Chapter 210

“Henri IV has regained consciousness,” Oitotan reported. “Though he’s only awake for a few hours a day and still finds movement agonizing, the physicians believe he’ll make a full recovery within a few months.”

“Whew. Finally, I can go back to Croatoan.” I stretched my limbs, let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. Living without the sweet embrace of air conditioning, heaters, and modern appliances had been a special kind of hell.

I had given Louis my word: I would remain in France only until Henri was mobile again. It had been an unprecedented crisis—the King of France, the Dauphin, and the heir of an allied nation nearly assassinated in a single stroke. Leaving immediately would have looked like the Continental Covenant was issuing a silent warning or expressing deep-seated displeasure.

Conversely, if we stayed by the Dauphin’s side, it would be read as a vote of confidence in his ability to stabilize the realm. It was a solid trade—saddling the future King of France with a massive political debt. Besides, Eleanor still needed to oversee Henri’s delicate recovery. But now, the end was in sight. It was time to go home.

With that thought in mind, I went to find the Dauphin.

“I—I am terribly sorry,” Louis stammered, his shoulders hunched as he looked at me. “It seems I won’t be able to see you off properly. I must depart for Paris immediately…”

I tilted my head, the news catching me off guard. “To Paris? While the King is still here?”

“Yes,” he replied, eyes darting nervously. “The kingdom is paralyzed with fear over my father’s condition. I must go to reassure the people. I need to see my mother and seek her counsel as well.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” I said with a slow nod. With the King incapacitated, the heir needed to project a presence in the capital to soothe public opinion, especially since France had only recently emerged from its own era of religious turmoil. For a young prince with little political experience and no notable achievements, his mother’s support would seem essential—particularly for one as supposedly weak-willed and indecisive as Louis.

And yet…

I looked out the window of the Mayor’s office where the Dauphin was currently installed. Troops were flooding into Le Havre, patrolling the streets with a clinical, lethal precision as they rooted out traitors and “impure elements.” Checkpoints had been erected at every major thoroughfare; every traveler was stopped, their religion verified, and any Protestant was immediately hauled off for “questioning.”

In just a few days, clues regarding the organization behind the regicide attempt had surfaced in droves. All this had been accomplished while the King lay at death’s door.

“Will you be taking the soldiers with you?” I asked.

“Pardon?”

“For your safety, I mean.”

“Ah, but of course! One never knows when the assassins might strike again. Moreover, recent discoveries suggest they were even stockpiling gunpowder to blow up the palace…”

“I see.”

I took a deep breath and looked at Louis again. Behind the heavy oak desk of the Mayor, the Crown Prince of France looked small, shrinking his neck as if cowed by the weight of his own shadow. After a long moment of silence, I nodded.

“Very well. I wish you good fortune.”

As I stepped out into the corridor, Oitotan fell in step beside me. “So, we have to wait for Louis to settle things in Paris with the Queen’s help before we can leave?”

I shook my head. Oitotan gave me a puzzled look, so I deactivated the language cheat I’d been using to intimidate Louis and switched to Algonquin.

“No. I think it’s going to take a lot longer than that.”

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

I replayed the Dauphin’s gaze in my mind. He had blinked frequently as if nervous, avoiding direct eye contact by staring at the bridge of my nose or my upper lip. But every time I had momentarily looked away, he had “scanned” me. He had been dissecting me.

A ‘weak,’ ‘terrified,’ ‘clueless’ Dauphin.

“I have a feeling something is about to happen,” I muttered.

My intuition, honed over thirty years of surviving in this era, told me the timidity was a lie.

***

The unprecedented events in Le Havre shook Paris like a thunderclap.

The Protestants tried to kill the King. Traitors have infiltrated the inner palace. They intended to blow up the court from within.

These were no mere back-alley whispers; they were official reports flowing through formal channels. The resulting storm was impossible to quell. The Tuileries Palace was turned upside down in an instant. Marie de’ Medici, the Queen of France and a devout Catholic, immediately launched a relentless purge of Protestants within Paris.

“This is madness!” the Duke of Sully cried out, his voice echoing in the council chamber. “You cannot do this! The Huguenots are protected by a Great Edict! Our freedom of faith is guaranteed—”

“Duke of Sully,” an official interrupted coldly, “the King who issued that edict lies bleeding, struck down by Protestant hands.”

