Out in the field, Long Paw roared an order and the whole line halted. Pages came forward and began to collect horses.

Jean de Vrailly dismounted, too.

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” l’Isle d’Adam said.

De Vrailly walked to the boy who stood without flinching.

He knelt. His voice was not steady. He said, “Sometimes, men make mistakes, child. Terrible, terrible mistakes. All they can do is atone as best they can. I offer you my apologies as a knight and as a man.”

Hamish Corcy bowed low. “Apologies accepted, ser knight! You do me too much honour.”

De Vrailly nodded. Then he went to his horse, and mounted. “Tell the Red Knight I will meet him man to man and horse to horse,” he said.

The herald turned his horse and rode for the enemy.

De Vrailly turned his own horse so that it faced his people. His squire was mounting the two boys on a rouncy.

“Gentlemen,” de Vrailly said, and all badinage stopped. “Whether I win or lose, I propose that we leave the Albans to their own ways and troubles and go to Galle to save the King. And I suggest that you take Du Corse as your commander.”

Du Corse bowed in the saddle. The archbishop made to protest and was silenced by a glance from Du Corse.

De Vrailly pointed to his squire, and armed himself with his favourite lance—a very heavy shaft. But when his squire made to mount with two spares, de Vrailly shook his head.

“No, no. We will run one course, and then—” He shrugged. “Someone will die. Please—stay here with these good gentlemen. In fact, young Jehan—I bid you kneel.” De Vrailly dismounted himself once again.

“With this buffet, I make you a knight. Never accept another from any but the King. Know the law of war. Love your friends and be harsh to your enemies.” He leaned down and kissed the young man on both cheeks.

Jehan—Ser Jehan—was stunned. He began to weep.

De Vrailly vaulted onto his horse.

The Galles gave a thunderous cheer.

Ser Gabriel sat silently watching the Galles. They had a few Alban banners among them, mostly Towbray’s, and Towbray himself was on the far left—the Galles plainly didn’t trust him. Perhaps the feeling was mutual.

He flicked a glance at his Occitan allies. It was not that he distrusted them, as that he feared their anger and the prince’s rash judgment.

Behind him, Ser Michael spat. “I wouldn’t have believed that my own father would come to this.”

“You could be King,” Gabriel said.

“That’s not even funny,” Michael commented.

“You know what’s worst about civil war?” Gabriel asked. The Galles were talking about something, and someone was kneeling.

The company was already dismounting. Cuddy groused, loudly, “I want to see ’em fight. Better them than me. I don’t get to be fuckin’ King.”