Shining Light

As the Imperial troops fled from the town of Le Poet-Jerome, two figures watched the rout from the edge of the woods from which the Aquitainians had advanced.

They were not alone, of course; aides and staff officers attended on them, and a squadron of Horse Grenadiers protected her from harm, but nevertheless there were only two people who could be said to be watching the battle as it came to its conclusion.

General Villars had a telescope raised to one eye. He was a tall man, big and broad shouldered, black hair and a black beard descending halfway down his chest, concealing half of his red coat from view in the process. When he lowered the telescope, he revealed to view a blue eye, a bright blue eye, unnaturally so. His eyes were so bright that it was as though a great inferno burned behind them.

Eleanor found it disconcerting to look at, but she had trained herself to be able to look at it regardless.

The other figure watching the end of the battle was Eleanor herself, Eleanor of Aquitaine and Anjou, Queen Eleanor. She sat upon a white horse, surrounded by her guards, watching the victory through a pair of opera glasses. It was an affectation, a telescope such as General Villars used would have suited her better, but she had first found herself using the opera glasses when a military action had caught her surprise, and by now… people expected them. They were a part of her, like her white horse, Greenbriar, without which she would hardly be Eleanor of Aquitaine.

The rightful queen of Aquitaine and Burgundy was a woman of depressingly average height – she yearned to be tall, but God had not decreed it so – with hair of gold and eyes of purple. It was said that her illustrious ancestor, Aurora, the Queen of Aquitaine whose marriage to the King of Anjou had done so much to expand their realm, had possessed hair and eyes in just that combination. It was said that the line had bred true in her, that in Eleanor the beauty of Aurora, granted by a fairy's blessing, had flowered again.

Certainly Eleanor herself was not about to dispute the fact, although from the portraits she had seen she reckoned that her own features were a little softer than those of Aurora, her chin less sharp, her face less long. She did, however, possess the fine pronounced cheekbones of her most celebrated ancestor, and she was not above appealing to the resemblance: she grew her hair long, cascading past her waist in rolling waves just as Aurora had in all the paintings of her, and rolled at the ends in just that way, and her bangs arranged in just such a fashion, and eyeshadow to enhance the purple of her eyes to remind everyone that yes, those were her eyes, and were they not familiar?

The resemblance was diluted by the fact that she had dyed the tips of her golden hair as purple as her eyes, but she must be allowed to put her own spin upon her likeness.

Eleanor was dressed for war, in some semblance of an Aquitainian uniform: a red jacket with golden epaulettes, white breeches and high, black riding boots reaching up to her knees, a white waistcoat. At the behest of… practically everyone, she wore a cuirassier's breastplate across her chest, though she was doubtful that it would do her any good if she were shot, but it made her generals and courtiers and soldiers happier to see her wearing it – one time she had mounted without it on and some soldier had grabbed the reins of Greenbriar as bold as you like and soon a mob of soldiers had her surrounded and refused to let her go anywhere unless she armoured herself.

She had not had the heart to punish them for their temerity. How could one punish even disobedience that came from love?

If it put them at her ease then she would wear the breastplate. It had become as important as Greenbriar or the opera glasses.

A red sash stretched across her breastplate, decorated with the badges of various chivalric orders which she, as Queen, was head of: the Knights of the Sword of Truth, the Bearers of the Shield of Virtue, the Most Noble and Sacred Order of the True Cross.

Her lips were painted, and her face made up; just because she was dressed somewhat as a soldier did not mean that she was not also a queen; even as she rode with the armies, even as she watched their battles, even as she shared in some small part in their perils nevertheless she had to appear beautiful in their eyes, feminine yet to some small degree. Even on the battlefield, especially upon the battlefield, she must be an otherworldly creature, set apart from the common run of men. Such was the mystery that sustained a monarchy.

A smile crossed her painted lips as she watched the Imperial troops fly from the field, leaving their cannon behind.

"They are running, General," she declared, elation in her voice. "They are running!"

General Villars did not seem so elated by his victory. "They are running," he growled, a scowl upon his face. "And they will run away, and we will have to whip them again another time." He stuck the pommel of his saddle. "Oh, what an opportunity for the cavalry! Oh, that my cavalry were here! Captain Junot!"

"Yes, sir?"

