She had no idea how to respond to that.

Gauvard’s expression grew serious. “They will be at risk. All of them. I can seldom do anything, but…Tell me, do you care for him?”

Silvy stared at him. “I do,” she said. “Very much.” Her voice was steady, she was glad of that.

“And I love my nephew. Do you want to come with me? I am being offered a carriage. There will be room. I likely have no role, they likely have no role, except for my nephew if there is war, but that will be back here in Orane.”

“So why bring me?” Silvy said.

“I like you,” said Gauvard Colle. And smiled.

They left that afternoon.

They were behind the army, but caught up to it and passed it in their carriage, taking a side road around marching soldiers, and then another that led through vineyards in the sun back to the main road, ahead of the army and the dust of it.

—

His father was in one of the carriages behind the king’s. Thierry rode beside it. Medor Colle was up front with de Vaux and the other leaders. Medor wasn’t formally one of those, but de Vaux had appointed him a military officer before they set out.

Knowing who you could trust mattered, Thierry thought.

His principal feeling now was fear for his father. Ambroise was not really old, but his health was not strong, and he had not left Orane in years. Journeys in the heat of summer were not good for anyone.

And he was only with them because his adopted son had offered his name as someone who could replace Hutin Peyre when the high cleric was disgraced and exiled. If anything now happened to him, for any reason, it could properly be judged Thierry’s fault, and he’d never forgive himself.

The possibility terrified him. Especially because it had also been his suggestion, to the constable and the provost, that they might try a certain thing to avoid this war. That was also why he was here himself, without any clear role—except that Medor had had a thought of his own.

Thierry reminded himself that the alternative—their likely future—was war. His absurd suggestion was better, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

Had to be, he told himself again, but with bone-deep uncertainty.

—

The Duke de Barratin was brought word from his advance scouts that two riders were approaching from the west in the livery of the royal family and carrying a banner of parley.

They had been riding hard, a scout added. Their horses were exhausted, and the riders were sweat-stained and weary. It was late afternoon, another hot day, near to the time he’d call a halt. Barratin did so. Told them to have Roch’s envoys given food and drink before they were brought before him.