Page 7 of The Darkest Oath

Rollant shook his head. “A king once gave me land outside of the city walls in Charonne. I have a house there. It has not been touched in a decade or more, I’m afraid, but I can make do.”

Everything he had acquired over the centuries had been sold for gold and stored in the floorboards. It was more than he could ever need in several lifetimes. Squatters had probably broken in, given the tumultuous times. He figured it didn’t matter because he had all eternity to buy and sell and kick people out of his home.

Louis withdrew his hands and placed them behind his back. “Go, then, Chevalier Rollant de Montvieux.”

“As you command, Your Majesty,” Rollant said with a bow. He left and made sure the two guards from the King’s Cabinet had moved to the guard room of the bedchamber before following the King’s command.

As Rollant moved between scurrying servants and courtiers, he knew only one of two outcomes would come to pass: the crown would be saved, or he would witness its end. Either way, France would change.

Soon after, he stepped from the gate at the Palace of Versailles dressed as a commoner with a bag of his clothes, coin, Amée’s rose encased in glass, and his dagger.

He mounted his horse, which a servant had brought to him.

The soft gallop of hooves against the road stirred a memory of his days as a knight but without the heavy burden of his armor. He had forgotten how freeing it was to let God’s breath rush past his face. A small flame warmed his heart in the peace it brought for the moment, giving him the falsest of hopes that perhaps the divine still loved him and wanted him in his Heavenly glory.

The sounds and luxury of Versailles faded to silence along the road until the clamor of unrest and tension in Paris spilled into the air like a tide that even an immortal man could not stop, nor did he care to. His heart turned still and cold once again as he neared his forgotten nobleman’s estate on the very eastern outskirts of the city, in the quiet, calming village of Charonne.

It was a modest stone home amongst the mostly empty apartments he had built long ago. He hadn’t collected rent in a long time and let the few residents live there for free. It looked like they returned his neglectful kindness by tending to his home, little garden, and double-stall stable. The old street was empty as he trotted to the stable behind the house. He put away his horse, giving her a carrot and patting her mane in appreciation for her journey to Paris before walking to the home’s entrance on the street.

“Restless, rebellion, revolution,” he muttered as the door to the home creaked open. The wintry winds blew the dust from the furniture. He would have to remember that saying for when the next king asked for his advice, that is, if there was a next king.

CHAPTER3

Cries of the Forgotten

FAUBOURG SAINT-ANTOINE, PARIS, FEBRUARY 1788

The air filledwith smoke and dust on the corner of Rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine and Rue de Charonne. Flour and soot marked the men and few women who had come to the community’s bakery,Au Pain Roux. It was a place of sustenance filled with the hungry eyes of those unable to buy its limited reserves of bread. The sun lowered in the west, and the crowd pushed inside the cramped, weathered building.

Two men, Malo and Yves, closed the wooden shutters on the windows decorating the store’s faded stone façade. An additional oil lamp was lit from within. The shadows gathered in the corners, and the glow of the wood-fired oven illuminated the rear of the bakery owned by the twenty-four-year-old Gabin Roux, who stood in front of the stove facing the crowd. His stretched, large shadow swept over the small mass of people.

Élise stood beside him with a tight jaw and downcast eyes. She adjusted her sleeves to hide the faint bruises Gabin had left her the week earlier. He had such a strong grip, and she had such a stubborn mouth.

Élise glanced at the long, worn wooden counter and the near-empty shelves behind it. Her mouth watered for warm, fresh bread, a delicacy she had only tasted a few times in her nineteen years of life when she had been especially good for Gabin. It sickened her that he made her beg, but she was grateful to him that she had a cot to sleep on and something to put in her belly most nights. It was better than with her father or her aunt. She had a good life with Gabin. She bobbed her head at the reassurance. Her thoughts were broken by Gabin’s heavy hand on her bruised shoulder. He squeezed, and she winced.

“Now, my little dove,” Gabin gritted. “You will only say what we have discussed, or we shall have another . . . talk.” He swept his finger down the underside of her jaw at the veiled threat.

She nodded, but stiffened under his grip.

Freedom called her but the price of rebelling against him would cost her the only place she had to sleep and eat. His hold kept her prisoner. She envisioned taking his hand off of her shoulder in a defiant stance against his oppression. But she remained still, letting him squeeze the fresh bruise. He wanted her to whimper, but that she would not do. Her eyes hardened.

Freedom was a distant dream for herself, but soon, she hoped, freedom for others would come. No one would have to go hungry again. No one would be forced to live the life she lived as a child and now lived as a woman. It was her rallying cry. Her voice was the weapon she yielded, and her body marked the battle bruises of wielding it.

“My dear,” Gabin said. “You are so lucky I keep you fed and warm. You remember that. So many times, I could have kicked you into the streets, but I didn’t because I love you. Remember that, my dove.”

“I will,” Élise responded in trance. “I love you too, Gabin.” Of course she loved Gabin, she told herself. He had rescued her from her father’s drunken fists and her aunt’s ring of child thieves, who punished her if she didn’t meet the daily quota. At least Gabin’s violence was tolerable, and he did share his food when he had it even if he did make her beg—it was more than what her father and aunt had done.

The corners of her lips turned up at her savior. Her shoulders softened and his grip solidified at the new slack in her body.

“That’s my girl,” Gabin said in a gruff whisper. The warmth from the brick oven dominating the back wall cast a soft glow on his handsome face, adorned with chiseled cheeks and jaw. His thick, auburn hair, reminiscent of his surname, reddened from the glow. He was the man every man wanted to be and every woman wanted to be with. If the women were pretty enough, he fulfilled their wants. But Élise was his woman, no one else dared to touch her. He pressed his lips to hers while his fingers held her chin in a firm grip. He bit her lower lip before pulling back. “Remember, say only what we have discussed if I let you speak.”

“Yes, Gabin,” she whispered.

He released her, and she scanned the room. A few eyes watched her, some envious, some in pity, and some indifferent. But they all shared one purpose: the need for bread.

Gabin spread his arms wide.

“Brothers!” His voice boomed, and the place quieted. “Thank you for coming to this week’s meeting.” He cleared his throat and flashed a smile at the women in attendance. “The price of bread and the gross taxes are what brings us here today. The reward of those who labor beneath the crown is that bread costs nearly a week’s wage. Do I set the price? No. Ingredients are expensive, and I barely make anything, knowing I must feed my community. So, who is driving up the price of flour and oil? Not I, not you. It is the royals and the nobles and their wasteful spending, just as the former Minister Calonne said in his papers. Our grievances must reach the king’s ears, and he’ll see the injustices we face and remember that we are his people. We need to gather the courage to speak up and remind them that the common man matters and we are not backs of which the elite walk.”

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