“My lord viscount Érard, Sir Thierry,” she said to the older boys.

They’re men now, she thought. Do keep up with the times, Sandra! But it does seem only yesterday they were playing hide-and-seek with Mathilda.

“And young Ogier, ready to win your spurs, I see.”

That was more than a metaphor, these days; the older sons had the golden rowels of knighthood on their heels and he didn’t. He perked up at the thought, since wars were the fastest way to do so, though he was rather young for it.

The girls were in a cluster of their own; Deonisia, raven-haired, pale and striking at nineteen, with a twin-peak headdress; Genovifa, sixteen, with red-brown hair flowing out of her maiden’s plain wimple and freckles and a figure already lush, which even under modern conditions would grow plump before thirty if she didn’t watch it, and Melisant who was black-haired like her elder sister and just eight though destined to be tall judging from her hands and feet, solemn in a young girl’s long tunics, and already with a reputation for being scholarly.

I must keep my eye on her. The others are loyal and no fools, but she has real potential. She’s clever. It would be a shame to waste her on the Church. I’ll suggest that she be enrolled as a lady-in-waiting when Mathilda sets up her own household.

“And my ladies of House Renfrew,” she said to them, repeating the gesture.

They sank into deep curtsies and then kissed her hand and murmured: “My lady Regent!”

More bows and curtsies for Tiphaine d’Ath, part of the complicated dance of precedence; she was their superior by official rank, and a tenant-in-chief, but not their overlord in the chain of vassalage and of lower title than their parents.

How solemn the younger generation are about it all! They live it. Tiph and I have known these children since they were crawling and dribbling, but the ritual is part of being grown-up to them.

“Is your father still determined to take the field himself?” Sandra asked.

“Of course, my lady Regent,” Érard said, looking slightly astonished. “Where else would the Count of Odell be at this hour of peril, unless it was sword in hand at the head of his men, foremost in your host?”

“He has always been House Arminger’s greatest support, my strong right arm,” Sandra said with a sigh. “Where else indeed?”

Because at seventh and last, he’s a male idiot, after all, she thought, as the whole family fairly beamed with pride. They never really grow up, even the smartest ones. Even poor Norman could be led around by his pride. Led to his death, at the last.

The young viscount hesitated, then asked, presuming a little on long friendship: “Your Grace, is it true that the High King and the Princess Mathilda have returned and are wed, with a great army at their back?”