Ser Gabriel said nothing. After a pause, he said, “As soon as the tournament is over, I’ll return to Morea. I promise you that if you call, the Emperor will send a force. I will probably not accompany it.”

“Damn. Damn and damn. Can you tell me why the duchess hates the king?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, Ser John.” He paused. “It’s not my story to tell.” He shook his head. “But she will not change her mind.”

Dinner in the great hall was a desperate affair. Sister Amicia sat silently, and her eyes never touched Ser Gabriel’s. The Duchess of Westwall alternated between crass and arch, and neither note struck home on her target, her son, who sat as isolated as a priest might be by an altar screen, alone with his thoughts. Ser John tried, and failed, to create a conversation. His efforts made it as far as the venison pie and then died, and the rest of the dinner passed in silence, punctuated by the duchess’s pro forma flirting with the now receptive Lord Wayland and her wilful ignoring of the Keeper’s son.

A pair of messengers arrived, both from Ser Ricar. Ser John went out to hear them, and the dinner broke up.

Gabriel watched Amicia for any sign he might speak to her. She chatted with the Drover as if she had no other need for company, and then she sat and played chess with her friend, the bishop.

His mother watched him with an intensity equal to the chess players.

Finally, Gabriel went to his room.

His leg hurt, and he hated everyone.

In the midst of undressing, he put a hand on Toby’s arm, and the young man mostly fought the urge to flinch.

“I’m sorry, Toby,” he said.

Toby flushed. And said nothing.

Morning—a cold, wet day that didn’t so much promise spring as hint vaguely at it. The rain seemed colder than snow, and the air was wet, and the wind bit through a wool cloak.

The Duke of Thrake rose early. He appeared in the great hall wearing a miniver riding gown that was worth a fortune—white wool embroidered in his arms on the outside and three hundred matched squirrel skins on the inside. He wore it over his harness.

Ser John’s squire, young Jamie, a Hoek boy, intercepted him. “Your grace,” he said with a bow. “The Captain of Albinkirk requests that you attend him. There is news.”

The Red Knight’s anger had leached away in a good night’s sleep and left him only throbbing pain and a nagging sense of loss. He bowed in return. “Lead me,” he said. He turned to Ser Michael. “Making my farewells won’t be quick. You might as well grab a sausage in the kitchen.”

Michael nodded, collected the Drover’s son, who wore his regalia over his harness, and found a side table covered in dishes.