The Red Knight began to ride to the head of the lists, lance in hand.

The King was seen to bite his lip. His face writhed as if inhabited by snakes.

De Rohan glared at de Vrailly. “Your grace, this is mere foolish posturing. Let me press the order of arrest.”

De Vrailly looked at his former standard bearer with utter contempt. “You are not only a caitiff but a fool,” he said. “By God and Saint Denis, D’Eu was right about you. If you do not let me fight, these people will go to their graves believing their Queen was innocent.”

De Rohan and de Vrailly locked gazes—Amicia could see that each thought the other a fool.

Amicia also noted—with shock—that de Vrailly burned like a second sun in her alternate, aethereal sight.

Out in the lists, a dozen Royal Guardsmen stood sullenly under the royal box. A man in de Rohan’s livery was gesticulating at the Red Knight.

De Vrailly turned to the King. “You must let me fight—for your honour!”

The King’s eyes went back and forth like those of a trapped animal.

At the base of the stands, the Queen sat on a stool in her plain grey kirtle, her golden-brown hair lank but her face at rest. She looked at her champion—and then up into the royal box.

“Even now, I pity him,” the Queen said.

Blanche—over her first terror—cursed. “Pity who, your grace?” she asked. The coming of the Red Knight—Master Pye’s friend, and Ser Gerald Random’s and thus a good knight in her books—gave her hope, and Blanche had desperately needed some hope.

The Queen smiled. “The King, of course, my dear.”

“Christ on the cross, your grace! Why spare the King any of your pity? He’ll have no mercy for you.” Blanche looked down the lists and clapped her hands. The Red Knight’s near twin—the Green Knight—was cantering along the lists, entertaining the crowd, and shouting insults at the Galles.

The Queen was serene. “Those who have known pain should have mercy on others,” she said. “There sits my husband—whom I swore to defend ’til death do us part.” She frowned. “I find it hard to make room in my heart for him. But I would not wish his fate on any man.”

Blanche sighed. “Beyond my likes and dislikes, I suppose, your grace,” she said in obvious incomprehension.

The Queen raised a very sage eyebrow. “My gallant defender is the King’s son,” she said.

Blanche’s white hand went to her throat. “Jesu Christe!” she said—a true prayer and no blasphemy. “The Red Knight is the King’s by-blow?”

The Queen frowned.

Blanche cast her eyes down. “Apologies, your grace. I’m a laundress, not a courtesan—er—courtier.”

The Queen flashed her a smile. “You are no courtesan,” she said. “And you made me smile.”