"I want Colonel Steuart found post haste," General Villars commanded, a bark in his voice. "And I wish to know why he and his cavalry were not at this fight!"

"Immediately, sir," Captain Junot said, offering a salute to his chief before he turned and rode away, disappearing into the trees upon his uncertain errand.

General Villars shook his head. "Oh, what an opportunity for the cavalry," he said.

"But the battle is won," Eleanor reminded him.

He nodded. "It is, your majesty," he conceded. "But I would rather destroy my enemies than simply defeat them."

"I have heard that pursuit by cavalry is an uncertain business at night," Matilda ventured, her voice soft and rather timorous, as though she feared to question the general upon his own ground.

General Villars looked at her, and as he did so he reached with one riding-gloved hand into his saddlebag and pulled out a lemon. It looked especially bright and especially yellow at night, and even more so as he stuck it into his mouth, so that it was a single yellow spot in the midst of his black beard.

He must have bit into it, for a little lemon juice ran down said beard, although he quickly brushed it away, and when he pulled the lemon out again his teeth marks were clearly visible.

"That is true, your highness," he said, his voice a deep bass rumble. "And if the enemy were retiring in good order from the field I should not attempt it. But in these circumstances, where they are running, a light pursuit by our cavalry would not only keep them running but, I believe, would scatter them to the four winds, those we did not catch up to would be too broken to reform themselves. In short, I believe the rewards would have been worth the risk, if only our cavalry had been here. As things stand, they will undoubtedly reform themselves, and we will have to face them again."

"I understand," Matilda murmured. "Thank you, General." Matilda was the Princess of Flanders, set to Aquitaine by her father at the war's commencement, ironically to keep her safe when it looked as though his country would be invaded by the Empire. She had chosen to ride out with Eleanor to join the little Army of the Dauphine in their counteroffensive. She was irritatingly taller than Eleanor, and very beautiful, with angelic blue eyes and a milk and honey complexion. If there had been peace in Europe she would have been wed by now for sure. If there had peace and a few more suitable princes, but Christendom was overrun with princesses at present, far more than it had suitable princes for them to marry. Eleanor had been an only child, with no brothers to marry off or to supersede her in the succession; the King of Normandie had a son, but the King of Normandie was such a brute that who would marry his son, even for a kingdom? Prince Eugene of Armorique had been the prize of course, both for his looks and for his father's realm, and but he…

Well, he had married some peasant serving girl, hadn't he? Foolish boy, he should have made her his mistress and married… well, if he had been wise he would have married Freddy. She would have taken good care of the kingdom, while the servant took care of his bed.

Her spies in Armorique told her that Freddy was still there, hanging around like a bad smell. Eleanor wondered, that being the case, why Armorique's princess was still alive, and her children besides. Perhaps Freddy was losing her touch. Perhaps Toulon had shaken her so completely that she was no longer the woman Eleanor had known.

Or perhaps this servant girl, this Cinderella, was as capable as her spies intimated to her. Eleanor did not believe it, she was sure that it was her spies who were losing their touch, becoming intoxicated by the atmosphere in Armorique, going native, but possibly…

It hardly bore thinking about, that a mere servant, a common girl, dragged from the ashes of the fireplace, could become a successful princess, could rule a nation, as regent or simply as the grey eminence – could one be a grey eminence if one dressed in white and in unnumbered gleaming pearls? A question for the philosophers – behind the throne? Why, it was almost enough to suggest that anyone could rule, that quality of character mattered for more than blood and birth. And what a frightful notion that was.

To distract herself from such musings, Eleanor asked, "What will happen now, General Villars?"

The purpose of this offensive, the reason she had reinforced Villars with a second division, the reason she had come out herself all this way to witness the offensive, was to draw off some of the Imperial troops mustering for the grand offensive towards Bourdeaux. She believed that they would be victorious in that battle for the capital – Aquitaine was assembling a grand army of its own, and God was on their side without doubt; he would not let the crusader kingdom fall to Teutonic barbarism – but General Marsan agreed with her that if they could draw off troops from that battle that would be only to the good.

Now she wished to see if, in the opinion of a military man, it had worked.

"I think they will deploy troops from east and west," Villars said. "Not only from the forces currently moving south towards Bourdeaux, but from their troops in Burgundy, and try and catch us from both sides."

Eleanor nodded. That made sense. "And you will retreat, to avoid the trap?"

