Prologue

On a night in 1648, Cardinal Mazarin, Chancellor of France, favored minister and lover of the regent Queen Mother, hurried through the gloomy great arcades with a host of attendants at his back, his brow tightly furrowed. He passed half-abandoned halls, ruined corridors, and staircases spiraling up and down before arriving outside the King's apartments.

The Royal Guards in the guardroom immediately sprang up from their chairs and saluted him, nearly overturning the small table between them. It was piled with cards, brown Liards (copper coins), and silver Écus (silver coins)—it seemed these gentlemen had just been engaged in another kind of battle. But the Cardinal had no mind to quibble over their minor offense. "I must see His Majesty at once."

The captain of the Royal Guards immediately went to announce him. In less than a minute, Bontemps, the King's chief chamberlain, came to open the door for the Cardinal, clutching his nightcap. Mazarin waved a hand, leaving his attendants outside, and entered alone. Before the King could ask a question, he said, "We must leave at once, Your Majesty. It is no longer safe here."

"Have they finally come? Those rebels?" the King asked.

"Yes," Mazarin said. To his relief, the King—still only a child—leapt from his bed. He did not even waste time waiting for the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber to assist him, swiftly pulling on heavy breeches and a velvet coat himself.

When the keeper of his wardrobe brought him a cloak, Mazarin stopped him. A plain black greatcoat had been draped over the Cardinal's arm all along. He pressed it around the King's young shoulders, then used a hat adorned with an ordinary gray feather to conceal the King's pale golden curls, which stood out all too brightly in the night.

Once everything was in order, Mazarin reached out and took the King by the shoulder. The King had ascended the throne at five and was now only ten, but he was as strong as people expected him to be, surpassing children his age in every respect. Mazarin's arm rested over his shoulders with effortless ease, and the two hurried toward the door like a pair of close friends.

Crimson light shone through the small panes divided by black iron frames. It was not the first or final radiance cast upon mankind by the rising or setting sun, but the glow of torches and candles lit by people gathered in the courtyard. No fewer than ten four-wheeled carriages stood in the palace's square courtyard. They looked almost identical, each drawn by four horses of varying colors, giving no clue as to the status of those within. Yet Mazarin clearly recognized some signal. He led the King straight to one carriage, and the coachman immediately opened its door, revealing a beautiful woman in a black gown and a maidservant far too young for her station.

The instant she saw the King, she held out her hand. The King immediately took it. As he climbed into the carriage, he turned around. "Cardinal," he asked, "where is my brother, the Duke of Anjou?"

"He is with me," Mazarin replied.

The King paused. Then he realized that this measure was precisely to ensure that the royal bloodline would not be wiped out in the uprising. He said nothing more. The moment he entered the carriage, the coachman shut the door. Its wheels clattered, and some thirty Royal Guards in short coats and plain cloaks—instead of their usual uniform cloaks—wide-brimmed hats, and armed with longswords, sabers, and four muskets, spurred their horses into motion. Ten rode ahead while twenty flanked the carriage, following in a protective formation.

The other four-wheeled carriages raced out of the dark courtyard after them. Most carried foreign guests, important courtiers, and people Cardinal Mazarin believed needed protection. But however important they might have been, they could not compare to the two carriages among them. One carried the King and Queen Mother of France; the other carried the King's brother and the true ruler of the kingdom.

Soon, the carriages turned at a bend and entered a broad road thick with weeds. Crude forts had been built upon what ought to have been open ground. When they saw the carriages racing toward them, a group of rioters hiding behind the forts hurled stones and burning fireballs. The Royal Guards immediately gave them a taste of their own medicine. The men scattered at once, not even bothering with their wounded, who lay on the ground groaning without cease.

"Who are they?" the little maid beside the Queen Mother asked curiously as she peered outside through a gap in the carriage curtain.

"My people," the King said, a mocking smile at his lips. There were soldiers privately maintained by rebellious nobles and rioters bought with heavy coin, certainly—but there were even more ordinary citizens of Paris. Incited and deceived, they had taken to the streets against their Chancellor and King for nothing more than a few trifling gains. They neither loved their King nor were loyal to him, and now they even wished to harm him.

The King looked at the bold little maid. "You should not question the King before the King has spoken. Who are you?"

"Mali Mancini," the maid replied. "My uncle is Cardinal Mazarin."

The King nodded. There was nothing strange about that. Although Mancini did not sound French, nor did it sound like a noble surname, Mazarin's humble origins were already widely known. Still, he could not help wondering whether Mazarin doted greatly on this niece. After all, this was the first time he had seen Mazarin use the authority and trust granted him by the Queen Mother for such an insignificant person.

"You ought to review your etiquette properly, Miss Mancini," the King said.

Mali Mancini tried to retort, but in the next instant, a violent jolt strangled her voice in her throat.

The King immediately rose warily, pressing his side against the carriage wall as he looked outside. Paris in those days was nothing like the prosperous, peaceful capital it would become centuries later. Especially after several wars between Catholics and Puritans, the city was scarred everywhere. Wolves could be seen in its streets at night, while foxes and rabbits were everywhere in its graveyards. The roads, lacking repair and maintenance, were riddled with potholes like the skin of a leper.

Racing along such roads, the carriage was naturally like a small boat in a storm, pitching endlessly up and down. The Queen Mother watched her eldest son, her face pale. She had been a princess of Spain and then Queen of France. Though unloved by her husband, she had never endured such torment. "Your Majesty," she pleaded, "tell them to slow down."

"I am sorry," her son replied, gentle yet cruel. "I cannot."

He drew aside the carriage curtain, allowing everyone inside to see what lay outside—had they encountered some particularly troublesome rebels or mob, even the Queen Mother would not have been surprised. But what clung close behind them were tall, misshapen demons. They ran on all fours through thorny brush and woods, no slower than horses. Whenever the Royal Guards relaxed their vigilance even slightly, the beasts leapt upon them and dragged them from their mounts. Their final miserable screams were as piercing as needles. And though no one could hear it, they could imagine the wet smacking and crunching sounds of beasts chewing bone and flesh.