He had been coming out the door when this man suddenly approached him; he swept a sharp look around the courtyard again, still wary. Around him were only his own men. He lowered his eyes to the note. It occurred to him he had never seen her written hand before. It could be false. He said to the rough-cut man in front of him, “Where did you get this?” “In Poitiers, my lord.” “Who gave it to you?” “The Queen, the lady of Aquitaine.” His voice rang with a quick pride. He looked Henry in the eyes and gave him no deference. “The people you were traveling with—where are they now?” “Going toward the Boulogne road, when I left.” Henry thought he was telling the truth. Anyhow, he could not take the chance. He wheeled, caught the eye of the page waiting behind him, and sent him for Robert de Courcy. He folded the paper quickly in half. If it was true—if it was true—Impulsively he kissed it. Robert came rushing up to him. “Get us horses. Ten men, the best.” “Yes, my lord.”
