He pointed at Harndon.

“The King—and de Vrailly—hold Harndon. They have five or six hundred lances and a strong infantry force.”

“What of the guilds?” the Prior asked. “My own news is three days old.”

Ser Alcaeus rose. “The guilds are scattered. The proscriptions have driven a great number of prominent city men into the countryside. Ser Gelfred has Ser Gerald—”

“Indeed, he will be in Lorica within the hour,” Gelfred put in.

“But most of the armourers, smiths, and fishmongers, too—have fled the capital.” Ser Alcaeus had a wax tablet he consulted.

“So—de Vrailly has the city,” the Prior said.

Ser Gabriel nodded. “Yes. Win or lose, Ser Ricar and Master Pye made the call for the skilled trades to flee before it came to massacre.”

Ser Ricar nodded.

“This morning,” Ser Alcaeus went on, “de Vrailly led a royal army through the gates to assault the Prince of Occitan’s camp.”

Gelfred nodded. “I warned him.”

“And here he is.” Ser Gabriel nodded.

“De Vrailly and Du Corse, the best of their soldiers, defeated the Occitans after a few hours’ fighting,” Ser Alcaeus said, rather undiplomatically. The prince writhed in his seat. His Alban was clearly good enough to take offence. “My source says that some of the guilds served in the royal army, and that city crossbowmen shot down the last of the prince’s knights.”

The prince slammed his fist on the table.

The Red Knight put a hand on Ser Alcaeus’s shoulder. “Enough!” he said. “The prince doesn’t need to be reminded of his sacrifice. How many lances did he save?”

The prince nodded. “Sixty,” he said. “Knights and squires, sixty of each.” He turned to the Prior and said something.

Prior Wishart nodded. “Spearmen.”

“Mais oui. Bien sur. We did not bring any pages or archers or, as you say, spear-men, as we thought that we were coming to a tourney—a bohars. And not a war.”

Ser Michael leaned forward. He glanced at the captain, who met his eye—encouraging him to speak. “But it is not war yet,” he said.

Bad Tom chuckled. “The barmy King has arrested his own wife an’ your da and it’s not war?” he asked.

Ser Michael managed a thin-lipped smile. “No, by God, it is not, Tom. My father had not paid his taxes, and his loyalty to the crown was…” He shrugged, and his steel pauldrons winked in the sunlight. “Not all it might have been. The arrest of the earl need not be cause for civil war. Nor, I think, is the arrest of the Queen.”

All around the table, men nodded.

The Prior stroked his beard.

The prince looked away, lips pursed in annoyance.

“Killing the Queen, on the other hand,” Ser Gabriel said quietly, “would probably break any remaining loyalties we all felt to the King. Is that not so?”

He looked around. “Gentlemen and ladies, I am a mercenary. I fight for money, and war is my business. In this instance, I find it ironic that I’m reminding you how disastrous war would be for this realm—internal civil war.”