The Archbishop hesitated before striding into the gray water. He glanced back at the heathen, the first hint of uncertainty on his face. As if unsure she would follow. Please change your mind, I prayed. Please forget this madness and send her to prison where she belongs.
But then I would lose my Balisarda. My life. My vows. My purpose.
A small, ugly voice at the back of my mind scoffed. He could pardon you, if he wanted. No one would question his judgment. You could remain a Chasseur without marrying a criminal.
So why didn’t he?
Chagrin washed through me at the very thought. Of course he couldn’t pardon me. The people believed I’d accosted her. It didn’t matter I hadn’t. They thought I had. Even if the Archbishop explained—even if she confessed—people would still whisper. They would doubt. They would question the Chasseurs’ integrity. Worse still—they might question the Archbishop himself. His motivations.
We’d already ensnared ourselves in the lie. The people believed she was my wife. If word spread otherwise, the Archbishop would be branded a liar. That couldn’t happen.
Like it or not, this heathen would become my wife.
She stomped out after the Archbishop as if to reaffirm the fact. He scowled, wiping away the flecks of water she splashed on his face.
“What an interesting turn of events.” Jean Luc’s eyes danced with laughter as he watched the heathen. She appeared to be arguing with the Archbishop about something. Of course she was.
“She . . . tricked me.” The confession stung.
When I didn’t elaborate, he turned to look at me. The laughter in his eyes dimmed. “What about Célie?”
I forced the words out, hating myself for them. “Célie knew we wouldn’t marry.”
I hadn’t told him about her rejection. I hadn’t been able to stomach his ridicule. Or worse—his pity. He’d asked once, after Filippa’s death, about my intentions with her. Shame burned in my gut. I’d lied through my teeth, telling him my vows meant too much. Telling him I’d never marry.
Yet here I was.
He pursed his lips, regarding me shrewdly. “Still, I’m . . . sorry.” He stared out at the heathen, who had pointed a broken finger at the Archbishop’s nose. “Marriage to such a creature will not be easy.”
“Is marriage ever easy?”
“Perhaps not, but she seems particularly intolerable.” He flashed me a halfhearted grin. “I suppose she has to move into the Tower, doesn’t she?”
I couldn’t bring myself to return his smile. “Yes.”
He sighed. “Pity.”
We watched in silence as the Archbishop’s face grew steadily stonier. As he finally lost patience and jerked her toward him by the nape of her neck. As he threw her underwater and held her there a second too long.
I didn’t blame him. Her soul would take longer to cleanse than a normal person’s.
Two seconds too long.
The Archbishop appeared to be at war with himself. His body shook with the effort of keeping her under, and his eyes were wide—crazed. Surely he wasn’t going to—？
Three seconds too long.
I plunged into the water. Jean Luc crashed after me. We threw ourselves forward, but our panic was unfounded. The Archbishop released her just as we reached them, and she sprang out of the water like an angry, hissing cat. Water cascaded down her hair and face and dress. I reached out to steady her, but she shoved me away. I yielded a step as she whirled, spluttering, toward the Archbishop.
“Fils de pute!” Before I could move to stop her, she dove at him. His eyes flew open as he lost his footing and tumbled backward into the water, limbs flailing. Jean Luc rushed to help him. I seized her, pinning her arms to her sides before she could tackle him back into the water.
She didn’t seem to notice.
“Connard! Salaud!” She thrashed in my arms, kicking water everywhere. “I’m going to kill you! I’m going to rip those robes off your shoulders and strangle you with them, you misshapen, foul-smelling piece of shit—”
All three of us gaped at her—eyes wide, mouths open. The Archbishop recovered first. His face purpled and a strangled sound escaped his throat. “How dare you speak to me so?” He jerked away from Jean Luc, waving a finger in her face. I realized his mistake a split second before she lunged. Tightening my grip, I managed to haul her away before she could sink her teeth into his knuckle.
I was about to marry a wild animal.
“Let—me—go—” Her elbow sank deep into my stomach.