On the last line, the captain came in. Amicia noted that he smelled of sweat—male and horse—and of something metallic. As he entered, Nell appeared and put a cup of wine in his hand. Other men rose—not all together. No one bowed, but the deference was there. When he sat, they all sat.

He smiled at Amicia. “No need for guests to pay me so much courtesy,” he said.

She returned his smile. “No one was ever hurt by too much courtesy.” Other people had gone back to their conversations and she had his attention. “Would you like me to say mass for your people, while we are on the road?” she asked.

He looked around. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I would. If you’re declared a heretic, will we all go straight to hell?”

She shook her head. “No, I imagine all the sin will fall on my shoulders.”

He nodded. “Excellent, then. Any time you’d like to take on some more sin…” He paused. “No, that was asinine.”

“Yes,” she said, frankly. “I tell you what—you pass on all forms of double-entendre and I’ll forbear easy religious comments about your life of violence.”

He nodded. “Done. I’m not that good at double-entendre anyway.”

He looked around. “Gentles,” he said, and they were quiet. His easy exercise of power disturbed her. He did it too easily. He didn’t wait for them to finish what they were saying, as Sister Miriam might have, or join another conversation and wait his turn. He paused, and they reacted.

He made a motion to Toby, and all the squires and pages left the tent.

“As I entered, Ser Michael mentioned that we would need our best behaviour to be at court with the King and Queen.” He looked around. “What I have to say does not leave this table. It is not meant for the pages and squires, nor is it for the peasants who sell us food.”

Now he had their attention.

“The King has arrested the Queen on charges of witchcraft. She is accused of murdering the Count D’Eu by sorcery.” His voice was bland—he might have been discussing the weather.

Ser Michael turned pale. “Christ on the cross,” he said. “Is he insane?”

The Red Knight shook his head. “Friends, I have been too slow. I should have recognized—never mind. But I no longer know what we’re riding to—war or peace, a tournament or a darker contest.” He looked around. “I think most of you have some idea where Ser Gelfred is. So you’ll understand that we have news.”

Ser Alcaeus smiled knowingly. Bad Tom shrugged.

The Red Knight leaned back and sipped his wine. “As we get closer to Harndon, we’ll get better and more accurate reports. But if what I have today is accurate, and what Ser John Crayford had two days ago tallies with it, the Prince of Occitan is riding into southern Alba.”

“And there’s raids all along the frontiers,” Bad Tom said.