He shrugged. “They’re all against me,” he said pleasantly. “Apparently Gavin’s the better jouster and I’m needed to give orders.” He waved a hand. “I raised the fog.” He made a face. “I confess it is spectacular.”

She nodded, delighted that he could admit even that much. “I think you do God too little credit,” she said. “I’m glad Ser Gavin will hold the lance.”

“I should be offended you think so little of my prowess,” he said. “And me wearing your favour.”

“You are a foolish boy,” she said. “And when this adventure is over, Gabriel, I will have my favour back. I am no longer a maiden to be won.”

“Yes, yes,” he said heartily.

She could see it—a rather soiled square of plain linen—peeping out from under a pauldron.

“Yes, Bonne Soeur. We will part.” He laughed.

“You don’t believe me?” she asked, stung.

For answer, he bowed and flipped down his visor. Men were mounting. Something had changed while they were talking.

He vaulted into the saddle of his war horse. He was riding his own. Ser Gavin came and knelt beside her. “I crave your blessing, Bonne Soeur,” he said.

Amicia was tempted to tell Ser Gavin that Ser Gabriel would never crave anyone’s blessing—but that was not her business. Her business was between men and God, and she put a hand on his helmet and blessed him.

He rose, and mounted his horse. She could see from his body language that he was afire with nerves, and although Nell was behind her, utterly impatient, she walked after the apparent Red Knight and took his bridle.

“You have nothing to fear,” she said. “Go with God.”

Ser Gavin’s smile showed under his visor for a moment. “You are a good woman,” he said. “And is my fear so visible?”

She shook her head, using her gentlest voice. “No, ser knight. But you would be a madman if you were not afraid, with the fate of two kingdoms on you.” She reached up and put a gentle healing on him, and he breathed easier.

“Go with God,” she said.

He saluted her.

“You’re going to make us late!” Nell hissed at her.

But she mounted carefully, tried not to figure out which knight was actually Ser Ricar, and got her skirts displayed to best effect in time to join the column as it jogged through the gates. The fog was breaking up.

The tournament was waiting.

Chapter Seven

The Company

The sun was high and hot, but the last of the fog remained over the flat green fields south of First Bridge, creating an odd, sticky day. No breeze stirred the banners—and the commons, those that had taken the risk to attend, stood sullen in the damp heat, an unseasonable weather.

The broad jest began to circulate that the Galles would find it hard to find dry wood to burn the Queen.