"Calm yourself, Gloriana." the Duchess scolds, with a tone of voice that never raises in volume, yet cuts as sharply as steel.

"This is unbecoming of a Sinclair."

Gloriana shuts the hell up, and stands there, fidgeting.

"An enemy would hardly have come bearing a sword that my son helped forge for him, would he?" the Duchess asks rhetorically.

She sniffs at the air.

"And that is hardly the odor of one from Normandy...do you happen to be from Calais, by any chance?"