“The Queen’s brother,” Amicia said quietly to Sister Katherine, who sat slightly behind her.

The prince smiled at her. It was like the rising of the sun. Amicia was woman enough to appreciate that, despite his flushed cheeks and the hard, vengeful look around his eyes, his tanned skin and ruddy blond hair and his sharp nose made him one of the handsomest men she’d ever seen. Next to Ser Gabriel’s pale skin and dark hair—

They were a match in size and shape, as well.

The prince was still smiling at her.

“You are, sans doute, the most beautiful nun I have ever seen,” he said with a bow.

Ser Gabriel’s face made a funny twitch.

But he also bowed to her. “It is good to see you alive,” he said.

She felt herself flush.

The other knights—Ser Payam and Ser Thomas and Ser Ricar, all of whom had been badly burned by the ichor in the moths—rose and praised her, and she looked out the window. “It is God, my friends, not me,” she protested, but indeed, the praise of such men was sweet.

Ser Pavalo bowed to her again. He spoke in a language which sounded like Archaic.

“He says that he salutes your great power. He says, it is a gift from God.” Gabriel nodded. “I think he is thanking you for the healing, but I confess my Etruscan’s not as good as his and I’m not sure. Maybe he’s saying you are the most beautiful nun he’s ever seen, too.”

She glared at Gabriel, and he mocked her with his smile.

Prior Wishart cleared his throat.

Gabriel had the good grace to look abashed. He bowed to the prince. “Your grace—it is a pleasure to have you among us.”

Prior Wishart translated in liquid Occitan, which sounded to Albans like Gallish mixed half and half with Etruscan.

The prince nodded and frowned. He rolled out a long speech, sat back and crossed his arms on his chest.

“The prince says that his cousin Rohiri died this morning, covering his retreat—that he feels like a poltroon, and that he followed this man—this Gelfred—here expecting to save his sister and his own honour. And he says”—Prior Wishart frowned—“some other things which I decline to translate.” He spoke sharply in Occitan to the prince.

Prince Tancredo’s head snapped around. He glared at the Prior, flicked his glance to Amicia, and then flushed.

“I apologize,” he said with a shrug. “I agree. I am not myself.”

Ser Gabriel nodded. “She has that effect on all of us,” he said.

“No, just you,” Ser Michael said. “Well, and the prince.”

Amicia gazed levelly at them, taking her high-carried head and careful diction from her former Abbess. “If you gentlemen are quite finished,” she said. “I believe all of us are interested in rescuing the Queen.”

Gelfred took the Red Knight’s parchment chart of Alba, rolling it out on the table. All the knights present drew their daggers, rondels and baselards, and placed them on the edges to pin the stiff hide in place.