The herald moved with the grace of a dancer. He was as tall as de Rohan or de Vrailly, and he bowed deeply before the King, his right knee firmly on the floor. His hose were silk—the best hose in the room.

De Rohan entered from the King’s rooms, late, flustered, and moving quickly. Behind him came a dozen well-dressed men in silk and wool and fur, adding to the lustre about the King. A full half of them were Albans. The events of Holy Week had polarized opinion throughout the Brogat, Jarsay and the Albin, and many men—King’s men—had swallowed their dislike of the Galles in the face of violence. Every action by the re-born Jacks in the countryside recruited yeomen and knights for the King—and de Rohan.

De Rohan’s latecomers took a moment to settle, and were joined by a dozen priests and monks and the Archbishop of Lorica, also late.

The herald waited patiently, his face expressionless. His eyes never shifted from the King’s.

The King nodded to the herald.

He raised his staff. “Your grace, my lords and ladies of Alba, the Prince of Occitan sends his greetings,” he said. “My lord has come to settle any issue of accusation between the King of Alba and his wife, my sister, the Lady of Occitan.”

De Rohan did not even wait for the King to reply. “This is a matter affecting only the sovereignty of the Kingdom of Alba, and is, we regret—”

The herald quite clearly ignored him. He had a rich voice—he almost sung his words. “Upon arrival in this land, my master has had neither greeting nor guesting from his cousin the King of Alba. And upon approach, he has received threats—”

De Rohan opened his mouth and the King of Alba made a sudden movement. Even de Rohan had to be silent in the face of the King’s direct order.

“—and now discovers that the Queen of Alba, his sister, has been accused of witchcraft, of murder, of treason and of adultery,” the man’s beautiful voice went on. “Which accusations, my master finds abhorrent, and the more so as they are to be tried by combat, a barbaric practice antithetical to the teachings of the Holy Church—”

The archbishop shouted. His voice was a trifle high—he was young. “Absurd! Who is this boasting coxcomb to tell me what the Holy Church—”

Maître Gris leaned over to say something in his ear.

“Shut up!” he told his secretary, still too loud and too shrill.

“—but a convenient fiction to cover a crime,” the herald finished. He neither smiled nor frowned.

“You dare?” de Rohan said.

“My master demands the immediate release of the Queen into his custody. He is not interested in honeyed words and delay. Give him the Queen his sister tonight.”

“These are not the words of negotiation,” the King said wearily.