Chapter 30 #3
“Good,” she whispered, then slipped out.
The lock turned again.
Amelia crossed to the coffer first. Empty, except for one folded blanket smelling of cedar and dust. Bed next.
Heavy frame, curtains tied with faded green cord, straw mattress beneath feather.
No knife. No handy trapdoor. No secret passage, because apparently medieval manor houses were inconsiderate.
The window came next. It was narrow, shuttered from within, with horn panes set high enough that she had to stand on the stool to see out properly.
The orchard sloped away from the house, enclosed by a low wall beyond which a lane vanished toward a stand of ash trees.
No guard below. But the drop was far enough to break something, and the wall beyond the orchard had spikes along the top. Rude.
She climbed down and inspected the hearth. Fire tongs. Useful, but heavy. Iron poker. More useful. She lifted it, tested the weight, then set it back exactly where it had been. No need to announce she was shopping for weapons.
The table held bread, cheese, and the jug. She checked the bread first, because a starving woman was a stupid woman. It was coarse, a bit stale, and tasted of rye and smoke. The cheese was hard and salty enough to wake the dead priest who had allegedly married her.
Father Odo. Saint Alphege’s.
She needed to get word to Thomas, obviously. Except Thomas was at Ashcombe with Belmaine’s trap coiled around his feet. A direct message might be intercepted. A servant might be punished. Joan might be brave, but bravery and common sense often had an uneasy marriage.
Dame Margaret? Maybe. The woman had power here, and she had kept Crale out of the room. But she served Belmaine. Or depended on him. Or feared him. Maybe all three.
Father Martin? Better. If the chaplain suspected forgery, he might be willing to speak. Priests liked truth in theory, though Amelia had met enough fundraising committees to know institutional people often liked truth best when it arrived with permission and a budget.
She wiped crumbs from her fingers and began searching herself. Hairpins. Two. One bent but serviceable.
Small cloth of honey cake. Bless Huck and his practical heart. She unwrapped it and stared at the cake, golden-brown, sticky at the edges, smelling faintly of spice.
She ate half, slowly, letting the sweetness sit on her tongue. Her stomach cramped with hunger and fear, then grudgingly accepted both.
The rest she wrapped again and tucked beneath the mattress near the head of the bed. Not hidden well enough to defeat a search, but hidden well enough for now.
Then she sat at the table, poured a little ale, and looked at the door.
Belmaine wanted Thomas cornered, wanted Ashcombe compromised, and her away from Thomas. The fake husband did all three. But why bring her here instead of sending Crale off with her at once?
Because Belmaine needed her nearby. A hostage? A bargaining piece? A scandal held in reserve? Or bait.
Her mouth went dry. If Thomas came angry, armed, and alone, Belmaine could turn the entire lie into proof of violent disorder. If Thomas did nothing, Amelia disappeared into Crale’s claim. Either way, Belmaine tightened the rope.
Well. That was discouragingly efficient.
A key scraped in the lock. Amelia snatched up the cup, sat in the chair, and tried to arrange her face into sweet obedience.
The door opened and Crale stood there with the guard beyond him, who looked uncomfortable but not inclined to intervene.
Amelia rose slowly. “No.”
He smiled. “That’s not how wives greet their husbands.”
“That’s how I greet vermin.”
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, though it didn’t latch.
“You’ve put me to a great deal of trouble.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry my refusal to be fraudulently married has inconvenienced your afternoon.”
His eyes hardened. Without the yard, without witnesses, his false humility slid away. What remained was smaller and meaner.
“Sir Roger said you were clever.”
“Sir Roger talks too much.”
“He said you’d deny everything.”
“And yet you seem surprised. That must be exhausting.”
Crale moved closer. “You’ll learn.”
Every old warning in her body lit as Amelia stepped behind the table, keeping it between them. “Don’t come near me.”
“You’re mine by law.”
“I’m not yours by breath, blood, ink, wax, or any other medieval craft supply.”
He lunged for her wrist.
Amelia moved without thinking.
Thomas’s men had taught her holds. Hob had taught her where men forgot to guard.
Edith had taught her that a woman with a hot pan and conviction could move mountains.
And somewhere in the ridiculous chain of her modern life, a self-defense instructor in a Chicago gym with fluorescent lights had said, Your goal is not to win. Your goal is to get away.
Crale grabbed her sleeve.
