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.

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.