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.
Rachelle knew better. He must have decided he could make her into his personal weapon.
She stood. “I have a request,” she said loudly. “Arrest the Bishop for hiding fugitive bloodbound. D’Anjou and I found one last night, surrounded by rebels who tried to kill us.”
“And you think I aided them?” said the Bishop, infuriatingly calm.
“They were all madly devoted to you,” she said, but of course that wasn’t evidence.
She was suddenly, acutely aware of the silence as everyone in the room stared at her. None of them would believe her. People wanted the bloodbound to serve them or protect them, but they never, ever wanted to listen to them.
The Bishop gave her a pitying look. “I am sorry that they hurt you, my daughter. I would never want you harmed.” His voice was full of the gentle sorrow that made ladies weep into their handkerchiefs and then drop extra money into the collection plate. “That is why I want you to come with me: so you can be reconciled with God and find peace.”
“I’d rather confess to the devil,” said Rachelle.
“Enough,” said the King, sounding bored. “My dear bishop, I cannot give you Mademoiselle Brinon, because she is busy guarding my dearest son.” He looked at Rachelle. “Do you understand your orders?”
She understood them. She had no intention of following them. It would be difficult to hunt for Joyeuse while the King’s men were hunting her down for desertion. But she couldn’t afford to care about that now.
She would obey the King today. She would vanish tonight.
“As Your Majesty commands,” she said, bowing her head.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Rachelle’s heart was pounding in her ears. She was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered, muttering and laughing, but right now it didn’t matter any more than the smear of pain on her cheekbone where a punch had just landed.
Two paces away, Justine Leblanc showed her teeth. “Well?”
Now, thought Rachelle, and lunged forward into a kick exactly the same way she had the last three times. Justine dodged and blocked—as Rachelle changed direction, grabbed her shoulder, and took them both down.
The next few moments were a blur. Justine wasn’t the sort of fighter who gave up when she hit the ground; she wrenched, kicked, and slammed her elbows into Rachelle with methodical efficiency. There was no time for strategy, only instant, white-hot reactions—
And then Justine had her arm twisted back. Rachelle bucked and managed to wrench out of her grip, but as she broke free, her arm twisted out of its socket with a pop and a searing flash of pain. Rachelle gasped, barely choking off a cry.
Justine gasped too. She was always worried that she might be actually hurting Rachelle.
Grimly, Rachelle rolled onto her side and slammed a kick straight into Justine’s stomach. Then she collapsed onto her back.
For a few moments, neither of them moved. Rachelle’s shoulder throbbed with pain; her arm only tingled, but she couldn’t move it. She stared up at the golden fleurs-de-lis on the high ceiling of the sparring room and listened to the voices of the guards who had gathered to watch them fight. Normally she hated being a spectacle for anyone’s amusement.