The herald took a glove from his belt. “If my master’s most reasonable demand is not satisfied,” he said. “This glove will guide his next action.”

“Are you threatening war?” de Vrailly asked. “You cannot be serious.”

“We will not release the Queen, who is a criminal and a witch,” de Rohan said. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

The King looked at de Rohan and rose to his feet. “Master Herald, I need a moment to confer with my officers of state. Please be kind enough to—to wait.”

The herald bowed.

At the King’s rising, everyone had bowed. Now they formed a corridor, and he walked down it, from his throne’s dais, off to the right, and through the great oak doors to his tower and the royal apartments.

The archbishop caught de Vrailly’s arm. “You must stay here and watch this so-called herald.”

De Vrailly looked at the archbishop. “You think…?”

The archbishop frowned. “I merely guess that he, too, is a sorcerer. Watch him.”

The archbishop hurried away, leaving de Vrailly poised in a rare moment of indecision. But he did not think that the King faced any threat from his cousin, and he had just been threatened with war by the King of Occitan. A thought that made him smile with something like glee.

He turned, his armour clacking softly, and went to stand in front of the throne, his sword drawn.

In the King’s inner council chamber, the King sat at the head of the table, flanked by the archbishop, as chancellor, and de Rohan, as first privy council. Next at the table sat Du Corse, now Marshal of Alba, and across from him, l’Isle d’Adam, second privy council.

De Rohan began talking before the King was seated. He was excited.

“Your grace, my lords, we have a golden opportunity here if only we can grasp it.” He smiled at the King. “The Occitans are neighbours—and foreigners. We can unite the support of the people who matter to us—the knights and the gentry—to fight them. Their coast is rich. The campaign will pay for itself.”

Du Corse was cautious. “We have very little time,” he said. “And for myself, I have heard that the men of Occitan know how to wield a lance, and I have never trusted armchair generals who tell me wars will be over by midsummer.”

The King raised his head. “Why do we have very little time?” he asked.

Du Corse froze. It was perceptible. Then he shrugged. “Your grace must know that our Kingdom of Galle is also threatened by the Wild,” he said.

The King’s eyes went to those of the archbishop. “You maintain, I think, that the Wild is a fable,” he said. “A snare of the enemy.”

Du Corse looked away.

De Rohan frowned. “We must discuss what answer to make to this coxcomb.” He nodded to the archbishop. “I like the word.”