Page 76

Fate of the Bourbons

It had been centuries since Rollant first swore to protect the crown, yet he could not remember a time when the oath had felt so heavy—so utterly futile.

Rollant had watched kings rise and fall, but never had he felt so powerless as he did now, kneeling at the bedside of the boy who would never grow into his crown.

The room was dim, and the flicker of a single candle cast trembling shadows across the damp stone walls of the Temple.

Louis Charles lay still, save for the faint rise and fall of his tiny chest. Each breath was harder won than the last, rattling, a sound that echoed in Rollant’s ears like the tolling of a bell for a life too short.

Rollant’s immortal hands were useless against the cruel march of death.

“Monsieur,” Louis Charles said, his eyes slits. His hand touched Rollant’s face while the other clutched his father’s small cross. “I remember you at the palace.”

Rollant held a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said.

The boy labored to breathe. “You are my father’s friend,” he whispered.

Rollant nodded. “And now yours.”

Louis Charles’ ashen skin paled. “I am glad you are here.”

“Me too,” he said, taking the boy’s hand. Louis Charles squeezed it with what strength he had left, the fear palpable in his touch.

“Do you believe my father and mother will be waiting for me at the gate of Heaven?” he asked, sputtering with labored breath.

Rollant smiled. “Waiting with open arms.”

“Will they recognize me?” Louis Charles whispered, his small hand clutching the cross. “I don’t look like I did before.”

Rollant blinked back tears. “They’ll know you, Your Majesty. A parent always knows their child.”

The corner of Louis Charles’ mouth twitched. “I am trying to be brave,” he whispered. “But I am afraid.”

“There is nothing to fear, Your Majesty.” Rollant leaned forward and stroked the boy’s sweaty brow.

“I am afraid they won’t love me for the bad things that mean man made me say about them,” Louis Charles sputtered. “I am sorry I said them,” he whispered through weak coughs. “I didn’t mean them. I just wanted the man to stop hitting me.”

Rollant’s jaw grew taut. “None of that matters now,” he said through clenched teeth, wishing he could do more for the child. “They know. They see,” he whispered.

“I am so tired, but I’m afraid to die,” Louis Charles rasped.

“Death is easy,” he said, clenching his teeth as he watched Louis Charles struggle for breath.

“The journey to it is hard, as you well know.” Rollant kept his gaze locked with Louis Charles but took in the bruises on his arms and neck and the one on his cheek.

“You are brave, my king, but let it come. Sleep, and it will find you in peace.”

Louis Charles closed his eyes and whispered with a cough, “Will you stay with me?”

“Always,” Rollant said. His thumb swiped the child’s tear away. “You will be with them soon,” he whispered.

He had seen children perish before, but Louis Charles was the only one he had seen beaten to the point of illness and death. It turned his stomach that an illness would give him a respite from the cruelty he incurred.

When the boy’s small chest stilled, Rollant knew it wasn’t just a child’s life that had ended—it was the last fragile thread of an eight-centuries-old kingdom unraveling in his hands.

He stayed kneeling beside the boy’s body long after the candle had burned low, staring at the fragile fingers loosely curled around the cross. The silence in the chamber suffocated any peace that was supposed to come with death.

“I have fought for kings for centuries, and yet, when it mattered most, I have been powerless,” he muttered.

His fingers brushed over Louis Charles' cooling hand. His hoarse whisper cut through the silence, “I am sorry.”

He sat back on his heels, his fists clenched at his sides. The weight of his oath had never felt so empty. The hot sear of anger burned through his heart.

“He was just a boy,” Rollant muttered, his hands balling to fists. “And I failed him. The Revolution failed him, allowed him to suffer in this dank place.”

He had lived through countless deaths, but none pierced him like Louis Charles. What was the point of his immortality if he couldn’t save a boy—a child who had done no wrong except being born to a king?

The door opened. “Ah, Garde Rollant Montvieux,” his commanding officer said.

Footsteps echoed behind him as he peered over Rollant’s shoulder.

“What a pity.” The commanding officer grunted.

“Well, looks like you have the rest of the day seeing your prisoner no longer needs you, and we are short on funds, so take the week.”

Rollant’s chin dipped. “What will happen to his body?”

“Buried beneath the Temple with the others,” the officer said.

