Gabriel laughed and gestured at Cuddy. “That’s about it. In a civil war, everyone realizes that it’s all a dream and anyone can be King. And then we’re just animals fighting over the grain supply.”

The herald, his pennon flapping bravely, was riding towards them.

“Aha,” Gabriel said. “Here we go.”

His heart began to beat very hard.

Ser Michael turned. “We can take them, Gabriel,” he said.

Gabriel nodded. “We can, but some of us will die and some of them will die, and my adversary will win with every corpse. Let’s make this as cheap as we can.”

“If you lose?” Michael asked bluntly.

“Then I get to relax, and stop plotting. It’s all on you and my brother and Tom and Sauce. And Mr. Smythe and Harmodius and the Queen. And Amicia, and the rest of the people. The biggest revelation of the last few weeks has been that it’s not all about me, Michael. Muddle through.” He laughed.

“What do I do about the Galles?” Michael said, ignoring the rest.

“Offer them ships home. If they refuse, crush them here, take the losses, and offer no quarter. Towbray will desert them the moment he knows it’s you.” The Red Knight shrugged. “Make yourself King for all I care. I’ll be dead.”

“I doubt it,” Michael said. “Here, let me squire you one last time. Damn, that was ill-said.”

Gabriel laughed.

While Michael dealt with the way his arms tied on and where they sat, the herald approached.

“Ser Jean de Vrailly will meet you man to man in single combat,” he said.

The Red Knight took a lance from Toby. He thought of leaving a parting message for Amicia, or for Blanche, even.

That seemed like something Mater would have done.

“If I win,” he said, “I want you ready to march north immediately.”

He wanted to grin or smile, but his heart was pounding, and his cheeks didn’t work.

So instead, he turned his horse, and began to ride easily over the hayfield towards the distant shining figure of Jean de Vrailly.

Inside de Vrailly’s visor, the angelic face frowned as he rode across the sunlit summer field.

Usually he went to fight without a thought—beyond, perhaps, a prayer.

No prayer came to his lips.

Instead, unbidden, a host of images rose like midges and mosquitoes. Simultaneously, he considered how the Red Knight had dispatched de Rohan, who, for all his faults, he had trained with his own hands, and he considered the sparkling fall of holy water that had declared him forfeit—a flow of holy water that said that his person, or his harness, was ensorcelled. He thought of the black fire clawing at the angel’s armour in his tent, and he thought—most of all—of how his angel—

I think your angel is a daemon, said the ghost of D’Eu in his ear.