Amelia turned into him instead of away, drove the heel of her palm up under his chin, and stomped hard on his instep.
He yelped.
She grabbed the cup from the table and threw ale into his face.
He cursed, staggering back.
The guard burst in. “Master Crale!”
“He attacked me,” Amelia snapped.
Crale wiped ale from his eyes, furious. “She’s mad.”
“She’s armed with crockery,” the guard said, sounding more alarmed by the cup than the crime.
Dame Margaret appeared behind him as if summoned by the patron saint of badly behaved corridors. “What is this?”
Crale pointed at Amelia. “My wife assaulted me.”
“Take one more step towards me and I’ll do it again.”
Dame Margaret looked at the wet front of Crale’s tunic, the cup in Amelia’s hand, the table between them, and the guard’s guilty face.
“You were told not to enter.”
“I have rights.”
“You have ale in your beard.”
The guard’s mouth twitched.
Crale went scarlet.
Dame Margaret stepped aside. “Out.”
“This is an outrage.”
“It will become a louder one if I call Sir Roger.”
Crale hesitated. There. Not husbandly authority. Fear of Belmaine.
Amelia tucked that away.
Crale leaned toward her, voice low enough that only she and Dame Margaret could hear.
“You’ll wish you’d been kinder to me.”
Amelia met his eyes. “Men keep saying things like that to me, and yet here I am, still unimpressed.”
Dame Margaret pointed down the corridor. “Out.”
He went as the guard followed, looking as if he’d rather be assigned to the geese.
Dame Margaret shut the door and turned to Amelia. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
The woman studied her. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s the adrenaline.”
“The what?”
“Righteous fury. With side effects.”
Dame Margaret crossed to the table, took the cup gently from Amelia’s hand, and set it down. “You cannot provoke him.”
“I didn’t invite him in for ale and conversation.”
“No. But he’ll use any wound to claim you’re disordered.”
Amelia laughed once, hard. “He stormed into a locked room and grabbed me, but my tone is the legal issue?”
Dame Margaret’s mouth pressed flat. For one breath, the woman looked tired. Not stern. Not practical. Tired in the bones.
“I did not say it was just.”
“No,” Amelia said quietly. “You didn’t.”
They stood in that ugly little truth together. Then Dame Margaret went to the hearth and picked up the iron poker as Amelia tensed.
The woman carried it to the table and laid it nearer Amelia’s hand.
“Do not kill him unless you must,” she said as Amelia stared at her.
Dame Margaret’s eyes gave away nothing. Then she turned for the door.
“Dame Margaret.”
She paused.
“Father Martin said Father Odo was dead.”
The stillness that followed was answer enough.
Amelia stepped closer. “You know something.”
“I know many things. Most of them cost more than I wish to pay.”
“Did Sir Roger forge that paper?”
Dame Margaret’s hand closed around her keys. “Ask Father Martin.”
“How?”
The woman opened the door. “By being less obedient than you look.”
Then she left and the lock turned.
Amelia stood there, heart hammering, staring at the poker on the table.
Less obedient than you look.
For the first time since Ashcombe’s gate vanished behind her, Amelia smiled.
Not because she was safe. She wasn’t. And not because Thomas was coming. He was, but Belmaine had built the road between them out of traps.
No, she smiled because the house around her had begun to reveal its cracks. Joan had heard too much. Father Martin suspected the seal. Dame Margaret was not Belmaine’s creature in the way Belmaine believed. Crale was impatient, sloppy, and afraid of the man who had bought him.
And Amelia, daughter of Linda Quinn, event planner, list-maker, accidental medieval problem, was very good at cracks.
She went to the window and looked into the dark orchard.
Wind stirred the branches, rattling them like dry bones.
Somewhere beyond those fields lay Ashcombe, with its smoky hall and stubborn people, its honey-scented friar, murderous housekeeper, dangerous children, and its lord who had let her go because he believed saving everyone meant sacrificing himself first.
She pressed one hand to the cold shutter.
“I told you the truth,” she whispered.
The horn panes gave back a faint, warped reflection. Pale face. Red hair coming loose. Green eyes gone hard.
Thomas might have failed her at the gate, but he would come for her, and when he did, Amelia intended to have something sharper than heartbreak waiting for him.
She turned from the window, picked up the poker, and weighed it in her hand.
“Okay,” she told the room. “Let’s ruin Sir Roger’s evening.”