Snippet #1514194

The Bouclier were a group of warriors that resembled other beauties adorning the château. We were youth… all of us. Young men and woman with pleasant dispositions, for Marie-Antoinette would have nothing less. And not all of us were born with titles. Such a revelation would have been scandalous. The Queen would have been seen as treasonous and untrustworthy, having those not of noble stature in her presence, those who were unknown. She was accused of everything, the Queen, from sucking the national budget dry, to mocking the court, to ridiculous love affairs.

Lies.

Protect. Merely protect. Nobody ever found out about the Ordre du Bouclier, though rumours and legendary stories abounded. Years later, when the Petit Trianon was ransacked and all its glory demolished, the underground room was maintained.

Maintained, filled with faded dreams of France in all its glory.

In the court of the Shield, we kept many secret documents, many that could both build and fell the French Empire. We would not kill for money, for jewels, for power, for the Queen would have none of that. We were to protect. We were the Order of the Shield, not the sword. We fought the one war, it seemed, that we had been born for. When the Bastille fell, on July 14, along with it fell the régiment ancien.

“It is a revolt,” said the King, when informed.
“Nay, sir, it is a revolution,” replied his minister.

But for now, when all the splendours of Versailles were at the Bouclier’s disposal, we contented ourselves with our positions. Yet a part of our heart was always reserved for the Queen. We were young, we were wealthy, we danced in the moonlight and sipped from silver goblets. And in the hours between midnight and the dawn, we would protect the Queen.

Our time was fast dissolving, but this?

This is our story.