“You’re in my position right now,” she went on to him as the plates came off.

A page came with a T-tunic to replace the doublet, and Huon handed her the sword belt with the live steel. In the field you wore it even when you were sitting down to eat.

“Your Majesty?” he said, as he knelt and cinched the tooled leather.

“You’re fighting opponents with more weight and bulk. There are ways around that, and it’s a good idea to know them. You’ll be bigger than me soon, but you’re never going to have the High King’s inches, or even Ogier’s.”

“Odard wasn’t a very tall man either, my lady,” Huon observed.

About your height, in fact, he thought; Mathilda Arminger was very tall for a woman, maybe a thumb’s-width over average height for a man. Odard was medium-sized, but he was quick as a weasel.

“No, but he was very bad news in a fight,” Mathilda said. “I saw him kill a lot of bigger men. Including a Moorish corsair in his last fight who, and the Virgin witness that I’m telling you the truth, was the size of Lord John Hordle and had at least as much muscle. He used a brassbound club I could barely lift one-handed.”

Huon blinked; the Dúnedain leader had beheaded an enemy’s warhorse with a single stroke of his greatsword once, and taken off the knight’s head with the next, chopping right through the bevoir plate. It wasn’t the only legendary feat that hung around his name. The thought of his brother’s end brought a familiar rush of mingled pride and grief; also a twinge of doubt that he’d ever be able to live up to the legend.

Mathilda grinned. “Don’t worry, you’ve got years to do that.”

He bowed, and flushed at her good-natured chuckle.

“Now disarm and come join me at table.”

Ogier helped him, though the squire’s kit he wore was a lot easier to shed than a knight’s outfit. He suppressed a groan of relief as the armor and padding came off and the hot dry air dried the sweat. This area had plenty of heat and dust, and only just enough water for drinking. The smell wasn’t too bad; everyone went down to the Columbia and washed once or twice a week and you got used to rankness in the field.

We wash once a week whether we need it or not, as the saying goes, Huon thought.

“Perceptive, our liege-lady, isn’t she?” Ogier murmured. “Sometimes you suddenly remember who her mother is.”

“She’s kindhearted, though,” Huon said, also quietly, since the implication was that the Lady Regent was not. “And she’s good with a sword, too. I thought maybe it was troubadour’s spin, but it wasn’t, was it?”

“Nope. She’s no d’Ath or Astrid Loring, but she’s pretty good, definitely better than the average man-at-arms, the speed and skill makes up for the bulk. Especially in this armor. They’re thinking of marrying me off to Anne of Tillamook, you know?”