The King sat back, and scratched his beard. “No. I want to hear the archbishop tell me his views on the Wild. In light of there being an attack in Galle.”

“Fleeing men report ten where there is only one,” the archbishop said. “It is all exaggeration and fable.”

Du Corse frowned.

The King looked around as if for wine. He shrugged. “But Monsieur Du Corse will take his lances home to fight it,” he said slowly. “What is your departure date, Du Corse?”

Du Corse too obviously looked at de Rohan.

When the King had moments like this, the Galles were used to de Vrailly smoothing things over with his absolute certainty. The archbishop regretted leaving him behind—but only until he saw de Rohan pour wine at the sideboard, and then he knew he’d guessed correctly.

“That date is of little moment compared to the presence of a foreign army on our doorstep,” de Rohan said, setting the King’s golden cup at his elbow. It was small personal services like this that had won the King’s esteem when de Rohan was only de Vrailly’s standard bearer. The King, despite the vector of the conversation, smiled warmly at de Rohan.

The King liked to like people. But he shook his head. “It is not an army. One of my guardsmen says it is fewer than three hundred knights, no archers, and no spearmen. They came for the tournament, gentles.”

De Rohan grinned. He couldn’t help himself. “Better and better,” he said.

The King looked down the table, took a long draught of wine, and then shrugged. “I don’t see where you want to go with this, de Rohan.”

The first privy council smiled. “Only three hundred knights?” he said. “It could be the shortest war in history.”

At that, the King’s head snapped around.

But de Rohan was only just warming to his idea. “A complete victory—it will take the wind out of the sails of the Queen’s supporters, it will deflate the commons and show our power and unite the gentles against the foreigner.” He raised his eyebrows at Du Corse. “And pay the routiers in loot.”

Du Corse frowned.

But anything he might have said was interrupted by the King, who shot to his feet. “That’s it, then,” he said. His open palm slapped the table so loudly that the archbishop jumped. “I have had time to think of many things, gentlemen. And it occurs to me—I have begun to think—that you—do not…”

Suddenly he slumped. His knees relaxed, and he went down into his chair. Only the immediate presence of de Rohan and two large servants kept the King from falling to the floor.

“A surfeit of wine,” de Rohan said with a soft smile. “You heard him, my friends. ‘That’s it.’ He agreed.”

Du Corse narrowed his eyes. “That’s how it is going to be, is it?” he asked.