“You’re a fine one to talk,” Kaitlin said.

Clarissa looked out the window.

Blanche inclined her head to the Queen of Arles. “I think we’ll come to you for lessons, Your Grace. I have a feeling you’ve had all the training we lack.”

“I wouldn’t mind improving my ironing,” Clarissa said. “Although my real ambition is to write books.”

“Ugh,” said Kaitlin in distaste.

“Ooh,” said Blanche, pierced with interest. “What kind of books?”

“I never really learned to read,” Kaitlin admitted. “Michael taught me, but it’s work.”

Clarissa smiled shyly. “I write some poetry,” she said. “And some glosses on religious works.” She got up suddenly.

“Would you like sword lessons, Your Grace?” Blanche asked.

Clarissa stopped. “Yes,” she said. “My constable . . . treats me like a woman.” She shrugged.

“Aye,” Blanche said. “It’s an occupational hazard.”

Clarissa suddenly spat, “I find it tiresome.”

Kaitlin laughed. “Honey, we all find it tiresome.” She got up, favoured her back, and then stretched like a long-limbed cat. “Never mind. I’ll fetch Michael, and we’ll have some fun.”

Blanche looked at Master Julius, whose quill was moving very quickly. He met her eye and mouthed two words.

“Lord Michael is drilling the Arelat Levy,” Blanche said.

“I should have known that,” Clarissa said.

“Me, too,” Kaitlin said. “He’s my husband.”

“Let’s say two hours,” Blanche said graciously.

Both ladies nodded and left her to her solar with her new “lady.” Outside the solar, Clarissa stopped dead in the corridor and barked a short, odd laugh.

Kaitlin paused behind one of Clarissa’s ladies. “Your Grace?” she asked.

Clarissa looked back at Kaitlin. “Think of how she dismissed us,” the Queen of Arles said. “She is a quick learner.”

“There’s nothing very difficult about using a sword,” Michael said with hearty reassurance. He was already tired, and he wasn’t sure that giving sword lessons for ladies was what he ought to be doing.

On the other hand, he was looking forward to seeing his wife for an entire hour.

His wife, Kaitlin, as well as the Queen of Arles, Clarissa; the Empress of Man, Blanche; and her maid Beatrice all stood before him on a heavily flagged courtyard. There were ill-concealed faces at every window.

The four women all held arming swords.

“I know,” Blanche said. “I’ve killed a man and a couple of bogglins.”

All the women laughed.

Michael smiled. “Right,” he said. “And that’s the point, really. The part I can’t teach you is the real part: getting the job done. Any way you do it, if you live and the other bastard dies, is the best way.”

“This is definitely not what my constable taught,” Clarissa muttered.