Rollant stood up, taking one last look at the boy king. The family cross lay loose in his hand. “He loved the cross,” Rollant said, ensuring his voice was devoid of any emotion. “If you can, please keep it in his hand.”

The officer patted Rollant’s shoulder. “I knew you took a liking to the boy. I am sorry.”

Rollant nodded and began to walk out.

“One last thing, Garde Montvieux,” the officer said, holding up a finger. “We have orders from the National Convention to tell no one that Louis Charles is dead. He lives and is well if anyone asks. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain,” Rollant said and left with dismissal. He glanced up at the tower where Marie-Thérèse was held under lock and key. He had promised their father he would watch over them, but she was not the king, and no one remembered she was there.

As he made the long walk back to Charonne, he wondered what would become of him.

The king’s brother was now the rightful heir but had fled France and resided in Verona.

He wondered if his oath extended to kings regarded as traitors to the country.

But even then, the king’s brother had no children and would likely never have children.

He remembered the few breaks in royal lineage throughout the centuries when distant cousins claimed the throne and took it for themselves.

But would there be even a crown to claim?

If the war ended in France’s favor, the royalists surrendered, and the constitutional monarchy remained abolished, what would become of Rollant?

It was a lot of factors for the sorceress to consider.

He hadn’t felt fate guiding his steps to Verona as they usually always led back to the king.

As he walked the cobblestone path to his home, he saw his love hanging laundry to dry.

Her voice broke through the haze.

“Rollant?” She ran to him, her hair streaming behind her in the summer breeze. He wanted to close the gap, to let her warmth break through the chill in his chest—but his feet were heavy, rooted in the weight of his thoughts.

Her face came into view, crystal clear amid the blur. “Why are you back so soon in the day?” she asked and touched his arm. Her eyes scanned him, likely looking for blood or evidence of a wound. “Is everything—” She stopped and gazed into his eyes. “It’s the boy, isn’t it?”

Rollant nodded. “They told me to take the week since they are low on funds, and he no longer needs a guard.” His voice was monotone.

“I’m so sorry, Rollant,” she said, slipping her fingers through his and leading him home by the arm.

He knew he should open his heart to élise, but he just wanted the quiet.

He changed his clothes and began working in the garden while she finished the laundry.

With both working, their chores ended early.

They ate silently, and while Rollant washed the dishes, élise wrapped her arms around him and lowered her forehead to his back.

“Leave the dishes,” she whispered. “I’ll wash them tomorrow.”

He threw the dish back in the basin before leaning both hands on the counter. élise tightened her embrace at the sudden clatter. His head hung with a furrowed brow. “They killed him,” he said.

élise’s tears pressed against the soft cotton of his shirt.

“I am sorry, Rollant. And I’m sorry for my role in it.

The movement was never meant to be what it became.

Those poor children were never supposed to be orphaned and beaten and killed.

Louis Charles was a victim of the violence I once believed was necessary. ”

He didn’t want élise to feel responsible. She wasn’t. She only wanted food for the starving. He turned around and cupped her face. “You did not kill Louis Charles,” he whispered and kissed her forehead.

He took a deep breath and walked from her embrace to the sofa and sank into the worn cushion. His head drooped back on the wood railing, and a sigh released from his belly. He stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight.

“Everyone dies,” he whispered, his voice thick. But would he too now that the king was dead and the heir a traitor and absent?

He pulled a knife from his belt and laid the blade on his hand while élise watched, her eyes darting between him and the blade.

“I’m afraid, élise, that when I become no longer immortal, I will fade to dust given my age.” He swallowed hard. “Or I will relive every death and then die.”

“But you have not done those things,” she whispered.

“Because there is still a rightful heir to the throne, and the war is not decided.”

“The Count of Provence,” élise said with a nod to Louis XVI’s younger brother. “But he is not here. How do you serve a king who left his country?”

Rollant chuckled, stained with sorrow. “If I am immortal still,”—he slid the blade across his palm—“then I fear I have to leave France.”

élise retrieved a cloth and gingerly tended to the wound in his hand, holding her breath.

Her shoulders slumped, and her gaze dropped when the gash healed.

She wiped up the rest of his blood and sat down next to him.

Her fingers caressed the healed gash in his hand as if to calm the cut’s phantom burn.

“What do we need to do now?” she asked.