And then he had to find his way back to his body.
When he did, he found it bruised, and with a burn the size of his hand with an ashy black centre high on his back, from which emerged an ugly dark trickle of something that stank.
He touched the growing dampness on his back and his vision tunnelled.
He was in a bed in the infirmary of the abbey. He let his eyes flutter open, and there was the Prior.
“I got them all,” he said grimly. “Is she alive?”
Prior Wishart allowed himself a tired smile. “She’s alive. But your officers have decided that you are not going anywhere today. There are new events, and new reports-the busy world has gone on without you.” He sat on the edge of Ser Gabriel’s bed. “I am not a cruel man-she lives and thrives. Her power cleared the cursed venom from your back at sunrise. I think she is now asleep.”
Ser Gabriel was pinned in the bed by the Prior. He wriggled, clearly reaching for his clothes.
“Give me a moment of your time, Prince Gabriel,” the Prior said.
He handed his charge a cup of warm wine.
“Poppy?” Ser Gabriel asked.
“Only honey,” the Prior said. “You will need all your wits today.”
An hour later-almost noon-they all gathered at the Abbot’s long table in his hall. Ser Gabriel sat with the Prior, and Ser Michael and Ser Alcaeus-with two imperial messenger birds supported on missal stands-sat opposite a swollen-faced Amicia and Ser Thomas, with Ser Gavin and Ser Ricar of the Order, the infidel, Ser Payam, and Ser Christos. There were two other knights of the Order and two lay knights. The Order had many secular members-knights who donated their time, especially to defend caravans or pilgrims.
But next to Ser Gelfred, at the head of the table, sat a young man in blue and yellow checky, whose curling beard and open-faced good looks were marred by youthful rage.
But he mastered himself and rose and bowed to all present.
Ser Gelfred rose with him. “Gentlemen and ladies, Prince Tancredo of Occitan.”
“The Queen’s brother,” Amicia said quietly to Sister Katherine, who sat slightly behind her.
The prince smiled at her. It was like the rising of the sun. Amicia was woman enough to appreciate that, despite his flushed cheeks and the hard, vengeful look around his eyes, his tanned skin and ruddy blond hair and his sharp nose made him one of the handsomest men she’d ever seen. Next to Ser Gabriel’s pale skin and dark hair-
They were a match in size and shape, as well.
The prince was still smiling at her.
“You are, sans doute, the most beautiful nun I have ever seen,” he said with a bow.
Ser Gabriel’s face made a funny twitch.
But he also bowed to her. “It is good to see you alive,” he said.
She felt herself flush.
The other knights-Ser Payam and Ser Thomas and Ser Ricar, all of whom had been badly burned by the ichor in the moths-rose and praised her, and she looked out the window. “It is God, my friends, not me,” she protested, but indeed, the praise of such men was sweet.
Ser Pavalo bowed to her again. He spoke in a language which sounded like Archaic.
“He says that he salutes your great power. He says, it is a gift from God.” Gabriel nodded. “I think he is thanking you for the healing, but I confess my Etruscan’s not as good as his and I’m not sure. Maybe he’s saying you are the most beautiful nun he’s ever seen, too.”
She glared at Gabriel, and he mocked her with his smile.
Prior Wishart cleared his throat.
Gabriel had the good grace to look abashed. He bowed to the prince. “Your grace-it is a pleasure to have you among us.”
Prior Wishart translated in liquid Occitan, which sounded to Albans like Gallish mixed half and half with Etruscan.
The prince nodded and frowned. He rolled out a long speech, sat back and crossed his arms on his chest.
“The prince says that his cousin Rohiri died this morning, covering his retreat-that he feels like a poltroon, and that he followed this man-this Gelfred-here expecting to save his sister and his own honour. And he says”-Prior Wishart frowned-“some other things which I decline to translate.” He spoke sharply in Occitan to the prince.
Prince Tancredo’s head snapped around. He glared at the Prior, flicked his glance to Amicia, and then flushed.
“I apologize,” he said with a shrug. “I agree. I am not myself.”
Ser Gabriel nodded. “She has that effect on all of us,” he said.
“No, just you,” Ser Michael said. “Well, and the prince.”
Amicia gazed levelly at them, taking her high-carried head and careful diction from her former Abbess. “If you gentlemen are quite finished,” she said. “I believe all of us are interested in rescuing the Queen.”
Gelfred took the Red Knight’s parchment chart of Alba, rolling it out on the table. All the knights present drew their daggers, rondels and baselards, and placed them on the edges to pin the stiff hide in place.
He pointed at Harndon.
“The King-and de Vrailly-hold Harndon. They have five or six hundred lances and a strong infantry force.”
“What of the guilds?” the Prior asked. “My own news is three days old.”
Ser Alcaeus rose. “The guilds are scattered. The proscriptions have driven a great number of prominent city men into the countryside. Ser Gelfred has Ser Gerald-”
“Indeed, he will be in Lorica within the hour,” Gelfred put in.
“But most of the armourers, smiths, and fishmongers, too-have fled the capital.” Ser Alcaeus had a wax tablet he consulted.
“So-de Vrailly has the city,” the Prior said.
Ser Gabriel nodded. “Yes. Win or lose, Ser Ricar and Master Pye made the call for the skilled trades to flee before it came to massacre.”
Ser Ricar nodded.
“This morning,” Ser Alcaeus went on, “de Vrailly led a royal army through the gates to assault the Prince of Occitan’s camp.”
Gelfred nodded. “I warned him.”
“And here he is.” Ser Gabriel nodded.
“De Vrailly and Du Corse, the best of their soldiers, defeated the Occitans after a few hours’ fighting,” Ser Alcaeus said, rather undiplomatically. The prince writhed in his seat. His Alban was clearly good enough to take offence. “My source says that some of the guilds served in the royal army, and that city crossbowmen shot down the last of the prince’s knights.”
The prince slammed his fist on the table.
The Red Knight put a hand on Ser Alcaeus’s shoulder. “Enough!” he said. “The prince doesn’t need to be reminded of his sacrifice. How many lances did he save?”
The prince nodded. “Sixty,” he said. “Knights and squires, sixty of each.” He turned to the Prior and said something.
Prior Wishart nodded. “Spearmen.”
“Mais oui. Bien sur. We did not bring any pages or archers or, as you say, spear-men, as we thought that we were coming to a tourney-a bohars. And not a war.”
Ser Michael leaned forward. He glanced at the captain, who met his eye-encouraging him to speak. “But it is not war yet,” he said.
Bad Tom chuckled. “The barmy King has arrested his own wife an’ your da and it’s not war?” he asked.
Ser Michael managed a thin-lipped smile. “No, by God, it is not, Tom. My father had not paid his taxes, and his loyalty to the crown was…” He shrugged, and his steel pauldrons winked in the sunlight. “Not all it might have been. The arrest of the earl need not be cause for civil war. Nor, I think, is the arrest of the Queen.”
All around the table, men nodded.
The Prior stroked his beard.
The prince looked away, lips pursed in annoyance.
“Killing the Queen, on the other hand,” Ser Gabriel said quietly, “would probably break any remaining loyalties we all felt to the King. Is that not so?”
He looked around. “Gentlemen and ladies, I am a mercenary. I fight for money, and war is my business. In this instance, I find it ironic that I’m reminding you how disastrous war would be for this realm-internal civil war.”