Hundreds of leagues to the south, in Harndon, the Archbishop of Lorica sat in a chair at the foot of the royal dais. Bohemund de Foi was in the full regalia of his office, despite recent defeat and the obvious defection of most of the Gallish knights, who were already negotiating with traitors to secure ships to carry them back to Galle.

The Archbishop was not yet ready to concede the game, and he was not without resources. He had a servant summon his secretary, Maître Gris, who came in his monkish robes.

“Eminence,” he said with a bow.

The archbishop nodded. “I need Master Gilles. And, I think, it is time we made more use of your friend.”

Maître Gris frowned. “I cannot summon him like a servant,” he said.

The archbishop frowned. “But he is a servant. Fetch him for me. I want him to kill this Random.”

Maître Gris bowed again. “As you command, eminence. But messages to this man sometimes take time.”

“Then you should stop talking,” the archbishop shot back. “I am impatient.”

When Master Gilles arrived, he was covered in charms. The archbishop glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. “You appear ridiculous,” he said.

Master Gilles was clearly terrified. “I am alive,” he said. “We have very powerful enemies.”

“And allies,” the archbishop said. “I want you to dispose of several people, beginning with that treacherous sell-sword.”

“The Red Knight?” Master Gilles shook his head. “He is beyond me.”

“No, you fool. I will leave him for my ally. But I mean Du Corse.” The archbishop snapped his fingers at a servant.

The liveried servants of the palace were all members of the Royal Household and all too aware that there might be a new king, that the queen was alive, and that de Vrailly was dead. The service was deteriorating. There was rebellion in the corridors, and the archbishop knew that only fear would keep them docile.

The archbishop glanced back at Amaury, his captain. “Take this one and whip him until his manners are better,” he said.

Captain Amaury nodded, struck the boy to the floor with his armoured fist, and two purple and yellow halberdiers seized the boy and dragged him out.

“You want me to kill the Seigneur Du Corse,” Master Gilles said quietly.

“Yes,” the archbishop said.

Master Gilles bridled for a moment, and then shook his head and sighed. “Very well, eminence. I will need an item of his clothing.”

“I anticipated your request. I have a cap he wore but two days back.” The archbishop handed the cap, still stained with sweat, to the magister.

“May I ask why?” the older man asked.