The mist outside Nantes was thick, smelling of salt and wet earth.
I couldn't be there. My body had failed me. I was lying in a bed in the Tuileries, staring at the ceiling, waiting for a messenger to tell me if my family had survived destroying itself.
But in my mind, I saw the battlefield through the eyes of the reports.
Napoleon stood on a low ridge, looking through his telescope. Beside him, on a pony that looked ridiculous next to the warhorses, sat Louis-Charles.
The boy sat straight, his small face impassive. He wore his blue uniform. He held the reins with gloved hands.
Below them, the Republican army was dug into trenches. Five thousand men. Tired. Wet. Scared.
They gripped their muskets with white knuckles. They weren't looking for enemy soldiers. They were looking for ghosts.
"Steady!" a sergeant shouted down the line. "It's just peasants! Flesh and bone!"
But the men knew better. They had heard the stories.
They heard that bullets passed through Her. They heard that the Virgin Mary rode beside Her.
From the fog, a sound emerged.
Not drums. Not bugles.
Singing.
Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae...
Thousands of voices. Deep, resonant, terrifying.
The mist swirled. Shapes appeared.
First, the priests. Rows of them in black cassocks, swinging heavy brass censers. The smoke of frankincense mixed with the river fog.
Then, the peasants. Men with scythes, pitchforks, and old hunting muskets. They wore white cockades pinned to their hats. They marched in rhythm to the hymn.
And in the center... Her.
Marie Antoinette.
She rode a massive white stallion. She wore a simple white dress, but over it gleamed a polished steel breastplate. Her hair, once powdered and curled, hung loose and gray around her shoulders like a storm cloud.
She held no sword. In her right hand, she gripped a large wooden cross.
She looked ancient. She looked terrifying. She looked like Judgment Day.
"Hold your fire!" Napoleon ordered, waiting for the range. "Wait until you see the whites of their eyes!"
But the soldiers were trembling.
One man dropped his musket. He fell to his knees.
"It's Her," he sobbed. "It's the Mother."
"Get up!" the sergeant kicked him. "Stand and fight!"
"I can't shoot the Virgin!"
The panic spread like a virus. More men lowered their guns. Some crossed themselves.
The singing got louder. The Rebel army didn't charge. They walked. Slow. Inevitable.
Marie Antoinette stopped her horse three hundred yards from the line.
The singing stopped.
Silence hung heavy over the field.
"Children of France!" Her voice rang out. It wasn't the soft, accented voice of the court. It was a command.
"Put down your weapons! I do not come to kill you! I come to save your souls!"
She raised the cross.
"The Republic is a lie! The King is a prisoner of the Devil! Come back to God! Come back to your Mother!"
A ripple went through the Republican ranks. A whole company on the left flank threw down their weapons. They started walking toward her, hands raised in surrender.
"They're breaking," Napoleon hissed.
He drew his pistol. He rode toward the defectors.
"Get back in line!" Napoleon screamed. "I'll shoot the first man who takes another step!"
He aimed at a sergeant.
"Don't do it, Captain," a small voice said.
Napoleon froze.
Louis-Charles rode his pony forward. He trotted past Napoleon. He rode out into the no-man's-land between the armies.
The Republican soldiers stared.
The Boy King. The Son.
He looked so small against the gray sky.
He stopped his pony fifty yards from his mother.
Marie saw him.
Her face crumbled. The mask of the Saint fell away. The mother broke through.
"Louis?" she cried. Her voice cracked. "My baby!"
She dropped the cross. She spurred her horse forward.
"Come to Mama! Come away from them!"
She rode toward him, arms open, tears streaming down her face. Behind her, the peasant army cheered. They thought it was a reunion. They thought the miracle had happened.
Louis-Charles didn't move.
He watched her come. He watched the woman who used to sing him lullabies. The woman who smelled of roses and powder.
He looked at Napoleon, who was watching him with intense, predatory focus.
He remembered the lessons.
Princes die. Soldiers survive.
The Army is the State.
Traitors must be liquidated.
He looked back at his mother. She was close now. He could see the hope in her eyes.
Louis-Charles turned his head to the right. He looked at the artillery commander standing by the 12-pounder cannon.
"Commander," the boy said. His voice was high, but it didn't tremble.
"Sire?" the commander asked, confused.
"Target the rider in white," Louis-Charles said.
The commander paled. "The... the Queen, Sire?"
"She is a traitor leading an enemy force," the boy said. "Target her."
"I... I can't..."
"That is a direct order!" Louis-Charles screamed. It was a sound of pure, terrified authority. "FIRE!"