General Villars placed the lemon back in his mouth. Moments passed as he sucked upon it, with only a vague squelching sound in answer to her question as he sucked out the juice. After some time, after Eleanor had begun to shift somewhat impatiently in Greenbriar's saddle, he removed the lemon, and said, "No, your majesty, I intend to pursue those people there and chase them north out of our territory."

"And the forces you predict will close in on you from the sides?" Eleanor asked.

"I want them to think they can get in behind me," Villars explained. "I want them to come in close so I can beat them too." He paused. "Your Majesty, we will only win this war if we take every opportunity to bring about engagements with the enemy. To that end we must be bold to the point of recklessness, that the enemy, thinking us foolish, will not shrink from battle but embrace it. And then, in battle, we will defeat them."

"And what if your course is reckless?" Matilda asked quietly.

"We are about God's work, your highness, and I am His instrument," General Villars declared. "Though it be reckless, His providence, watching over us, will always show us the way to victory, even as He showed the Israelites the way through the wilderness, and brought down the very walls of Jericho." Once more he paused. "Nevertheless, there will be risk. Risk is a soldier's business, but I think that Your Majesty should return to Bourdeaux, or to some safer place, confident that I have all things well in hand."

That was sound advice. It was not only Matilda who was suffering from the dearth of eligible princes. Eleanor was yet unwed. Unwed and childless and her father's only child. She claimed the throne of Burgundy by right of her mother, but if she were to fall, if she perished in this war, if some cannon shot had tonight taken off her head, then the royal line of Aquitaine, the line of Philip and Aurora, would end with her.

The prospect was enough to make marriage to the Prince of Normandie seem promising, but the King of Normandie would not give his son in marriage to her while he thought that Aquitaine might lose this war.

She must win, and then she must get an heir for Aquitaine with all due dispatch.

A rider approached, an officer on horseback, riding quickly across the battlefield, towards General Villars and towards Queen Eleanor. The horse grenadiers parted to let him approach, and he reined in his roan steed in front of the general and the queen.

"Your Majesty," he said. "General." He saluted General Villars. "You'd best come quick, in the village tavern we have found a man claiming to Prince Adam of the Franche-Comte."

"Prince Adam?" Eleanor repeated. What is he doing here? The Franche-Comte was a part of the Holy Roman Empire, but it had sent no soldiers to the war – as a small land it didn't have many soldiers to send, if any – and even if it had, even if there had been a single battalion of Franche-Comte men, all that their small principality could muster, in this battle, then why was their prince leading them himself? And why was he still here? Why hadn't he escaped with his troops?

"I'm not sure I'd know what he looks like to say for certain, your majesty," the officer said apologetically.

"Quite right, of course," Eleanor murmured. "Well, there is only one thing to do and that is to see this prince for ourselves. Come, General!" she did not wait for his acknowledgement, she did not wait for anyone – guards or generals or staff or even Matilda – she simply urged Greenbriar on, driving her knees into the flanks of her snow white steed, sending him flying, galloping swiftly across the battlefield.

She loved to ride. She loved to ride so swiftly with her hair streaming out behind her like a banner. And so she rode, leaving the others behind her, feeling the wind against her face, riding as swift as wind, riding freely.

It was only in the saddle that she was free. Everywhere else she was constrained by her duty towards Aquitaine, the duty to which she had been born, but in the saddle, with Greenbriar's hooves churning up the soil, she was free.

The battlefield was not a pretty sight as she rode across it, but Eleanor comforted herself with the knowledge that those who had perished had given their lives in the glorious cause of their kingdom, and that heaven would reward them for their courage.

She rode straight towards a cannon, a gun left abandoned by the Imperial troops in their flight, one that had been unlimbered on the edge of the village. It's great black muzzle pointed straight at her, but, abandoned as it was, it did not fire. It simply gaped at her as Eleanor and Greenbriar drew nearer and nearer, until Eleanor dug her knees into the flanks of her trusty steed once more and Greenbriar leapt, a powerful leap into the air that sent him and his rider both soaring over the gun to land clear and unobstructed on the other side, his hooves kicking up earth as he pranced victorious back and forth.

The soldiers in the village began to cheer, they let loose their high-pitched Aquitainian yell, and as they cheered so the cheering spread throughout Le Poet-Jerome as they saw their queen amongst them in the aftermath of their victory.

