Read Chapter 17: The King's Audience

The abbey bells of Saint-Catherine tolled the noon hour as Élise crossed the cobbled courtyard, her borrowed veil catching the wind. The sister superior at the gatehouse had given her directions without question—a letter of introduction from the Bishop of Caen saw to that—but the path she now walked had nothing to do with charity or prayer.

The King was at Lisieux.

Not at the palace in Paris, not at Versailles, but at a private hunting lodge outside the town, attending what the morning broadsheets called a "quiet retreat." Less than forty kilometers from where she stood. Fate or fortune, it didn't matter. She had one window, and she intended to use it.

The disguise served her well enough—grey habit, white wimple, hands clasped in practiced humility—but the guard at the lodge gate saw through it in seconds.

"You're not with the traveling convent," he said flatly. His hand rested on the stock of his carbine.

"I'm not," Élise admitted, lifting her hands slowly. "I'm Captain Élise Moreau of the Sûreté. I need to see His Majesty. It's a matter of state security."

The guard laughed once, short and harsh. "You're on the bulletin, Captain. Wanted for conspiracy. I'd be within my rights to shoot you where you stand."

"Then do it," she said, meeting his eyes. "But know that your King will hang you personally when he learns what died with me."

Something flickered in his face. Uncertainty. Good.

He looked past her shoulder at the empty road, then back at the papers pinned to a board by the gate. "Even if I believed you, I can't just—"

"Who commands the King's detail today?" she pressed. "Commander Roche? Colonel Aubert?"

"Roche. But he won't see you without—"

"Then tell Roche a woman in a grey habit has proof of who fired on the Prince. Tell him she has the Marquise de Saint-Aignan's name on her lips and a deadline on her heels. He'll see me."

The guard hesitated, then waved her inside and gestured for another man to search her. They found the unsigned contract draft folded tight in her sleeve. The guard read four lines of it, went pale, and escorted her himself to the lodge.

Commander Roche was a thin, grey man whose loyalty Élise had never doubted—and whose caution she now desperately needed. He studied her from across the lodge's narrow foyer for a long moment before speaking.

"Mademoiselle Moreau. You have a talent for being inconvenient."

"I have a talent for being right," she said. "The Marquise de Saint-Aignan is buying up royal lands through shell companies operating out of Lyon and Geneva. She's working with Duval and the Alliance Républicaine. It's a coordinated effort to bankrupt the crown and collapse the monarchy."

Roche's face did not change. "Those are heavy words."

"They're documented words." She held up the contract draft. "Not signed, but the terms are clear. Eight hundred thousand hectares. The Prince's evidence. Philippe was in on it—"

"Prince Philippe is in Paris," Roche said flatly. "He's been there for two days. He's the one who issued the bulletin calling you a fugitive."

"Then he's already won the narrative. But he hasn't won the King." She met Roche's steady gaze. "I need an audience. Ten minutes. I'll take responsibility for everything after."

The old commander was silent for the length of a breath. Then he turned and pointed down a hall hung with faded tapestries of old hunts.

"His Majesty is in the solar. He's not well. You'll have five minutes, and if a single word you say is false, I'll see you hang personally to protect the crown."

"Then you'll be wearing a noose alongside me," Élise said. "Because every word I say is true."

---

The King of France was older than Élise had imagined from the portraits. His face was a web of liver spots and deep creases, his hands skeletal where they rested on a polished oak table. His eyes, however, were clear and sharp as they tracked her entrance.

"Captain Moreau," he said, his voice thin but steady. "Roche tells me you've been shot at, betrayed, and branded a fugitive, and still you've come to lecture an old man about his own kingdom."

"Majesty, I've come to save it."

She placed the contract draft before him. He studied it without touching, pulling a pair of spectacles from his waistcoat and perching them on his nose. The silence stretched. Somewhere beyond the window, a bird sang.

"This is the land sale," he said finally. "I was told it was abandoned after the Prince's attack."

"It was hidden, Majesty. The sale is proceeding. The Marquise de Saint-Aignan and the republican faction intend to buy the crown's land at a fraction of its worth, then watch the treasury collapse. When it does, they'll present their republic as salvation."

The King set the paper down and removed his spectacles. "I knew of the sale," he said. "I approved it—at a different price, to a different buyer. A private arrangement. Who told you otherwise?"

"The numbers don't lie, Majesty. The consortium buying now is the Alliance Républicaine's front. The purchase price is a tenth of fair market value. And your son—Philippe—is their partner in it."

For a long moment, the King said nothing. His eyes moved from the paper to her face and back again.

"Philippe," he repeated. The word hung in the air like smoke.

"He arranged the attack on Louis," Élise said quietly. "He wanted Louis quiet long enough for the sale to close. When that failed, he moved to discredit him. There are men hunting your heir as we speak. Prince Louis is alive—I can vouch for that—but he's a fugitive because his brother made him one."

The King pressed his palms to the table and pushed himself to his feet. He was taller than she'd expected, even stooped with age. For a moment, the iron beneath the frailty showed through.

"You ask me to act against my own son," he said. "On the word of a common officer of the Sûreté, in possession of papers that show a conspiracy but are not binding, against the private office of my own Prime Minister."

"I ask you to act for your heir, Majesty. Not against Philippe. For Louis."

The King's jaw tightened. "I cannot move against a prince of the blood on suspicion. The realm is fragile. Parliament grows bolder each year. If I strike at my own family without proof, I hand every enemy of the crown the sword to finish us."

"Then give me a way to get the proof."

He studied her for a long moment, and she saw the calculation shifting behind his eyes—not doubt of her tale, but fear of its cost.

"The ledger," he said. "You spoke of a ledger. The chambermaid who saw the attack—Claire Delorme—she carried something that belongs to the palace. A record of payments made. That is what you need."

"Yes. My sources say she has it."

"Then find her. Bring me that ledger, and I can move. I can act. I can save Louis and face Philippe with evidence that will hold before any tribunal." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But you must do it alone. If I send soldiers, Philippe will hear. If I send letters, his spies will read them. You are the only one outside the conspiracy and inside my confidence. Is that clear?"

Élise nodded slowly. The weight of the task pressed down on her shoulders like stone, but the hope in his eyes pulled something taut in her chest.

"Find the chambermaid," the King repeated. "Find the ledger. And God go with you, Captain Moreau, because no one else will."

The audience was over. Roche appeared at the door, and Élise turned to go. At the threshold, the King's voice stopped her.

"One thing more."

She looked back. He had seated himself again, the firelight carving deep shadows into his face.

"When you find Louis—when you save him—tell him the crown is still his. Tell him his father said so."

Élise nodded once. Then she stepped through the door and into the fading light, the weight of a kingdom settling around her like an iron cloak.

She had come for help. She had received a command.

Now she had to find Claire Delorme before morning, or the tide would close over them all.