Crimson Bound (18 page)

T
he next day, the King decided that he wanted to go hunting, and he must have
all
his favorite people with him, including his beloved son Armand. So they had to get up barely past dawn and join a seething crowd of people, horses, and dogs that spent most of the morning ranging through the grounds.

Rachelle hated every moment of it. The evening before, Erec had come to tease her and ask why she had needed to take a saint into a wine cellar, followed by a torrent of clever insinuations that she couldn’t even decipher, so all she could do was glare at him in silence. Afterward, once the hallways were dark and empty, she had dragged Armand out to explore the Château again. But they had no direction, so they wandered for hours without learning anything. When Armand started leaning against the wall and dozing off whenever she stopped to examine a room, she had to give up for the night.

Now she was trapped again, playing the court’s wearisome game. And she hated it.
She hated the sunlight pounding into her eyes. She hated the laughing, chattering nobles who thought the sunlight would last forever. She hated Erec, who kept smirking at her.

Most of all, she hated Armand, because she had really believed that his idea about the library and the wine cellar might work.

Worse: she couldn’t stop seeing him.

She was supposed to watch him. But now she kept noticing every detail: his embroidered cuffs shifting against his silver wrists. The sliver of pale throat visible above his collar. The peculiar way he planted himself when he stood, as if bracing for a heavy wind. Even sitting on a horse, his shoulders had the same stubborn set.

He still smiled at the lords and ladies who talked to him, but now there was something wry to the expression. Sometimes he would draw out a word a little longer or clip it off a little shorter than she had expected, as if a bit of his thoughts had bled through. As if his thoughts were something separate and lonely that had no place in the role he was playing.

At noon, there were pavilions and a baskets of food and jugs of wine. The day had grown hot, so it was a relief to sit down in the shade; Rachelle overheard several ladies complaining about the heat and then giggling as they loudly wished that there really
would
be an Endless Night.

La Fontaine drew Armand away to sit with her and the King, and Rachelle would have followed, but somebody grabbed her shoulder.

There was an instant where she nearly drew her sword. Then she turned, and there was Vincent Angevin.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I just wanted to meet you. Won’t you sit down with me?”

Everyone was sitting down around them. Rachelle supposed that the next hour was going to be horrible no matter what, so she sat down next to him on one of the rugs that the servants had thrown down.

“Tell me, is it very boring to guard my cousin all day long?” he asked.

“Not as boring as I’d like,” she said. “Especially with the assassins that keep attacking.”

Vincent didn’t seem the slightest bit disturbed by her remark. “Poor Armand,” he sighed. “Nobody ever liked him much. Except Raoul, who never could stop feeling sorry for the oddest people.”

“I don’t like
you
much,” said Rachelle, and instantly regretted being so blunt.

Vincent grinned. “You’re so pretty when you’re resentful,” he said, and pinched her cheek.

Nobody had pinched her cheek since she was ten. For one moment, she couldn’t believe it had happened, until the pair of ladies sitting nearby started giggling. Vincent’s eyes were crinkled up with laughter.

“If you could see your face,” he said, in a genial voice that invited all the world to laugh with him.

Rachelle gave him her most balefully blank look. “I’m a murderer. Do you really think you ought to upset me?”

“But that’s what makes it so
exciting
. Will she kiss me or will she kill me—I think every man secretly wants to play that game.”

But she couldn’t kill him, any more than she could have refused to accompany Armand on the hunt. She had to keep pretending she was a part of this court. She had to keep playing their game, and there was only one role for her.

The nearby ladies were giggling again, no doubt delighted that they got to watch Vincent Angevin make a conquest of a bloodbound.

Her face burned. She thought:
You murdered your own aunt. Do you really deserve dignity?

Then one of his hands dropped to rest on her thigh.

“Excuse me,” said Armand, “but I need Mademoiselle Brinon right now.”

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” Vincent started, but Armand was already sitting beside Rachelle.

“The sunlight has given me a terrible headache,” he said. “May I rest my head in your lap?”

