Valentinne was in her early forties, twelve years younger than Conrad. The Countess of Odell was of average height, with the beginnings of a double chin and warm green-flecked brown eyes that were usually happy and a little distracted; there were faint paint-stains on her fingers, from the art whose results hung on walls and stood on the big easel beneath the eastern window of the solar: it was a redoing of her classic Raoul of Ger and the Easterlings.

“You haven’t been able to talk him out of this folly, and convince him he’d be more useful here?” Sandra said. “He’s my Chancellor, after all!”

Valentinne looked as if she’d been crying last night, and she was in the formal cote-hardie that she usually managed to avoid, a pale blue-and-gold affair.

“No, Sandra,” she said, a determined smile on her face. “I knew it wouldn’t work, anyway.”

“Didn’t keep you from trying,” her husband observed.

“And good to see you, Lady d’Ath,” the Countess said; though in fact Tiphaine’s cold coiled violence had always made her a little nervous. “How’s Lady Delia? She’s six months along now, isn’t she?”

Tiphaine smiled slightly; the Countess of Odell and the Châtelaine of Barony Ath were good friends.

“Delia’s well, but growing huge, and sends her regards. And she’d like you to be there for the accouchement, Lady Odell, particularly since neither I nor Lord Rigobert are likely to be able to take the time.”

“Of course, if . . .”

If we’re not all under siege in our castles by then, Sandra filled in. Or dead.

“. . . if circumstances allow,” Valentinne finished.

“No reason they shouldn’t,” Conrad said. “You could take the girls. This campaign’s going to start a long way east of here.”

The Count of Odell was already in full armor except for the helmet, which showed his fireplug build; he’d put on some flesh since he resigned as Grand Constable to be Chancellor full-time a decade ago. Now he snorted and rose with a slight grunt and clank, tucking his helmet upside down under his left arm with the gauntlets thrown in the bowl; the bevoir hid his chin and neck, giving his cannonball head an oddly detached look.

“I’m still stronger than a lot of the men I’ll meet,” he said, slapping the hilt of his rather old-fashioned, Norman-style chopping broadsword. “And age and treachery beat youth and gallantry most times.”

Tiphaine d’Ath raised both eyebrows. “Still stronger, yes, Conrad,” she said. “Also stiffer, fatter and slower these days. I’d hate to lose the man who helped shape me into the murderous, evil bitch I am.”

“Blame Sandra for that,” he laughed.

And he’s looking positively carefree, Sandra thought. Men and their games!