They closed around her, converging upon her from all directions, rushing towards her, even as Eleanor urged Greenbriar on towards the tavern. Soon she was surrounded by soldiers, and Greenbriar could only move slowly, painfully slowly, pushing his way through the great crowd like a ship trying the break the ice that lay athwart its northward course.

"Your Majesty!"

"Queen Eleanor!"

"God Save the Queen!"

"God is with us, your majesty!"

"We're with you, Queen Eleanor!"

They cheered for her, they cried for her, they yelled for her and screamed out their devotions. These men in Aquitainian uniforms, these soldiers in red with powder stains upon their hands and faces, they wept like children as she came amongst them, looking upon her as if they had seen an angel of the lord. They reached out for Greenbriar, who bore their presence and their touch with such admirable patience that in that moment he seemed the very best of horses, and only to brush their fingertips against his white flank, his rump, just to touch a hair of his mane seemed to fill them with wonder and amazement. They reached for her, they touched her boots, and Eleanor reached out in turn for some of them, reaching out with hands enclosed in white riding gloves to take a hand or two that was offered to her.

Some of them took her hand so firmly and so fiercely that she thought she would be pulled out of the saddle and to the ground, but always they released them, eyes wide with amazement.

And they cheered for her, they cried out for her, they raised her to skies. What had she done to earn such loyalty, such devotion? She was their queen, born to rule them, yes, but to be loved? What had she done, to earn such?

She had been with them on the battlefield. She had been with them when they had routed their foes, and when their foes had routed them. She had visited them in the hospitals when they were wounded, she had even ministered to some of their injuries. She would not, despite General Villars' suggestion, retreat to some safe place. She would return to Bourdeaux, yes, because that was where the hammer of the enemy would fall, where the great battle would be fought, and in that battle… the royal line of Aquitaine might end with her, but at least they would be able to say that it had ended bravely, with a courage worthy of her noble line and far-famed ancestors.

Eleanor stood up in the saddle, resting her feet in the stirrups, raising one hand in the air. "Glory to heroes!" she shouted. "Glory to Aquitaine!"

The cheering was redoubled as Eleanor finally made her way to the tavern, where she dismounted from her horse. She patted Greenbriar on the neck. "Well done," she murmured.

He snuffled, and seemed to almost nod, before Eleanor left him, and went inside.

The tavern was much what you would expect of a rustic inn: wood, blackened with smoke in places, old but sturdy; clean tables with only a few stains on them, a stone floor.

And a party gathered in the centre of the room, huddled together as if for protection. As if it would do them any good against her forces.

As if they had anything to fear.

Queen Eleanor glanced past them for now, however, focussing her gaze instead upon the barmaid, who was not with the party but who was, all the same, cowering in the corner of the room. None of her soldiers, and there were a few, keeping watch and standing guard over those people who might be prisoners but whose status was, as yet, uncertain, seemed to know what to do about her.

Eleanor walked over to her. She was dressed in rags, with bags under her eyes and her apron stained, her hair unkempt and ragged. Yet nevertheless, Eleanor knelt down in front of her, so that they were of a height.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle," she said. "It appears that we have alarmed you by our arrival here."

The barmaid said nothing in response, but gave a wordless sort of mewling sound.

"I am sorry, for that," Eleanor said, calm and quiet, her voice a whisper, as though she were reading a bedtime story to a child. "it was not our intent to cause fear or panic in our good folk of Aquitaine, and I regret that the enemy presence here forced us to bring war to this place, just as I regret that the machinations of our contemptible foe have brought war to what should have been a peaceful land. You are a subject of Aquitaine, are you not?"

The barmaid nodded mutely.

Eleanor smiled at her. "Then have no fear. For we are here for your protection." She held out her hand. "Come, take my hand, and rise again amongst your friends."

The barmaid stared at her for a moment, and then at her hand. Gingerly, she reached out, and clasped Eleanor's much smaller hand.

Eleanor's smile widened, and she stood up, and as she stood she pulled the barmaid to her feet.

"There now, that's better," she said. "Be not afraid, for you are under my protection. Sergeant, get this woman something to eat, and see that all her needs are cared for."

"Of course, your majesty."

The barmaid's eyes widened. "Y-your majesty?"

