This is Mater’s doing. But the sense of power was heady—like the moment in which he’d first really worked in the aethereal, and made fire.

If her child’s a bastard.

Stillborn.

Dead.

Then I’m the King. Or at least, it’s mine for the taking.

If the child is the King’s…

… and I have the Queen—

He allowed himself a brief smile, and all the realities and futures rattled around the hermetical multiverse for the time it took for a pretty girl to flash her eyes.

“My lord, I believe the Queen’s child is the rightful King of this realm,” the captain said.

He heard Gavin’s intake of breath. Tom wouldn’t know, yet, what that pronouncement meant. Michael would.

Amicia would.

Sometimes, the “right” thing is the Right thing. It’s beautiful when it works that way.

Ah, Mater. You are about to be cruelly disappointed.

I think.

Michael had it immediately. “My Lord Corcy, Ser Gabriel today upheld the Queen’s right in the lists against the King’s Champion, and slew him.”

“Christ, boy, you killed de Vrailly?” Corcy asked.

“Only the Sieur de Rohan, I fear,” Gabriel said.

The sheriff, silent until then, spoke up. “Trial by combat is barbaric,” he said. “And not recognized by law.”

Gabriel had to laugh, and did. “I agree,” he said, and slapped his thigh a little too hard, so that he yelped in pain as his left hand reminded him that it was not healed.

But he had Corcy’s eye.

“I would bend my knee to the Queen,” Corcy said. “And though I am loath to offer you poor hospitality, I have a barn—a storage barn. It would hide you all.” He let his horse take another step forward, so that he and the captain were shoulder to shoulder—inside each other’s guards. “I will cover you for one night. God help me.”

Gabriel’s smile was genuine. He reached out, right hand to right. “I’ll take you to the Queen. Immediately. How far to your barn?”

“Less than a league.” Corcy looked at the sheriff.

The sheriff reached out his hand. “I’m for the Queen,” he said impulsively.

Gabriel backed his horse in the near darkness. “How about it, gentles?” he called to the spearmen. “Who among you will bow to the Queen like loyal Albans?”

He turned to Corcy. “Which way?”

“This side of the river—up the Morea Road.” Corcy nodded. “I’ll ride with you and be my own guide—and hostage.”

Michael knew the game. His father had played it all his life. “I’ll just fetch the Queen back across, shall I?” he asked. “Gabriel? This is it? We’re now…?” He shook his head.

Gabriel twitched his reins, and his eyes went from Bad Tom to Michael to Gavin. “For good or ill, we’re about to become the Queen’s men.”