“It is an insult,” Jean says. His face is flushed red with anger. “Why does His Majesty not insist on your behalf? Why does he remain silent?”

She thinks back to their earlier conversation.

“The King and I may have had a small disagreement,” she says, and the faces of her squire, her pages blanch.

“It is still a good day. The best day.” She pets the heads of Raymond and Louis. “Neither the Archbishop nor his friend La Trémoille have any love for me, as you already know.

“But…” And she bends to speak on the same level as them. “We will have our own party tonight. Jean, go to the kitchens. The cooks and their assistants will be busy preparing for the feast, so no one will pay much attention as to who enters or leaves. And possibly they will not notice if a tray or two of pies go missing, some fresh fruit, a whole fish…”

Her pages watch as she pushes the central table against the wall. She lifts the chairs, stacking one on top of another.

“Now then…” She faces Raymond and Louis in the center of the room, transformed into an open space. “Show me what you have learned. And if you make me fall, I will give each of you a surprise. A present, and I promise it will be better than any tasty duckling or pig.”

Her pages look at each other. She beckons. “Come. Do not hold back. Pretend I am an English giant and you are two brave knights on a quest for your king.”

Their faces light up. They charge together, lunging at her ankles. Their fingers dig in, though it is like trying to claw your way into a mountain. Above their heads, she laughs.

“Are you tickling me or trying to fell me? Is this how I have taught you to fight? By tickling?”

They don’t give up. If she has taught them anything, it is to persevere when the odds are against you, and she has just given them an idea. They release her ankles. They jump on her, one in front, the other behind. They tickle her arms, her neck, her sides, and tug gently at her short hair, so she crumples, giggling, to her knees.

When Jean returns, he finds the three of them lying side by side on the floor.

“What is this?” he asks. “Have the English or Burgundians been here while I was gone? Or my lord La Trémoille sent another man to cut your throat?”

“You were not really trying,” Raymond complains. He sits up. “You wanted us to win.”

“I do not think you would want me to try,” she says mildly.

“It would be like snapping the necks of two very small birds,” Louis says, and he shows them with his boyish hands what he means.