It was such a bizarre request, it took Rachelle a moment to believe he had really said it. “Yes,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Armand, and in one fluid movement, he lowered his head into her lap and closed his eyes, as calmly as if there weren’t people staring and whispering.

Rachelle was caught in a kind of stupefied surprise, like the smudged colors that would hang in her vision after staring at a fire.

Vincent laughed nervously. “Of all the strange—” He reached toward her, but now Rachelle had an excuse to take action. She caught his wrist in a grip so tight he gasped.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you disturb him,” she said blandly. “Maybe we can talk later.”

“Of course,” said Vincent, sounding rather strangled. She released him and he
scrambled to his feet and stalked away.

“Is he gone?” Armand asked softly.

“Yes,” Rachelle muttered. “I didn’t need you to save me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. But some of the ladies wouldn’t stop talking about my marvelous virtue. I got a little tired of it.”

“So you needed a little defilement?” she asked.

“I needed,” he said flatly, “to be left alone.”

“You didn’t seem to mind their adoration before.”

He sighed, and his breath stirred against her face. “I suppose the heat is getting to me.”

“Do you need to take your hands off?” she asked, remembering the audience.

“No,” he said.

And then they were silent. Rachelle dared a look around; a few people were still staring, but most were chatting with each other now. La Fontaine leaned against the King and fed him grapes; a quartet of musicians played violins. Erec lounged against a nearby tree; when their eyes met, he raised his eyebrows. Her face burned, and she looked away.

She couldn’t look at Armand. But she couldn’t ignore his warm weight in her lap. She felt him shifting slightly as he breathed; it was as unnervingly comforting as when Amélie painted cosmetics on her face.

The song ended, and there was a smattering of polite applause. Then the King said to Erec, “You look bored, d’Anjou.”

“Do I, sire?” Erec asked languidly.

Armand sighed and sat up. He pushed a lock of hair out of his face, and Rachelle’s fingers twitched with the impulse to smooth it back for him.

“I confess I’m bored as well. Propose an amusement for us.” The King leaned his chin on his hand and surveyed the glittering crowd that waited on his every move.

Rachelle vaguely remembered Erec having once told her about the King’s penchant for demanding a courtier to decide on his next amusement. It was supposed to be a test of elegance and taste. At the time, she’d just been grateful that, unlike Erec, she’d never have to attend court herself.

“A duel,” Erec said promptly, and Rachelle’s stomach lurched.

“I have heard that I outlawed dueling,” said the King.

“As did your glorious father and grandfather,” said Erec. “But those were duels of
honor carried out to the death. I propose a duel to three strikes only, myself against Rachelle Brinon. Any blood that we shed, you have already sentenced to fall.”

Rachelle bolted to her feet. “Sire,” she said, and then stopped. She needed a clever retort, a way to turn his suggestion into a joke that nobody would dare to take seriously enough for the duel to go forward.

“Well?” The King raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not good enough to perform before you,” she said finally. That was at least flattering.

“She brawls often enough with the Bishop’s bloodbound, and bests her half the time,” said Erec.

“But—” said Rachelle.

“She’s just shy,” Erec went on. “We have a wager between us, you see, that the next time we fight, the loser must give the winner a kiss.”

And he winked at her.

Rachelle’s face heated.
That’s not true
, she wanted to yell, but she knew that protestations would only seem like proof, and Erec would just make her look even more ridiculous.

Armand was still sitting right behind her. She didn’t dare glance back at him.

“Really?” said the King. “How charming. Duel her, then, and may the best one of you enjoy the spoils of war.”

Rachelle bowed numbly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

A minute later, they had cleared a wide space in the lawn and Rachelle stood a pace apart from Erec, her sword drawn.

“Why did you have to lie to him?” she hissed.

“But, my lady, how can you object? Surely either way, the victory is yours.”

“I hate you,” she muttered, and knew instantly that it was the wrong thing to say, because his eyes crinkled with suppressed laughter.