“…”

“This is a formal investigation into high treason. There is no alternative.”

“Then… I resign,” Sully spat. “I cannot serve in a high-ranking post under such conditions.”

Henri IV had married Marie de’ Medici primarily to appease the Catholic hardliners. Now, with the King who held her in check removed from the board, upheaval was inevitable. Aides like Sully, the Protestant backbone of Henri’s inner circle, were cornered in a heartbeat. Factions that had been holding their breath under Henri’s reign saw their golden opportunity and lunged for it.

Amidst this chaos, news arrived that the Dauphin was returning to Paris.

The Catholic factions prepared to offer him the crown with jubilant hearts. Henri’s condition was reported as grave; if he died, a pro-Catholic prince would become the master of France. Even if Henri survived, with his faction gutted and his son in control of the capital, he would be a king in name only—his hands tied, his power evaporated.

Victory was within their grasp. The most virulent anti-royalist elements among the Catholics swarmed toward the Queen. These were the men who loathed Henri’s moderate policies—and the men who were in secret communication with Spain. Naturally, Marie de’ Medici was the common link.

Buoyed by their support, Marie prepared a magnificent welcome for her son. The citizens of Paris showered the returning Prince with flower petals, their cheers following his carriage all the way to the Tuileries. Louis played the part of the modest, obedient prince to perfection, acknowledging the crowds with a serene grace.

When he finally entered the audience hall of the palace, he was met by more strangers than familiar faces. Many were figures he had met as a child while following his mother, only to have his father sever those ties later. As he stood before her, Louis glanced at a letter in his palm—one sent by his mother’s agents during his time in Le Havre. It contained a list of “trustworthy men.”

After verifying the names, the Dauphin turned to Marie de’ Medici. “Mother, the post of Royal Advisor is currently vacant. I have someone I wish to appoint.”

“Oh?” she asked, a predatory gleam in her eye. “And who might that be?”

“A Catholic bishop, Mother.”

Marie beamed, her smile stretching across her face in a mask of triumph. This was the moment her “obedient” son finally handed France to her on a silver platter. The victory of Spain and the Catholic Church over France seemed imminent.

However, a few days later, a secret messenger from Marie reached the Spanish court. The Count-Duke of Olivares, his face pale as a ghost, delivered the report to his King.

“Marie de’ Medici’s secret links to us have been officially discovered, Your Majesty. Every one of her favorites has been dismissed from public office.”

“And?” the King pressed.

“Only one Catholic bishop remains by the Dauphin’s side. He is a relatively unknown figure, making it difficult to gauge his true leanings.”

“What is this man’s name?”

“Armand Jean du Plessis, Bishop of Luçon,” Olivares replied, handing over a parchment. “He was recently… appointed as the Duke of Richelieu.”

***

“I can finally… move with some ease,” Henri grunted.

“Just be mindful when you turn your waist, Sire,” Eleanor cautioned. “I’ll instruct the physicians to keep changing the bandages with boiling water and alcohol-sanitized wraps.”

“Thank you, Lady Dare.”

As Eleanor quietly exited the room, Henri gingerly eased himself off the bed, his face twisting as a lingering pang of pain shot through him. He was focused on his walking exercises when a sharp knock echoed at the door.

“The Dauphin requests an audience with His Majesty.”

Henri’s lips curled into a half-smile. “Let him in.”

The doors swung open, and Louis entered. He no longer wore the hunched, fearful posture of Le Havre; his eyes burned with an ambition that had been long suppressed. Yet Henri did not scold him. He didn’t even sound irritated. He simply let out a weary sigh.

“What of Maximilien?”

“The Duke of Sully has likely returned to his estates to live out the rest of his days in peace,” Louis replied, closing the door behind him. He added, “I shall summon him if the need arises.”

“Do as you please,” Henri said, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at his eldest son. “The time has come where you can do as you please.”

“My thanks, Father.”

“You did well,” Henri continued. “But keep a sharp eye on your mother. Do not let your guard slip. Don’t kill her, though—just exile her from the kingdom.”

“…”

“Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

“No. I just… didn’t expect you to be so blunt about it.”

