Page 69 of The Darkest Oath

Rollant straightened his shoulders. “Your Majesty, if you are to take this stance, may I request leave to return to Paris?”

Louis turned with a knitted brow and crossed his arms. “Why, Rollant?”

“I have a personal matter there that I need to attend to,” Rollant said, choosing his words carefully. “One, I must address before the situation worsens.”

Louis studied him, his gaze narrowing. Then, with a slow nod, he approached him and gripped Rollant’s shoulders. “My friend, you have given me your every day since I became king. I grant your request, but due to our predicament, I request you return tomorrow before sunset. The days ahead will be critical.”

“I will return as you command,” Rollant said, bowing his head and his heart beating fast. Another grueling ride awaited him, but the stakes demanded it. Élise’s face swam before his eyes. He had to reach her in time.

Louis released him, and Rollant turned sharply on his heel. With every step, his resolve hardened. By the time he mounted his mare, his thoughts were clear.

He would save her, no matter the cost. Eternity could wait.

CHAPTER27

A Spark to Ignite

BASTILLE, PARIS, JULY 1789

The streetsof Paris were a cauldron, bubbling with rage and desperation. Smoke curled into the skies, mingling with the distant rumble of rushing feet and angry cries. Rollant cared not about appearances and rode straight through the city gate at Faubourg Saint-Jacques, crossing the Seine and cutting eastward past Notre Dame. He weaved through narrow streets until he found a place to hide his mare. From there, he ran toward the Bastille.

The fortress loomed over the city as a monument to the king’s long-held royal authority. Smoke clouded the air, obscuring the streets at its base.

Rollant shook his head at the ignorance of the rioters who dared think they could penetrate a medieval fortress. If they had tried to overrun the Bastille a few hundred years prior, the few soldiers in the fortress could have massacred the entire mob in a mere hour. They would not have cared about the loss of life and thought it their righteous duty to defend the king’s fortress against anyone who threatened it. But for Élise’s sake, he was glad the year was 1789, and Governor Launay was a man of peace.

Gunshots ripped through the air. The resounding boom of a cannon shot blasted. The acrid smell thickened with each step closer to the medieval monument.

“Where have they got a cannon?” he muttered. The sound of a second blast made him wince. “Must have been mutinous soldiers. Where are the royal troops? They should be here by now.” His eyes darted westward, but there was no sign of reinforcements coming from the Champ de Mars. He shook his head at the lack of help. The King had not ordered them, and so they would do nothing.

An ox cart hurtled toward him with its bed of hay set alight. He jumped out of the way, barely dodging it, and coughed against the smoke as it engulfed him. The cannon deafened his ears once more. The chaos was maddening, but he hunched down, scanning the street for Élise. A few lay dead, some wounded, as he moved closer to the fighting.

“Élise!” he yelled. The cacophony swallowed his call. He searched until the summer sun started its descent.

By evening, the Bastille’s shadow stretched long over the throngs of angry Parisians. His heart stopped. He spotted her near the front line, pistol raised and firing toward the gates.

“Élise,” he whispered. She stood among the chaos, fearless and resolute, her jaw set with determination.

The mob surged forward, battering the gates of the Bastille with whatever they could find. Gunfire cracked in the distance, and Rollant’s instincts screamed at him to pull her away, to drag her from the chaos.

But Élise didn’t flinch. She held her ground, her courage a beacon to those around her. Rollant fought men to get to her before the mob crushed her against the Bastille’s impenetrable gates.

A musket ball whizzed past her, striking the gate. She screamed and tore her face away from the blast. Rollant’s restraint snapped. He surged through the crowd, his height and strength parting the mass like the knight he once was.

“Élise!” he bellowed.

She turned, her wide eyes locking onto his. Shock flickered across her face for a moment, but there was no time for questions. A bayonet gleamed as a reckless attacker charged toward the gates, heedless of her position. Rollant moved with each action precise and calculated, intercepting the weapon and wrenching it away before driving the man back with a single hard-pressed shove.

But his action earned him a musket ball that ripped through his back shoulder. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth, knowing it would soon pass. He fell toward Élise, grabbing her arm and pulling her through the melee to the safety of a fallen cart away from the Bastille’s entrance. He forced her down behind it and sank with her.

“What are you doing?” Élise asked in a shout, and he finally let her yank her arm free.

Another shot rang out, silencing her protest.

“You were nearly killed,” he said, his voice steady despite the madness around them. His gaze lingered on her face before raking her body, searching for blood or injury. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “I’m going to finish what I started,” she said, trying to rise, but he pulled her down.

“Stay low. You don’t expose yourself in battle,” he said and gestured to a man lying behind her, lifeless with a bloody hole in his head.

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