“Excellent.” He smacked her shoulder lightly. “Then you’ll fight better and have the delight of disgracing me before the King.”

He knew she wouldn’t. He knew she had never been as good at sword fighting as he was. Her brawling with Justine had been just that—wild, enthusiastic violence for the sheer satisfaction of throwing each other across the room.

Erec had all the precision and control she had always lacked. When he fought a duel, he was perfectly capable of slicing off his opponent’s buttons one by one,
accompanying each swipe of his sword with a witty remark. He wouldn’t hurt her, but he would cheerfully slice her dignity to pieces and make the court laugh at her.

And she would have to pretend to laugh along with them, or only look more ridiculous.

They saluted each other, took two steps away, and turned back. They lowered their swords until they barely touched, halfway down the blade.

You can fight him
, Rachelle thought,
if you stay calm. He’s counting on you to get angry.

The rustle and mutter of the crowd faded away. Erec filled up her world: his narrowed eyes, the glint of his sword, the way he leaned his weight just slightly to the left.

“Now,” said the King, though Rachelle only realized she had heard the word a moment later, so absorbed she had been in watching Erec and trying to gauge how he would strike.

When he moved, it was barely more than a twitch of his sword. Rachelle parried too hard, and left herself wide open for the tip of his sword to slap against her chest.

“First point,” he said.

He wants me angry
, Rachelle thought, circling him.
He wants me angry so I’ll make mistakes.

She tried to keep calm. But he kept attacking her in swift little flurries that would just barely miss scoring points against her, not because she was blocking them correctly—she could never quite do it right—but because he had the control to stop his sword or turn it aside just a moment before it hit her.

He was patronizing her. And anyone who knew anything about sword fighting could see it.

“Come, d’Anjou,” said the King jovially. “You’re not giving us much of a show.”

“Do you hear that, my lady?” said Erec. “Our King demands amusement.” His voice had a wry slant of
you and I know this is stupid.
Having picked a fight and made her look a fool, he was now offering a truce.

“Fine,” said Rachelle, and kicked him in the face.

Though he dodged at the last moment, it sent him staggering backward in a way that should have been satisfying. But he only laughed, somehow making it sound like she had done it to please him, and he approved.

Then he attacked. The next few moments were a whirl of dodges, lunges, kicks, and leaps. They were indeed putting on a show: nobody but bloodbound could have
maintained this kind of speed for so long, let alone dodged each other’s blades without being sliced to ribbons. Rachelle knew this, and she knew she was fighting better than she ever had against Justine.

She still wasn’t fighting well enough. Erec scored a second point against her—this time a quick tap to her arm—and then redoubled his attack. Rachelle tried to match him, and she was fighting better than she ever had in her life, but no matter how fast she moved, he was faster, dancing at the edge of her reach and laughing at her with his eyes.

Laughing. Because he knew he was going to win, and this duel was going to last precisely as long as he wanted it to.

A cold pressure pounded inside her temples. Icy sweetness shivered down her veins. The Great Forest was in her blood and it wanted her
now.

With a numb, dazed panic, she realized that she wanted it too. She couldn’t want it, and she was trying so hard to resist that she stumbled, and suddenly the tip of Erec’s sword was hovering an inch away from her face, mocking her because Erec could use the power of the Forest to make himself perfect and she never could.

If she couldn’t win, she might at least decide when the duel ended. With a snarl, she lunged toward Erec, dropping to her knees at the last second to skid under his blade and stab upward.

He caught the blade with his bare hand. Blood leaked out between his fingers, but he grinned.

“I dub thee,” he said, “the lady of my heart.” And he tapped his sword to her shoulder, taking the final point and winning the match.

Rachelle stared blankly at the ground. Her heart was still pounding from the fight; tears and fury clogged her throat. Around her, she could now hear applause, laughter, and muttering as everyone admired him.

His finger tilted up her chin. “Don’t forget our wager,” he said.

Despite the duel, he wasn’t breathing hard at all; there was barely a drop of sweat on him.