"Go with the good sergeant," she urged. "He'll see you alright." She kept on smiling as the sergeant took the barmaid by the hand and led her away.

The smile only faded from her face as she turned to regard Prince Adam and his party.

The man sitting down at the table was, as he had claimed, Prince Adam of the Franche-Comte. She recognised him at once; she had been a guest at his wedding – he was another prince who had decided to take himself out of the marriage market by marrying some common peasant girl.

What do these peasants have, that so many princes choose them over the likes of Matilda and myself? Eleanor wondered.

Prince Adam's particular peasant bride was sitting next to him; she was pretty enough, Eleanor supposed, although it was a very rustic sort of beauty, despite that green dress she was wearing. You could put racing bells on a cart horse, as they said, but the beast would not go quick, and a passable dress had not made that girl… what was her name? Eleanor struggled to recall. Anyway, whatever her name was, that dress had not made her a lady.

Which was all to the good since they had a morganatic marriage. That was not something commonly seen in Gallia, but Eleanor sometimes wondered if they of the Empire might be wiser in that, for all that it seemed backwards.

Perhaps, if Armorique had had a tradition of morganatic marriage, Prince Eugene might have thought twice before taking a servant girl as his bride.

Regardless, there they were: Prince Adam, his wife, and what were presumably his attendants and retainers. So, they were here. Now Eleanor would have to find out why.

She did not know Prince Adam. He had been something of a recluse for many years; apparently he had been transformed into a beast by magic. Eleanor could believe it, since her own family history afforded examples of the meddling of magic in the affairs of princes, but it meant that there had been little opportunity to get to know him. She had no idea what he was like.

Eleanor did not like to be in that position, but needs must.

She clasped her hands behind her back as she approached them at their table, and said nothing as she sat down opposite Prince Adam and his wife.

"Prince Adam of the Franche-Comte," she said,

"Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine-"

"And Burgundy," Eleanor said.

"That has yet to be determined," said Adam's wife, "or else what is this war being fought over?"

Eleanor kept her irritation off her face. "You must forgive me, Madame," she said, "but I fear that I do not recall your name."

"Belle," Belle said.

"Indeed," Eleanor murmured. "Belle." Your name means beauty? That was rather presumptuous of your parents, wasn't it? Rather over optimistic too, I might add.

"Well, Belle," she went on, "it is true that the Empire, of which your husband's dominion is a part, has chosen to contest my claim by force of arms, but nevertheless I assure you upon my honour and the honour of my line and before Holy God himself I am the rightful Queen of Burgundy, as I am Queen of Aquitaine. Indeed, I dare say that I cannot be one without the other: no Queen of Aquitaine if not also Queen of Burgundy."

Belle's eyes were fixed upon her. "And if Princess Mary should return from Bavaria, what then?"

Then I would cut her throat in the church, Eleanor thought. It was a hard thing, to contemplate the killing of a child, but that particular child had a stronger claim upon Burgundy's throne than she did, and she was an Imperial puppet what was more. There would always be the possibility that the Empire would renew the war to place her on the throne while she lived. That was why Maria Theresa was very wise to keep her in the Neuschwanstein. Eleanor had not had any luck placing any spies in the Bavarian fortress; Maria Theresa's control over who had access to her son was as iron, and her judgement of men was sounder than Eleanor would have liked. Every agent she had sent there had come to a sticky end, until in the end Eleanor had stopped trying, recognising a bad job when she saw one.

Once she had won the war she would have engineer Princess Mary's return to Burgundy somehow.

And then she would meet with an accident, just like her parents with whom she would be reunited.

This is not my doing, I did not start this, Eleanor thought. I was content to rule Aquitaine, I did not seek after Burgundy. It was Maria Theresa who began this bloodshed.

She began it, and I must do whatever is necessary to see that it ends.

She hoped that God would see things the same way.

To Belle, she said, "I would be delighted to see my little cousin again. Nothing would please me more than to take her with me home to Bourdeaux, and see her raised into a fine young lady. It would be the least I could do in memory of my late uncle and his wife."

Belle's expression did not waver, and Eleanor had a sense that she didn't believe Eleanor.

Well, let her think what she liked, her opinion was of no import one way or the other.

"Your Majesty," Prince Adam said, "I didn't expect to see you with your army."

