“What’s that?” Gabriel said.
“Thanks,” Amicia said. “This was-beautiful.”
Gabriel bowed. “We should go back.”
Two hours later, they re-joined the column south of the bluffs, and crossed Sixth Bridge at its head. Perhaps there were ribald comments, but Sister Amicia’s demeanour laughed them to scorn. She rode with the captain, and her sisters, too, and by the time the column halted for a midday meal, their light-heartedness had spread down the column.
After lunch, Bad Tom joined them. The herds were now almost a full day behind. But he rode with Ser Gabriel and the nuns and Chris Foliak and Francis Atcourt, exchanged loud gests with Ser Danved, tried and failed to provoke Ser Bertran. They hawked for an hour, and secured some partridges for dinner, and they met Ser Gavin, who’d taken the advance guard well down the road.
While the two brothers were talking a bird appeared above them, and every hermetical practitioner in the column looked up, all together.
Ser Alcaeus, in the rear with the Moreans, spurred up the column in time to join the captain as he retrieved the enormous bird, an imperial messenger. He took the bird, smoothed its feathers and gentled it, and then deftly slipped off the two message tubes.
“Encrypted,” he said. He handed them to the captain.
“How far to camp?” Ser Gabriel asked his brother.
Ser Gavin-a new man since seeing his affianced lady at Lissen Carak-pointed ahead. “Two leagues. Next ridge, and just beyond.”
The captain pushed the two tubes up under his chin and looked at Ser Alcaeus. “If I stop here to read them,” he said, “we won’t have any supper.”
Alcaeus made a moue. “It’s Lent,” he said. “Supper will be too dull for words.”
Chris Foliak leaned over. “It’s almost never Lent at my table,” he said-but when he caught Amicia’s eye, he had the good grace to look away.
The imperial messenger was the end of their day of Maying, as Amicia thought of it. They rode faster and with purpose-so fast that she dropped back with her sisters, afraid that Mary would have a mishap. So she missed the captain’s arrival. But when she rode into the camp-with most of the tents already up, and no one behind her but the Moreans-she found Nell laying out their bedding.
“Many thanks, Nell!” she said. The beautiful day had dried the blankets, even on the rump of her horse, and she looked forward to sleep-dry sleep.
“Captain says for you to come when it’s convenient,” Nell said. “Which means as soon as you can, Sister.”
She entered the red pavilion to the sound of silence. Ser Gavin was there, and Ser Michael, and Ser Thomas and Ser Christos, and Ser Alcaeus stood by the captain. He was writing on wax. Cully sat with his legs crossed, drinking wine.
Everyone looked serious. And they all looked at her-her heart missed a beat. They looked at her as if someone had died.
“What?” she asked.
Gabriel-she couldn’t think of him as the captain, today-rose and came over to her.
“The King,” he said gently. “The King has disestablished your order, with the consent of the archbishop. He has unmade the Order of Saint Thomas.”
She sighed. “No king-not even the Patriarch-can unmake what God has made,” she said.
Ser Michael rose. “On behalf of all the company, Sister,” he said. “You and the Prior, and Father Arnaud-you are all an example to us every day.”
Ser Gabriel nodded. “I agree,” he said. “What will you do?”
“Have a cup of wine,” Amicia said, sitting. She couldn’t bring herself to laugh. “I need to think.”
“You are welcome in our council, Sister,” Ser Michael said, reminding her that she was, in fact, intruding on a council of war. It was obvious from the two maps on the table and the wax tablets at every hand.
“That can’t have been the only news,” Amicia said.
Ser Alcaeus looked as if he might protest, but Ser Gabriel smiled at her-a warmth to his smile which she bathed in for a moment. A guilty pleasure. “No. The Queen’s trial is set for Tuesday next week-at the tournament. There’s a long list of attainders, forfeitures and treasons.”
“My father is to be executed,” Ser Michael said with chilling equanimity.
“Half the nobility is to be taken and executed,” Gabriel said. “Apparently by the other half, and a handful of Galles.”
“Scarce a handful,” Ser Thomas said. “Three hundred lances with that monster, Du Corse.”
Ser Michael laughed. “Seldom is a man so aptly named.”
“There’s open faction and war in Harndon,” Gabriel said. “The commons against the nobles, or so it appears. The King has managed to attaint Ser Gerald Random.”
“The richest and the most loyal man in the kingdom,” muttered Ser Gavin.
“There’s refugees fleeing the city, the King is considering martial law, and it would appear that the Archbishop of Lorica is the prime mover of all this.” Gabriel flung a small, almost transparent piece of parchment on the table.
Ser Michael frowned. “It’s as if he wants civil war.”
Gabriel nodded. “Someone wants civil war. Someone very clever.”
Michael shook his head. “Send for the company.”
Gabriel shook his head in turn. “Why? We’re not under attack. Listen, my friends-we have a licence to ride armed to a tournament. We’re going to the tournament, and we are within the law.”
Suddenly, Amicia saw it. “You’re going to fight for the Queen!” she said.
Ser Michael’s head snapped around, and so did Ser Gavin’s.
Gabriel had the look of insufferable triumphant pleasure that he wore when one of his little schemes went well. His lips pursed and his cheeks were stretched and he looked like a cat who had caught a mouse.
“I am, too,” he said.
“May we all live to get you there,” Ser Michael said. “You bastard. I want to fight for the Queen!”
Gabriel shook his head. “You’re going to rescue your father. And some other people.”
Bad Tom rubbed his hairy chin. “We’re going to cut our way in and out?” he said with evident pleasure.
The Red Knight sighed. “No, Tom. No, we’re going to make every effort to be reasonable, responsible knights who do not want to inflict public violence on people already at the verge of civil war.”
Bad Tom grinned. “You’re just saying that.” He smiled. “You’ll need to run courses every day.”
Ser Gabriel nodded. “I will-but I don’t want to be injured.”
His brother laughed mirthlessly. “You are the original glory-thief. If you’re injured, I’m sure one of us can find the time to take your place.”
There was some forced laughter.
Bad Tom grinned ear to ear. “It’s fewkin’ de Vrailly?” he asked.
Ser Gabriel shrugged. “It won’t be the King in person. De Vrailly is his champion.”
Ser Gavin looked at his brother. “He’s mine,” he said. “As God is my witness. I want him.”
The knights at the table looked at each other.
Ser Gavin leaned forward. “I’m the best jouster.”
Ser Gabriel nodded. “Yes,” he said slowly, and then smiled at his brother. “Some days.” He sat back. “The Queen asked me, last fall. I don’t think she knew what was at stake then-”
Tom Lachlan slapped his thigh. “At stake!” he said, laughing. “Damn me, that’s good.”
The next two days on the road were not like the first week. They moved faster, into the northern Albin, on better roads, crossing the great bridges over the river with each great bend, and paying tolls to local lords at every bridge. The King’s officers maintained the bridges and the roads, and local men collected the tolls and passed them to Harndon. Trade on the Royal Road was one of the major sources of northern revenue.
“Why doesn’t the Royal Road run all the way to Albinkirk?” Sister Katherine asked one evening.
Ser Gavin, who had just sung evensong with the nuns, made a face. “Mostly, because of my da,” he said. “In the dark times before Chevin, the creatures of the Wild ruined every road they could find-they tried to cut Albinkirk off from Harndon altogether.” He shook his head. “The great lords of the north used to maintain the northern stretches of the road. My da doesn’t see any need to be connected to Harndon or to pay taxes there.”