He laughed low in his throat. “You know too well I can’t resist a challenge. Very well, lady, he’s yours for now and I’ll make your excuses to the King. But you must let me win you back tonight.”
As he said the last words, he shifted, leaning into her, and Rachelle felt her opening. She slumped forward, one arm digging into him, one hand grasping his coat, and a moment later she had thrown him over her shoulder onto the ground.
“Maybe I’ll win you,” she said, and grinned, because she knew that he hadn’t let her throw him; she had genuinely surprised him.
Erec rolled to his feet lightly and gracefully, but there was a sulky set to his mouth. He never liked being taken by surprise. Rachelle couldn’t ever remember being the one who made him look ridiculous. It felt wonderful.
It suddenly occurred to her that in this situation, Armand would have laughed instead of sulking.
“Well?” she said.
“Would that I had time to spar with you properly,” he sighed. “This way.” He looked her up and down. “Actually, I’ll bring him to you. Unless you’re planning to dazzle the crowd into submission, you might want to change.”
So Rachelle bolted for her room. “Faster, faster,” she muttered over and over, as Sévigné undid buttons and pulled out the laces from the corset.
Finally she was free of her clothes, and in moments was pulling on her hunting gear. “Braid my hair,” she said as she buttoned up her shirt, and Sévigné obeyed. A minute later, she was pulling on her coat. She took a wild glance in the mirror: the makeup was all still on her face, pearl powder, rouge, and burned clove to fill out her eyebrows, which looked bizarre with her patched-up red coat and slightly threadbare trousers, but it would have to do. There was no time, because even now Erec was knocking at the door.
“Here you are,” said Erec, shoving Armand into the room. “When you’re done, be sure to put him back where you found him. Monsieur, obey her and mind that you remember our talk.”
“Thank you,” Rachelle said numbly. Armand wasn’t looking at her; he was very pale and staring at the floor. She felt invisible. She wished she were invisible, so she’d never have to meet his eyes. She’d spent the whole day hunting through the Chateau for Joyeuse just so she could avoid speaking to him again.
Erec grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her quickly but fiercely. Rachelle couldn’t stop being aware that Armand was just a step away from them.
Then Erec released her. “Until tonight,” he said, and was gone.
Rachelle swallowed the desire to hide and weep, and she turned to Armand instead. “Listen,” she said. “I know what you think of me. And you know what I think of you. But right now, there’s a crowd outside the palace, and since the King doesn’t intend to acknowledge their existence, they’re probably going to riot, and you know how that will end. So you’re going to go down there and talk to them.”
“And say what?” he asked slowly after a moment.
“I don’t know, something saintly. Something to make them go home so that they don’t get shot. You’re supposed to care about that, aren’t you?”
“Back to thinking I’m a saint?” he asked, and there was a slight mocking edge to the words.
“I don’t care if you’re God or the devil,” said Rachelle. “I want that crowd gone. Quietly. You are going to make that happen, without calling for rebellion, or I will cut your throat in front of them and damn the consequences. Do you understand?”
He stared at her a moment longer. “Right,” he said, nodding sharply. “Which way?”
Rachelle didn’t know, but that had never stopped her. “We’ll find out,” she said, and pushed past him to stride down the hallway.
The commotion was building inside the palace; they ran into another guard soon enough. Rachelle simply marched up to him and said grandly, “Take us to the crowd. Orders of the King.”
“Of course,” the guard said, bowing quickly. “Glad the old man decided to do something,” he muttered.
“How many are there?” asked Armand as they walked quickly through the hallways.
“A hundred? Two hundred?” The guard shrugged. “They’re holding them, but any moment—they say if they start to riot—” His voice wavered and he stopped talking. He was young, Rachelle realized, barely older than her and Armand. He had probably not been an active member of the guard five years ago. He must have heard stories about the massacre—and what kind of stories did the guards tell, she wondered? Was it a matter of shame and horror to them, or did they consider the guards to have defended themselves and the King? Nobody had even been flogged for it; there had been outrage over that too.
The crowd was gathered on the south side of the building, swarming along a side road and spilling over into one of the orange groves. The lawn nearest the palace was still clear, held by a line of blue-coated soldiers holding muskets.