The commander looked at the boy. He looked at the oncoming rider. He looked at Napoleon, whose hand was on his sword.
Fear won.
The commander lit the fuse.
The cannon roared. A blast of fire and smoke erupted from the barrel.
I wasn't there. I didn't see it.
But the reports said the ball didn't miss.
It hit the white stallion in the chest.
The horse exploded in a spray of red mist and bone. It went down, crushing the rider beneath it.
Marie Antoinette disappeared into the mud.
The silence that followed was absolute.
The peasant army froze. Their Saint had fallen. Their miracle had been murdered by a child.
Louis-Charles didn't look away. He watched the dust settle. He watched the red stain spreading in the grass.
He turned his pony around. He rode back to the lines.
He passed the weeping soldiers. He passed the stunned Napoleon.
He didn't cry. He didn't look back.
"The target is neutralized," the boy said. "Advance the line."
Napoleon stared at him. For the first time in his life, the Captain looked afraid.
He raised his sword.
"Charge!"
The Republican army, shocked out of their trance by the violence, surged forward. The spell was broken. They weren't fighting a Saint anymore. They were fighting a dead woman's army.
They slaughtered the rebels. It was a massacre.
Two days later, the report reached me in Paris.
Jean read it to me. He stood by my bed, his voice shaking.
"The rebel army is scattered. General Kléber is mopping up the survivors. The landing at Nantes has been aborted."
"And the Queen?" I whispered.
"She... she survived the impact, Sire," Jean said. "But she was crushed. Her legs... her ribs..."
"Is she alive?"
"She is in the hospital tent," Jean said. "She is asking for you."
I closed my eyes.
My son had ordered the shot. My wife was broken. My kingdom was secure.
I tried to sit up. The pain in my chest was gone, replaced by a cold numbness.
"Prepare the carriage," I said. "I have to go to her."
"Sire, the doctors say—"
"I don't care about the doctors!" I shouted, swinging my legs out of bed. "My wife is dying in a muddy field because I taught our son to be a killer! I am going to her!"
I stood up. I swayed.
Danton caught me.
"Easy, Louis," Danton said gently.
"Get the carriage," I said.
I walked out of the room. I walked down the hall where my son had learned to march.
I had saved the Revolution. I had saved the Crown.
But I had damned us all.
I rode to Nantes. It took three days.
I arrived at the camp at sunset.
Napoleon met me. He wouldn't look me in the eye.
"Where is he?" I asked.
"In his tent," Napoleon said. "He hasn't spoken since the battle. He sits and cleans his sword."
"And her?"
Napoleon pointed to a small tent near the river.
"She doesn't have long, Sire."
I walked to the tent. I pulled back the flap.
It smelled of antiseptic and death.
Marie lay on a cot. She was covered in a sheet. Her face was pale, translucent. Her breathing was shallow, a rattle in her throat.
She opened her eyes when I entered.
They were cloudy. But she knew me.
"Louis," she whispered.
I fell to my knees beside the cot. I took her hand. It was cold.
"I'm here," I choked out. "I'm here, Marie."
"He shot me," she said. Her voice was full of wonder. "My baby... he shot me."
"It wasn't him," I sobbed. "It was me. I did this. I made him this way."
"No," she whispered. "He chose."
She squeezed my hand weakly.
"You won, Louis. You kept the crown."
"I don't want it," I said. "Not without you."
"You have it," she said. "And you have him. The monster."
She looked at the ceiling of the tent.
"I'm cold," she said.
"I'm here," I said, rubbing her hand. "I'm here."
"I want to go home," she whispered. "To Trianon. To the garden."
"We'll go," I promised. "We'll go tomorrow."
She smiled. A faint, ghostly smile.
"Liar," she said softly.
Her eyes closed. Her chest rose, then fell.
And didn't rise again.
I stayed there for a long time. Holding her hand until it turned to ice.
I had won the game. I had beaten the history books. I had saved my neck.
But as I looked at her still face, I realized the price of the ticket.
I stood up. I walked out of the tent.
Louis-Charles was standing outside. He was holding his sword.
He looked at me. He looked at the tent.
"Is the traitor dead?" he asked.
I looked at my son.
I raised my hand. And I slapped him. Hard.
He stumbled back, holding his cheek. He looked at me with shock.
"She was your mother!" I screamed. "She was your mother!"
The boy stared at me. His eyes didn't fill with tears. They filled with hate.
"She was an enemy of the State," he said.
He turned and walked away.
I stood alone in the mud.
I was the King of France. And I was the poorest man on earth.