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Vawdrey’s shoulders relaxed at once. “You’ll soon learn when you’ve one of your own,” he commented with a worldly-wise air.

Kentigern was so flabbergasted by this notion that he just stared first at Vawdrey and then at the baby. “How old is it?” he asked grudgingly.

“Two months. A good size, you’ll agree,” Vawdrey boasted. Was it? Konrad gazed at it doubtfully.

“None of Mason’s hellspawn were half so impressive,” Roland continued, gazing foolishly at his daughter. “As for Oswald’s, his twins were tiny for ages.”

“How many has Cadwallader got now?” Konrad asked, thinking with dislike of Mason Vawdrey, who been a large reason why the north had fallen. Fucking bastard had been an inspired general.

“Four,” Roland answered absently. “Lily, Meg, Archie, and Ben.”

“Two sons?” Kentigern observed with disfavor. Stood to reason. Lucky bastard had always fallen on his feet.

“Not as pretty as Agnes,” Vawdrey replied, dipping his head closer to the baby and using a doting voice that Konrad could only suppose he reserved for speaking to it with.

Konrad made a revolted face. Who on earth wanted pretty sons? Vawdrey was losing the fucking plot. He glanced at the child again. “How long before it walks?”

“Eh? Oh years, I expect,” Roland replied airily. When the baby’s mouth started working and she gave a whimper, he straightened up. “Looking to feed,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll take her back to her mother.”

Konrad nodded with relief, and Vawdrey scurried off.

“Did he try to get you to hold it?” asked a voice from his left, which was his blind side. He wheeled about to find Garman Orde regarding him wryly.

“What?”

“The baby,” Orde spelled out.

Konrad grunted. Why the fuck was Orde now wanting to talk about babies? “What’s with the new banner?” he asked, redirecting the conversation by nodding toward the pennants at the far end of the hall.

“New title,” Orde explained briefly. “My grandfather died.”

“Your grandfather? Who was he?”

“Earl of Twyford.”

“Your grandfather was the Earl of Twyford?” Konrad was honestly surprised he had not heard tell of it before. Twyford was an old and venerated northern title. Unlike Vawdrey, Orde was a countryman of his and a fellow northerner. They had served in King Magnur’s army together, but he had certainly known nothing of his noble lineage.

Orde grunted in affirmation but showed no interest in pursuing the topic. “You hear about de Bussell and the princess?” he asked.

Kentigern stiffened. “I did.”

“You hear he took her with him last month to compete at Areley Kings?”

Konrad squinted at him. “What?”

Orde nodded. “He won too. Made her tournament queen.”

“The fuck he did.”

A brief smile touched Orde’s lips. “Saw it with my own eyes.”

“He beat you?”

Orde shook his head. “I went out early. Injury. He beat de Crecy in the final round.”

Kentigern absorbed this a moment in stunned silence. “De Crecy was having an off day, I suppose. It happens.”

Orde shook his head. “De Crecy was not having an off day. De Bussell fought like a demon. Lenora has this theory that old Armand has never really had his heart in the game before now.”