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.

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.