“We’re in the Royal Park at Haye,” Nell whispered to her. The youngster seemed to know far more about the morning’s plans than she did. “Ser Gelfred cleared all this an hour hence. Our people are at all the gates. This is where we wait.”

“Wait?” Amicia asked.

Nell looked at her as she probably looked at new pages and archers. Don’t you know anything? “We have to ride into the lists at just the right moment, Cap’n says.” Nell spoke of the captain as a nun might speak of God. Her trust was absolute.

Most of the column dismounted. A young man—Daniel Favour, whom Amicia could remember as a boy in Hawkshead—rode out of the fog. He rode to the captain, exchanged a few words and then rode to Ser Gavin. The three men spoke perhaps three sentences, and then Favour mounted again. He paused his horse by Amicia and bowed. “Morning, Sister!” he said. “Funny thing, a couple of mountain brats meeting here, eh?”

Amicia laughed—her first unforced laugh of the morning. “You seem in high spirits, Daniel,” she said.

Favour grinned. “Oh, we’ve put a rare jest over on the Galles, ain’t we, Sister? I reckon they’ll make a song o’ us.” He saluted her with his riding whip. He was in a light saddle such as the easterners used, on a tall, athletic horse. His breastplate shone, and she noticed that the day had brightened considerably.

Ser Michael came over and crouched by her, armour and all. “The Queen is being moved through the streets of Harndon even now,” he said. He frowned. “The Galles have executed some prominent men already—Ailwin Darkwood, for one.”

“And your father?” she asked. Even as she asked, she was praying for the soul of Ailwin Darkwood.

“On the list for execution,” he said. Then he smiled. “But joining us at Lorica, or so I gather from the captain.”

Amicia had come to a second-hand education in Alban politics, and she winced for her Order. “Michael,” she said, using his first name on purpose. “Do your company purpose a civil war?”

“My da would,” he admitted. “I like to think the captain has better notions.”

“But you’ll follow him either way?” she asked.

He gave her a strange look.

The day was brighter yet, and high overhead there was a hint that someday the sky might be blue.

“Captain’s worried the fog might break up too soon,” Michael said.

“It is a miracle from God,” Amicia said. “Perfectly suited to our needs.”

“Well,” said Gabriel’s voice from behind her. “Not exactly from God, since I cast it myself. One of your Abbess’s tricks, as I recall.”

She turned and saw—Ser Gavin. His visor was down so that his voice was muffled, and he wore Gavin’s green surcoat and gold pentagonal star.

He sat on her log, armour creaking, and popped his long, falcon-like visor. Inside Gavin’s helmet was Gabriel’s face.