"It cannot be that surprising, Prince Adam, it is, after all, my army," Eleanor replied. "I, on the other hand, was equally surprised to find you here with these men of Baden. Have you decided to play tourist, to treat our war as your entertainment."

"Entertainment is the last thing on our minds when it comes to this war," Belle said.

Eleanor resisted the urge to snap at the peasant girl to be quiet. "Then why are you here?" she demanded.

Prince Adam reached into his blue coat, and pulled out a folded piece of paper which he placed on the table in front of him. "I am an ambassador, for His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Charles the Seventh, travelling to Armorique to discuss the plans for a congress to bring this war to a conclusion."

Eleanor's eyebrows rose as she picked up the piece of paper, unfolding it and reading what was written within. It was a warrant in the name of His Imperial Majesty, but signed by Queen Maria Theresa, obviously, a commission of Prince Adam of the Franche-Comte as an ambassador, granting him safe passage and immunity and commending him to the King of Armorique.

Eleanor read it twice, and was tempted to rip it up or throw it into the fire. She was tempted to reduce this paper shield to shreds, to deny that it had ever existed, and take Prince Adam prisoner. She would parade him through the streets of Bourdeaux as a trophy of victory, and throw his wife into some deep, dark dungeon to rot away so that Prince Adam would be free to take a better class of wife.

That would be very bad form, however; once one started deciding whether or not one was going to molest diplomats or not based on how you felt you were on a very slipper slope. So she put the paper down again, and shoved it across the table in Prince Adam's direction.

"I see," she murmured. "And your presence here-"

"A coincidence," Prince Adam said. "We stopped to the rest for the night and, well, you arrived."

"Hmm," said Eleanor. "No doubt you would rather have spent the night amongst your allies, but I assure you that you and all your people will be quite safe amongst mine. We are not your German barbarians, you will not be harmed or molested."

"Will we be allowed to go?" Adam asked.

"To Armorique?" Eleanor replied.

"Yes," Adam said. "To Armorique."

"Does Maria Theresa look kindly upon this proposal for a congress then?" Eleanor demanded.

"Do you?" asked Belle.

Eleanor snorted. "We do not need a congress," she declared, getting to her feet. "We do not need the King of Armorique to moderate our dispute. We have already submitted our dispute with the Empire to the ultimate arbitration of war and we are winning! Glory to heroes!"

"Glory to Aquitaine!" her soldiers cried.

"Maria Theresa said much the same thing," Adam pointed out.

Eleanor chuckled. "Did she? And yet here you are, my guests, my troops having driven hers off the battlefield in disarray."

"One battle won is not a war," said Belle.

"No," Eleanor admitted. "But wars are won by winning battles, and we are doing that, and will do more of it in days to come, I guarantee it." She paused. "If Maria Theresa thinks that she can win this war then why is she sending you to Armorique."

Adam hesitated.

"Your warrant or no, whether or not you can continue on your mission is ultimately up to me," Eleanor reminded him.

"Queen Maria Theresa has doubts that Armorique will be an impartial mediator," Adam admitted. "We are sent to see if they can be trusted to deal fairly."

"I see," Eleanor murmured. That was… not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. Although she believed that her forces would yet be victorious in the field, it might yet be necessary to come to some sort of a negotiated settlement. If Armorique were able to corral the neutral powers together in opposition to the war then Aquitaine could not risk being seen to prolong it for its own gain, especially if the Empire accepted arbitration, which it might do once the fortunes of the battlefield began to turn against.

It might be that Aquitaine, though victorious in battle, had to accept the outcome of the congress or else become an international pariah. In which case it would be no bad thing to ensure that the host of the congress was fair and impartial.

Especially with Freddy there, no doubt poisoning the minds of the court against me. I should give thought to sending my own representative. Matilda perhaps, she will be safer there than she will be at my side, it would please her father enormously.

And there are other reasons why I might wish to intervene in Armorique, congress or no.

"Very well," she said. "You may continue on your way tomorrow, Prince Adam. I will not keep you from Armorique a moment's longer than necessary."

Prince Adam blinked. "We… we are free to go?"

"Are you not an ambassador?" Eleanor asked. "Should I molest you, imprison you, kill you? No, you are an envoy, and may go on your way towards your embassy. But tell them in Armorique, tell everyone you meet, that Aquitaine is on the verge of victory, and we have no need of any arbitration."