“Did she really save you?” asked King August-Philippe.
“Yes,” said the young man. “Defeated three armed men, tied them up in their own belts, and gave me a knife. It was most impressive.”
“I see,” said the King, and looked at Rachelle. “Then perhaps you are not so tardy after all.”
“Sire?” Rachelle said cautiously. Erec looked like he was about to burst into laughter; whatever was going on, it couldn’t be good.
The King dropped a hand onto the young man’s head and fixed his gaze on the crowd. “This is Armand Vareilles, my esteemed son,” he said, in a quiet voice that nevertheless carried throughout the room.
It can’t be, she thought in horror, staring at Armand’s gloved hands—but of course, that would explain Erec’s near laughter.
Rachelle didn’t keep up with the court, and yet even she knew who Armand Vareilles was. He had been nothing six months ago, but now everyone in Gévaudan knew about him: how he was the King’s illegitimate son, raised in the countryside after his mother’s political disgrace. How last winter, a forestborn had marked him. How he had refused to kill, and the mark remained black on his skin, yet he was alive to this day.
How, in a fury, the forestborn had cut off his hands.
It was a lie, of course. The forestborn did not forget to claim people; if they marked somebody, they would have him or see him dead. Armand Vareilles was nothing but a clever liar who had lost his hands in some accident, then tattooed himself with a false mark and made his fortune by having people pity him.
But most of the common people were convinced. They called him a saint, a living martyr. They painted white fleurs-de-lis on their houses in memory of his purity; they called for the destruction of the King’s bloodbound in his name. For if he could resist the forestborn and live, what excuse did the rest of the bloodbound have?
And not just the common people loved him. Some of the nobility were besotted with him as well. So even though Armand Vareilles had become a symbol of those who muttered against him, the King had to keep him in luxurious style. He’d even commissioned false hands made of silver for him. That was why she had never seen his gloved hands move.
“In three days,” the King went on, “he will accompany me back to Chateau de Lune with the rest of the court. In recognition of his rank, and the heroism he has so lately shown, and on account of the malicious unrest in the kingdom, I grant him one of my own bloodbound, Rachelle Brinon, to be his bodyguard.”
“What?” said Rachelle, so surprised that she didn’t care if everyone heard the outrage in her voice.
She had to find Joyeuse. Failing that, she had to protect as many people as she could until her forestborn returned and she had a chance to kill him. She didn’t want to spend her last days guarding a fake saint while smothered in the elegance of Chateau de Lune, where ancient spells ensured that no woodspawn ever came.
But if she deserted now, there was no way to keep from instantly becoming a fugitive.
Armand’s mouth was flat as his gaze flickered from her to Erec and back again; then abruptly his mouth crooked up and he leaned toward her. “Not too late to use that knife,” he murmured.
Rachelle glowered at him, but before she could respond, there was another muffled commotion. She looked up to see someone striding through the crowd, and her whole body tensed in revulsion.
It was Bishop Guillaume.
He was a tall, colorless man with a wispy pale beard, a mouth shriveled into a permanent frown, and beady black eyes. On his chest glinted a huge silver pendant in the shape of the Dayspring’s right hand, rubies inlaid to represent the bloody stump. On anyone else it would have been a symbol of faith, but Rachelle had always thought that on him it looked like a trophy from battle.
“Good morning,” said the King. “Come with your usual request? I regret to say there are still no new bloodbound whom I could assign to you.”
As soon as Bishop Guillaume had arrived in Rocamadour, he had started proclaiming that since the King had no power to forgive sins, the bloodbound should not be in his care. Instead, all repentant deadly warriors should be put under the Bishop’s personal command for the good of their souls.
“No,” said the Bishop in his deep, silky voice. He would have been laughed out of the city as a fanatic long ago if he didn’t make words sound so lovely. “I have come with a different request. Release Mademoiselle Brinon into my care.”
For a moment Rachelle couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. The Bishop had never paid her any notice beyond sneering at her as he did at all the other bloodbound.
People whispered as they stared at her and the Bishop. Probably they were marveling at how he had graciously condescended to be concerned with her soul.