“That Red Knight is the very paragon of chivalry,” she said. “So—odd, considering. I knew he could beat de Vrailly. God willed it.” Desiderata paused. There was her old familiar hairbrush, and there was Rebecca Almspend to wield it.

She looked at her friend, and suddenly, without volition, tears filled her eyes and she sat rather suddenly. “Oh, Becca,” she said.

Rebecca shot a glance at Blanche and went and cradled her friend’s head on her chest. “Your grace—”

“They killed Diota,” the Queen said suddenly. “They killed her. They killed all my friends but you and Mary—all the knights. Oh, Mary, Mother of God.” She choked, almost gagged on her tears, and then wept.

They were her first tears in many days.

Becca held her head and rocked her.

Her eyes met Blanche’s. Blanche was frozen, but Becca blinked, and Blanche understood. She came and took one of the Queen’s hands, very hesitantly, and squeezed it.

“We’re here, your grace,” she said.

“I hate the dark,” Desiderata cried. She clung to Blanche as if Blanche was a floating plank and she was drowning.

“Shush, your grace. It’s all over now,” Almspend said as if she were holding a baby.

The Queen raised her face, and it was ugly with tears, the muscles of it moving as if her face were full of worms, and she gave voice to a wordless cry of anguish.

“Annnnghhh,” she cried. “I loved him, even if he—Even when he—Sweet Christ, they are all dead. All my friends, and my love. Dead, dead, dead. They cut her head from her body and put it on a spike—I saw it.”

Blanche was chilled—horrified.

Lady Almspend merely held her friend. Blanche slipped out and went to the prince, her brother, who came immediately, dropping his cervelleur into the hands of a squire without a word.

He nodded to Blanche. “You are the Queen’s tire-woman? Your hair is like the silk of the east and your eyes are like the sky of early evening.” He smiled. It was a beautiful smile. “I have waited days to say that.” He was still in his arming clothes, sweat-soaked and smelling strongly of man and horse.

Blanche had met Occitans before, and she moved briskly along the corridor.

“I know my suit is hopeless, fair maiden, but give me a lock of your hair and I’ll—”

“Your sister the Queen is in a bad way, your grace,” Blanche said stiffly.

He bowed to her—still moving. He was as graceful as an irk, and there were those that said that there was irkish blood in the south. “I stink—I know it. But I promise you, I am a prince, and well able to—”

Blanche blushed. “Your grace,” she barked. She bowled him through the door into Desiderata’s outer chamber.