By Katherine Perry
“The king is dead!”
Thunderous roaring from the crowd called for the king’s head, deafening me and chilling me to the bone. Only one thing had satisfied them: the king’s blood. My blood.
Did my people really loathe me that much?
If they thought the king was dead… A sickening knot formed in my stomach.
My twin brother must have met his fate at the guillotine.
Bile rose in my throat. By God’s mercy, the crowd blocked my view of the platform and my brother. I could not bear to picture his detached head and the blood-splattered blade that stole him from me. That should have been me.
Why were the revolutionaries’ cries so joyous? What had I done wrong during my reign to heap this ruin upon me? I knew the people were angry about the wars I had started against an enemy king that only worsened the economy. People also now believed they had natural rights to freedom and equality that disregarded a monarch. Still, that did not mean I deserved such a death, and my brother certainly had done nothing to warrant it.
My poor brother—the younger twin. When the revolutionaries stormed the palace, they had swarmed him. Their ear-splitting shouts had muffled his claim that he was not the king.
And amongst the chaos, I had abandoned him. I had fled like a coward.
Perhaps I deserved to die after all.
If I did not flee Frusais, death might find me soon enough.
A chill crept over me as I stood in the back of the crowd, clenching my ragged wool coat tighter around my neck. I had stolen it from one of my servants before I fled the palace. When someone standing near me glanced over his shoulder, I shifted closer to the throng in hopes of blending in.
I should be running toward the border right now. But after abandoning my brother, I owed it to him to be there at his end—even if he would never know. Besides, with revolutionaries everywhere, escaping was risky. If I wanted to make it out of the country alive, I had to be cautious.
When I turned to leave, a loud wail sounded to my left. Flinching, I instinctively made sure no one had recognized me. I mounted a wooden crate for a better view, expecting to see someone else being led to the guillotine. The platform was vacant except for the executioners who scanned the crowd, searching for the owner of the noise.
A woman—disguised as a servant like me—emerged from the crowd and stepped onto the platform. My knees went weak as my brother’s wife stood before the people. Her face was red, from anger or grief, I did not know. I ducked my head, stepped off the crate, and hid behind a tall, bulky man to block myself from her view. I was not with her when she had fled the palace, and I would have been more relieved to know she had escaped if she were not the one person in this crowd who knew the truth. The true king had escaped death.
My hands shook. What was she doing before the revolutionaries who could execute her as swiftly as they had her husband? Now was the time to be hiding and making a break for Frusais’s border. Not revealing our royal identity to a bloodthirsty mob.
“You’ve executed the wrong man!” she shouted. There was a crack in her voice, but the anger burned through.
Whatever she was about to say next had the power to determine my fate.
Would making a run for it now draw too much attention?
“Explain yourself!” a revolutionary shouted.
More cries arose, but she bellowed louder. “The man you executed is the king’s twin brother. The king still lives!”
The angry shouts grew louder, if that was even possible. It was enough to tell me that I was too close to my own death and had stalled long enough.
“We must find the king and kill him!” another revolutionary hollered.
While the crowd roared in agreement, I crept away until I could slip behind a brick building, hopefully blending in with the outliers in the crowd.
Behind me, my sister-in-law shouted, “He’s over there! Get him!”
Cursing under my breath, I darted down the street as the crowd rushed after me with muskets and pikes. Was it not bad enough that my brother was executed? Did my sister-in-law crave vengeance so much to send me to the same fate?
My heart pounded, and sweat accumulated on my forehead. The mob closed the distance between us. I tried to shout, “I am only a servant! I am only a servant!” but they would not listen. Rounding a corner, I tripped over a stone. As I scrambled to my feet, the revolutionaries behind me grabbed my arms. When I tried to yank myself out of their grasp, they tightened their hold.
I was surrounded. There was no escape.
They dragged me to the guillotine, and I could run from my fate no longer. This was the end.
As I gazed at the blood-stained blade in the sky, I stumbled on the steps, and they thrust me onto the scaffold. I faced the crowd, sweat dripping down my temples and my breath catching up to me. “My people, I die innocent, and it anguishes me what Frusais—” But the moment I began speaking, the guards standing near me beat their drums in unison, drowning out my final speech. I was bound to the plank, my hair at the nape of my neck was cut off, and I was shoved into the guillotine.
The executioner reached for the rope that would bring the blade down. The revolution and guillotine took my kingdom and would now take me.
Long live the king.
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