Red washed over my vision. I started forward before I could stop myself, halting only when another man rose across the chamber. As with the iron chalice, I recognized his face—grizzled beard, gaunt cheeks, stormy eyes—though it took me several seconds to place him.

“Was that necessary, huntsman?” His hard voice cut sharp through the din of the room. At once, every other voice fell silent. Every eye turned to him. His attention didn’t waver from Philippe, however. “If I’m not mistaken, this woman has been incapacitated with hemlock, per healers’ guidance. She poses no threat in her current condition. Surely such additional measures are cruel and unusual?” Though he posed the last as a question, no one mistook it as such. The censure in his tone rang clear.

And that was when I placed him—standing between pews, holding a pot of stew in his gnarled hands. Most in the Church wouldn’t welcome their own mother if she was a sinner.

Achille Altier.

Gone was the stooped, cantankerous old man from the graveyard parish, however. He’d combed and oiled his beard. Trimmed it neatly. His robes, too, shone resplendent even in the semidarkness. More so, he held himself differently—straighter, taller—and commanded the room with an ease I envied.

Philippe bristled, squaring his shoulders. Glancing around at the conclave’s hard, impassive faces. “It’s a witch, Father. Surely no precaution is too great.”

“Are you saying you know better than the priests in our infirmary?”

Philippe’s face paled. “I—”

“Now, now.” The man beside us rose to his feet as well, standing nearly as tall and broad as me. Despite his silver hair—thick and shining as a younger man’s—he radiated youth and vitality. Golden skin. Classic features. Some might’ve even considered him handsome. In his pale blue eyes, however, malice glittered. God had created him as Achille’s opposite in every way. “Let us not rush to condemn Chasseur Brisbois for protecting us against the Devil’s mistress, whose very power lay within her deceit.” He arched a thick brow. “Though I must rebuke the blood he spilled upon our podium.”

Philippe hastily bent his head. “My apologies, Father Gaspard.”

Father Gaspard. My mind quickly filled the gap. Father Gaspard Fosse. I recognized the name from my time spent north in Amandine. There, he’d cultivated the largest parish in the kingdom outside of Cesarine, creating a name for himself in the process. The Archbishop hadn’t cared for his ambition, his guile. His clever tongue. I’d adopted the Archbishop’s opinion at the time. I’d disliked Father Gaspard on principle. But now—having met the man myself—I realized the Archbishop had spoken truth. At least in this instance.

Father Gaspard wasn’t a holy man.