felt like watching the world end. This wasn’t the future she had fought for. She wanted the king’s abdication, but not for him to face execution built on bias and hate. She feared the foundation the new Republic was laying with such a decision. The guillotine’s blade gleamed in the pale winter morning sun, like a false beacon of hope cutting through the fog.

The carriage rolled to the scaffold, which guardsmen surrounded. Louis Capet walked up the steps with a composure befitting a king. They bound his hands and shaved his head as his priest whispered words of comfort to him.

Drums rolled and drowned out the former king’s last words; the poor man was not even allowed to be heard. They forced him onto the plank and dropped the blade. Élise closed her eyes as it fell. The crowd roared, surging forward as Louis’ head thudded into the basket beneath. Élise’s stomach turned, bile rising in her throat as she stumbled back, away from the wave of bodies pressing toward the scaffold. The crowd cheered, but she couldn’t summon a sound. The executioner held up Louis Capet’s dripping head, and the crowd cheered louder, deafening the drums. She doubted his son would survive, and when he was of age, he’d meet the same fate. They would make sure of that.

She surveyed the crowds, at what she helped to create. A man stared at her as he cheered. The corners of her mouth rose, fearing what he might think otherwise.

They gathered up the body and threw it in the dirt with nothing more. The crowds dispersed in a swell, forcing Hugo’s hand from hers. They drifted apart, but his eyes darted toward Charonne, and she knew to return home as planned. She nodded before losing him in the crowd. They pushed against her and wouldn’t let her turn around.

“Please,” she whispered and nearly turned before she bumped into a man.

“Pardon me, Citizen,” she said, flustered. She noticed his blue uniform—a National Guardsman. She stilled and forced her breath to calm. Her head down, she tried to step aside not to garner trouble, but his fingers graced her arm. She stiffened. Time halted as his familiar voice cut through the cacophony of the crowd.

“It is my pardon, Élise,” he said. The chaos fell away, and her forehead lowered to his chest. Her knees went weak as she leaned into him, fearing that her mind had conjured him, but the scent of old wood and candle smoke lingered in his shirt, like a memory made real.

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