The days at the court had a rhythm to them, and Eleanor learned it the way she learned everything in this life: by watching, by listening, and by saying only what she was certain of.
She rose early because the body rose early — it seemed to be a fixed condition of whoever she was, this particular person who apparently needed very little sleep and found mornings useful. She ate simply. She spent her mornings with the soldiers and her afternoons with the commanders, and her evenings were her own, which she used to think.
She thought a great deal.
There was a friar attached to the army — a small, wiry man named Brother Pasquerel, with ink-stained fingers and the slightly distracted quality of someone whose mind was always running parallel to the conversation at hand. He had attached himself to her side with a devotion that was clearly habitual and which told her something important: this friar had been here before. He knew her. He was used to her.
She had to be careful with him.
