Blanche waited as long as she could. It had only been moments—two hundred heartbeats—but the Red Knight was already sitting—he was reading a report and issuing orders at a great rate, and he appeared to have forgotten the Queen, and Blanche knew they were headed for trouble.

She made an attempt to work through the staff—but they had closed against outsiders, and a senior woman—a cook or a laundress—stood at the end of the hall and told Master Nicomedes that there were simply no rooms for the Queen or any of the great knights. Blanche caught a glance from Nicomedes—it made her bold.

She walked up behind the Red Knight as he sat on a camp stool surrounded by his own men. Ser Michael was clerking, writing quickly. Prior Wishart had a fine, five-fold ivory tablet, each tablet holding a sheet of fine beeswax, and on it he took rapid notes. A very handsome young man of her own age stood waiting, surrounded by other men congratulating him—his face beamed with the happiness of heroic accomplishment. He wore a mail shirt and thigh-high boots and no weapon but a dagger. Behind him was another such—almost as handsome, but she didn’t know him.

Ser Michael saw him first and put a hand on his captain’s hand. “Galahad D’Acon,” he said.

The Red Knight stopped dictating orders. In fact, all conversation stopped.

“You made it,” Ser Gabriel said. He rose to his feet even as D’Acon dropped to one knee.

Blanche gathered her courage and hissed, “The Queen.”

The Red Knight’s head snapped around. He saw her—smiled, she treasured that—and then nodded.

“Ser Michael, be so kind as to fetch the Queen to hear her messenger,” he said. Then, suddenly realising where the Queen was standing, he spoke rapidly to Toby. Toby grabbed Blanche’s arm and together with Nell and Lord Robin and a dozen squires, they swiftly stripped the hall of stools and chairs. A great chair was taken from under the very nose of the hall’s senior servants, who protested that it was Ser John’s chair…

Almost seamlessly, the Queen was brought to the work table, seated in a chair almost worthy of her, her cloak taken, and given wine by Toby on bended knee.

“You must have ridden like the very wind itself,” she said.

Young Galahad stayed on one knee and made no answer.

Blanche watched Ser Gabriel. He did not fidget with impatience. His hands, however, were trembling slightly.

Under the table, one foot was grinding, grinding, as if it could cut a hole through the stone flags.

Somewhere high above them, the damned soul screamed its torment again.

“Damn,” the captain said.

The Queen looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

He cleared his throat.

“We are all anxious to hear your messages,” the Queen said.