From the windows of the music room in the Duchess’s Tower, Litasse watched the Carluse ranks passing through Triolle Castle’s gatehouse. Their horses were groomed, their harness polished, their surcoats quartered in dense black and spotless white. A brazen fanfare echoed around the stone walls as the boar’s head banner snarled. Beneath it, Duke Garnot’s armour was polished to a mirror shine, the brass embellishing his shoulders as bright as the sun, even as the shadows deepened around the bailey. “When he’s not even cock of his own dunghill any more,” Litasse added with contempt. Karn was counting. “He’s riding with a hundred and ten men. Three companies of militia are still trailing after him though. They’ll arrive in three or four days, if they don’t think better of it.” Litasse sincerely hoped they did. “I wonder what he’ll make of that.” “You won’t see him acknowledge doubts, or even grief.” Pelletria stood at her shoulder. “Even when his bastard Lord Veblen died, no one saw him shed a tear or voice the least regret at sending the lad into battle.”
