They rode for three hours. Every hour, the column halted for a few minutes-pages offered nose bags to horses, and water. At the third hour they came to an inn, and its gates were open and torches burned in the fog to guide them to water, a bite of fresh, warm bread and a cup of warm honey-mead in the dripping darkness. They halted for perhaps twenty minutes in the inn yard, and then rode out again-forty horses, twenty men and two women. She didn’t know where they were, but she suspected they were very close to Harndon. The countryside around them was waking up, cocks were crowing, and from the sounds, the Albin River had to be to her left and the bells were probably Harndon bells ringing across the river.
The fog grew lighter, but no less dense. Somewhere over her head, the sun was rising, but not a ray of it penetrated the dense grey cloud that clung to all of them like wet smoke.
Then, to her confusion, they were among trees-big, old trees, oaks and maples and another tall, magnificent type she did not know from the Adnacrags that grew as wide around as a peasant’s hut and so tall they vanished into the grey above.
“We’re in the Royal Park at Haye,” Nell whispered to her. The youngster seemed to know far more about the morning’s plans than she did. “Ser Gelfred cleared all this an hour hence. Our people are at all the gates. This is where we wait.”
“Wait?” Amicia asked.
Nell looked at her as she probably looked at new pages and archers. Don’t you know anything? “We have to ride into the lists at just the right moment, Cap’n says.” Nell spoke of the captain as a nun might speak of God. Her trust was absolute.
Most of the column dismounted. A young man-Daniel Favour, whom Amicia could remember as a boy in Hawkshead-rode out of the fog. He rode to the captain, exchanged a few words and then rode to Ser Gavin. The three men spoke perhaps three sentences, and then Favour mounted again. He paused his horse by Amicia and bowed. “Morning, Sister!” he said. “Funny thing, a couple of mountain brats meeting here, eh?”
Amicia laughed-her first unforced laugh of the morning. “You seem in high spirits, Daniel,” she said.
Favour grinned. “Oh, we’ve put a rare jest over on the Galles, ain’t we, Sister? I reckon they’ll make a song o’ us.” He saluted her with his riding whip. He was in a light saddle such as the easterners used, on a tall, athletic horse. His breastplate shone, and she noticed that the day had brightened considerably.
Ser Michael came over and crouched by her, armour and all. “The Queen is being moved through the streets of Harndon even now,” he said. He frowned. “The Galles have executed some prominent men already-Ailwin Darkwood, for one.”
“And your father?” she asked. Even as she asked, she was praying for the soul of Ailwin Darkwood.
“On the list for execution,” he said. Then he smiled. “But joining us at Lorica, or so I gather from the captain.”
Amicia had come to a second-hand education in Alban politics, and she winced for her Order. “Michael,” she said, using his first name on purpose. “Do your company purpose a civil war?”
“My da would,” he admitted. “I like to think the captain has better notions.”
“But you’ll follow him either way?” she asked.
He gave her a strange look.
The day was brighter yet, and high overhead there was a hint that someday the sky might be blue.
“Captain’s worried the fog might break up too soon,” Michael said.
“It is a miracle from God,” Amicia said. “Perfectly suited to our needs.”
“Well,” said Gabriel’s voice from behind her. “Not exactly from God, since I cast it myself. One of your Abbess’s tricks, as I recall.”
She turned and saw-Ser Gavin. His visor was down so that his voice was muffled, and he wore Gavin’s green surcoat and gold pentagonal star.
He sat on her log, armour creaking, and popped his long, falcon-like visor. Inside Gavin’s helmet was Gabriel’s face.
He shrugged. “They’re all against me,” he said pleasantly. “Apparently Gavin’s the better jouster and I’m needed to give orders.” He waved a hand. “I raised the fog.” He made a face. “I confess it is spectacular.”
She nodded, delighted that he could admit even that much. “I think you do God too little credit,” she said. “I’m glad Ser Gavin will hold the lance.”
“I should be offended you think so little of my prowess,” he said. “And me wearing your favour.”
“You are a foolish boy,” she said. “And when this adventure is over, Gabriel, I will have my favour back. I am no longer a maiden to be won.”
“Yes, yes,” he said heartily.
She could see it-a rather soiled square of plain linen-peeping out from under a pauldron.
“Yes, Bonne Soeur. We will part.” He laughed.
“You don’t believe me?” she asked, stung.
For answer, he bowed and flipped down his visor. Men were mounting. Something had changed while they were talking.
He vaulted into the saddle of his war horse. He was riding his own. Ser Gavin came and knelt beside her. “I crave your blessing, Bonne Soeur,” he said.
Amicia was tempted to tell Ser Gavin that Ser Gabriel would never crave anyone’s blessing-but that was not her business. Her business was between men and God, and she put a hand on his helmet and blessed him.
He rose, and mounted his horse. She could see from his body language that he was afire with nerves, and although Nell was behind her, utterly impatient, she walked after the apparent Red Knight and took his bridle.
“You have nothing to fear,” she said. “Go with God.”
Ser Gavin’s smile showed under his visor for a moment. “You are a good woman,” he said. “And is my fear so visible?”
She shook her head, using her gentlest voice. “No, ser knight. But you would be a madman if you were not afraid, with the fate of two kingdoms on you.” She reached up and put a gentle healing on him, and he breathed easier.
“Go with God,” she said.
He saluted her.
“You’re going to make us late!” Nell hissed at her.
But she mounted carefully, tried not to figure out which knight was actually Ser Ricar, and got her skirts displayed to best effect in time to join the column as it jogged through the gates. The fog was breaking up.
The tournament was waiting.
Chapter Seven
The Company
The sun was high and hot, but the last of the fog remained over the flat green fields south of First Bridge, creating an odd, sticky day. No breeze stirred the banners-and the commons, those that had taken the risk to attend, stood sullen in the damp heat, an unseasonable weather.
The broad jest began to circulate that the Galles would find it hard to find dry wood to burn the Queen.
The stands, and the long wooden barricades that marked the lists, were not empty. The stands were full of the gentry of the court, reinforced by the folk of the southern Albin-some hundreds of men and women dressed in their best. They were apprehensive-most had left home for the great day long before the King’s arrest of the Queen was even a rumour.
And many of the commons had come, as well. The barricades were lined, three or four deep. Many of the refugees who had fled the burnings in the city had gone no further than relatives north of First Bridge or on the Lorica road, where the city’s suburbs sprawled for three leagues, and unshaven chins and close bundled children spoke of many families who’d slept under the stars in order to see the King-or see the Queen burned.
But the mood of the commons was ugly enough. A squire was foolish enough to stop and make a great show of pissing on a fallen shield with the Queen’s arms. He was an Alban, a southerner, and he did it for the entertainment of his friends. He was badly beaten by a dozen ploughmen who didn’t see the world as he did.
Increasing numbers of peasants pressed in around the Queen until the King, or his deputies, sent a strong detachment of the Royal Guard to watch over her. The Guardsmen, however, were careful not to offend the people, and did nothing to move the crowd itself, which grew denser.