“It’s all over anyway,” Henri shrugged. “My aides, who might have challenged your authority, are now branded as potential traitors. Conversely, your mother’s followers have been rounded up as actual traitors. Your deception—from the way you mobilized the troops around Le Havre to the final strike against her in Paris—was masterful. But.”

Henri raised his cane and pointed it at Louis. “You likely believe you won this struggle through your own brilliance. That is where your immaturity lies.”

“…”

“Had I chosen to march on Paris myself, even in my condition, it would have been the end for you. If Sully and my other loyalists had been able to reach me directly and regain their posts, your mother’s plans and your own would have crumbled.”

Louis remained silent. Henri IV let out a boisterous laugh, only to stop abruptly as his wound flared. “So, why didn’t I? Why did I throw away the chance to easily crush my rivals?”

Louis looked at his father’s bandages and the deep, exhausted lines etched into the old King’s face. Henri offered a bitter smile, and Louis mirrored it.

“A young, energetic King is better than an old, wounded one,” Louis murmured.

“Better for what?”

“…For our dynasty.”

Silence fell over the room. Henri gestured with a flick of his wrist, and Louis poured a glass of bourbon from the side table, pressing it into his father’s hand.

“Remember this, Louis. The Word of God is not the only thing that is eternal.”

“…”

“You live for the glory of the House. From this moment on, you are Bourbon.”

Henri drained the whiskey in a single swallow and turned back toward his bed, his eyes growing heavy. As Louis pulled the covers over him, Henri whispered one last thing.

“Catholic… Protestant… it matters not. Look only… to the House.”

As his father drifted into a deep sleep, the man who would soon be King of France patted Henri’s shoulder and bowed his head.

“Do not worry, Father,” Louis whispered into the old man’s ear. “I shall care for neither Catholic nor Protestant.” He repeated the vow to himself. From now on, I shall care for nothing else.

He had been confused for so long. His priests and tutors had spoken of humility and gentleness. They told him to obey parental authority as one obeys God, to be mild and modest. But his father had not lived that way. Henri had betrayed faiths, broken promises, and boasted with an arrogant flair—and he had won.

Those conflicting teachings had swirled in Louis’s mind. Is it right to seize my father’s authority? To manipulate my mother? Even if it is wrong, must it be done? Those questions were gone now. Only the path to glory, as revealed to him, remained.

His eyes burned with absolute conviction.

Look at my father, he thought. A man snatched from the precipice of death, a man who had slept powerlessly for days, a man who had finally resolved to surrender his crown to his heir. And then, look at himself—the one whom ‘He’ had personally saved, the one whose mind and body were healthy enough to halt his mother’s foolish rampage and inherit his father’s seat.

It was all a revelation. It was the only logical conclusion. A divine being was guiding him toward royal power. It had snatched him from death and was now leading him toward a greater path. If it wasn’t a revelation, such a perfect opportunity for his father to resign would never have manifested. His mother would never have been so easily deceived.

Louis had spent years huddled in the shadows, preparing for his moment, and now the perfect chance had unfurled before him.

“An immortal angel,” Louis whispered to his sleeping father, “is my ally.”

Therefore, even the Lord must be on my side. Behind the decisions he had made, someone had been pushing him forward. Someone had lit the way for him to strike down his treasonous mother and surpass his father.

He lives forever. Therefore, Bourbon shall be eternal.

With that, Louis exited the room and quickened his pace toward his destination: the quarters where the Angel was staying. He was going to meet the destiny that had been prepared for him.

***

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

Oitotan and I stared at each other. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. I looked at him, my voice ringing with a severe, mocking authority.

“A ‘weak’ prince, you said?”

“…I have nothing to say in my defense.”

“Is that all?”

“…”

“I was right, Oitotan. Now, honor the bet.”

Oitotan glared at me for a moment before sighing and slamming his hand onto the table. When his massive palm was lifted, it revealed several Japanese silver coins. I chuckled, scooped them up, and patted his shoulder.

“I’ll use these to buy Philip some snacks. And maybe a nice comb for Eleanor.”

“…Ugh.”

No one told you to bet the money you skimmed from the Joseon trade, Oitotan!

As we traded our petty banter, a guard stationed outside approached with a message.

The ‘weak’ prince had returned.