That night, their fourth on the road, they had camped at a beautiful wagon circle right at the edge of a great bluff that looked south over the magnificent green and gold quilt of the well-farmed Albin highlands. She had found a little arbour a few paces to the west of the wagon circle, and she led her little congregation there, still munching her sausage, and as the sun swelled—red-gold and still threatening more rain from the east—she said mass with Mary as her only server from plain wooden dishes and the captain’s silver cup. Ser Michael was there and Ser Christos and also a dozen drovers, ridden over from their own camp to the west, where the vast beef herds lowed like lost souls and the sheep baaa’d on and on, punctuating her sung benedictus and making her laugh—they all laughed as the sheep sounded so much like a choir of animals.

She was surprised to see Ser Christos—the Morean church had even firmer rules about mass than the Alban church, when it came to women. But it was a nice congregation, and she enjoyed it immensely.

Marcus, the Etruscan knight’s squire, and Toby, the captain’s, both came and gave her courtly bows. The archers all waved. Cully, the leader, and Cuddy, his boon companion, and Flarch, a dangerous man and a lecher, all paused to pay their respects.

“What’s a handsome piece like you doing in a place like this, Sister?” Flarch asked with a leer.

“The work of God,” Amicia said. “A pity it can’t be said of all of us.”

“That’s you told,” Cuddy hissed as the three archers walked off to their horses.

Through the trees, the captain’s trumpeter polished his trumpet with a cloth. Everyone knew that was the last thing he did before blowing it, and Nicholas Ganfroy was no longer so young, or so poor at playing the trumpet. The company had other new recruits to haze.

Amicia emerged from the trees to find that Katherine had her horse saddled and in hand. Cupped in her own hand was the last shred of consecrated host, which she gave to Katherine with a blessing.

Katherine bowed, chewed, swallowed, and sung a prayer.

Nicholas Ganfroy, who now knew his business, looked them all over carefully before putting his trumpet to his lips. He blew the first note, and every page and groom led his charges—all the horses in his lance—to their places on the parade. The knights, men-at-arms, fighting pages and the handful of archers walked steadily out to their places in front of the line of horse holders.

Even while the company formed, there were already half a dozen outriders watching for them. Stavros’s cousin Mikal, now a sort of under-officer, led two files of Thrakian light horsemen along the parallel ridges, linking up with Ser Thomas’s Hillman scouts to the west.

Amicia, who enjoyed seeing things done well, enjoyed it all.