De Vrailly smiled a grim smile. “I have them to hand.” He turned to his squire. “Fetch them immediately. I will not be outdone in courtesy by this sell-sword.”

“Hardly a sell-sword,” Du Corse said. “He’s the Queen’s captain-general and the Duke of Thrake. I spoke to him this morning.”

Du Corse pointed across the fields at the approaching army—a small army. In fact, only slightly smaller than de Vrailly’s own.

The herald opened his mouth, but Du Corse silenced him with a glance.

“Ser Gabriel wishes us to know that our King has been badly defeated in Arelat. He offers three choices. If we take ship immediately, he will let us go. If not, he will meet you in single combat, immediately. Or, if neither of these will suffice, he says he will come to you with fire and sword. But he says to us all that in the last case only the true enemy will triumph.”

The enemy were not halting to dress their lines. On the far left, a solid mass of red and steel rode forward. In the centre, another—all in scarlet, with the Royal Standard flying. On the right, a little farther away, a solid body in the red and blue of Harndon, and the checked blue and gold of Occitan.

De Vrailly watched them for as long as his heart could beat ten times.

“This Red Knight is nobly born, then?” de Vrailly asked.

L’Isle d’Adam frowned. “There’s a rumour he’s the old King’s by-blow. But that’s probably someone’s petty hate. He’s the Earl of Westwall’s son.”

Du Corse said, “The Earl of Westwall is dead. The Wild has breached the whole of the north and west. He told me so himself, and I believe him.”

De Vrailly shook his head. “The archbishop would have us believe that it is our duty to cut our way through to Ser Hartmut, and that the Wild is in this case our ally.”

The enemy were not halting yet. They were very quick.

The herald—boldly—spoke up. “I’m to tell you that you have only until he’s in bowshot to decide,” he said.

D’Aubrichecourt spat. “The archbishop would have us believe that the Wild is a fable while also using them as allies,” he said. “Even as they defeat our King in Arelat.” He shook his head in disgust.

De Vrailly paused when his squire brought up the Corcy boys—two young blond squires, Alban through and through.

“Young gentlemen, your father has ransomed you,” he said.

The older, Robert, bent his knee.

The younger, Hamish, stuck his hands in his belt. “You had no right taking us in the first place,” he said.

“Be quiet, little brother.” Robert put out a hand but his small brother, twelve years old, wriggled away.

“It’s dishonourable,” Hamish said quietly.