Chapter 31
AMELIA
By Amelia’s estimation, there were four kinds of bad rooms.
There were ugly rooms, which could be improved with flowers, candles, and a decorating budget.
There were boring rooms, which could be improved with better people.
Then there were hotel conference rooms with fluorescent lighting, beige carpet, and the faint smell of despair, which could not be improved at all and should be studied by exorcists.
And finally, there were rooms where a woman had been locked after being falsely claimed by a husband she’d never met, threatened by a man with the soul of an eel in church shoes, and advised by the lady of the house not to murder anyone unless absolutely necessary.
The east chamber at Belmaine’s house was currently winning its category.
Amelia stood in the middle of it with an iron poker in her hand, her cloak still around her shoulders, her wimple listing sideways as if it too had lost faith in the situation.
The fire had woken at last, orange tongues catching along the split wood, and the room had warmed just enough to make the air smell of smoke and rosemary.
Below, Belmaine’s household moved in fits and starts. A door opened. A man cursed. Men’s voices rose from the hall, then dropped quickly, as if someone had remembered that sound carried in old houses and servants had ears.
Good.
Belmaine had taken her from Ashcombe by law, or the ugly costume of law, and he meant to keep her long enough to make Thomas do something rash. Or long enough to make Crale’s lie stick.
She looked down at the poker. Amelia was small, tired, hungry, and furious, which gave her a certain amount of spiritual reach but did nothing for upper-body strength.
If Crale came in again, she’d have one good strike.
Maybe two if rage decided to help. If Belmaine came in, she suspected rage would bring friends.
Still, a proper plan required options. Something smaller and sharp. Amelia set the poker by the table, exactly where Dame Margaret had left it, and searched the room again. The coffer. The bed. The mattress. The rushes near the hearth. The jug.
The jug was ordinary brown pottery, thick-bellied, and filled with sour ale as Amelia picked it up, judged the weight, and considered.
No. Too large and unwieldy. The cup, though…
She turned the little cup in her hand. Coarse pottery, chipped along one rim, its glaze dark and uneven.
Breakable.
She wrapped it in the corner of her cloak and slammed it on the floor near the hearthstone.
The crack was louder than she expected. Amelia froze, but nothing moved beyond the door. To be safe, she waited one breath. Two.
When no one came, she crouched and unwrapped the cloak.
The cup had broken into four pieces, two useless, one jagged, and one perfect shard with a curved edge that fit against her palm with a sharp point mean enough to make an impression.
“Congratulations,” she told the shard. “You’ve been promoted.”
She wrapped it in the hem of her sleeve, tucking it where her fingers could reach if she bent her wrist just so. The edge pricked through the linen. Not enough to cut, but enough to remind her it was there.
A key scraped in the lock. Amelia straightened so fast her wimple slipped back another inch. She kicked the broken fragments beneath the edge of the bed, moving with the kind of speed that would’ve made her mother say, See, honey? All those years of panic-cleaning before guests arrived paid off.
The door opened. Joan slipped inside with a candle, a folded cloak, and eyes as round as trenchers.
“My lady,” she whispered. “You’re not supposed to have that.”
Amelia looked at the poker.
“This?”
“Aye.”
“It was here when I arrived.”
“It was not.”
“That’s very inconvenient of you to remember.”
Joan’s mouth twitched despite herself. “Dame Margaret says you’re to look less like you mean to bash someone over the head before Sir Roger comes.”
“Does she have advice for how to accomplish that?”
“Put down the poker.”
“Seems risky.”
Joan set the candle on the table and crossed the room.
She smelled of rushes, soap, and kitchen smoke, and beneath the fear in her face was something bright and thrilling.
A girl who had discovered the world contained secrets, danger, and a red-haired woman willing to insult armed men to their faces.
Amelia recognized the look. It was the look Bree got right before doing something everyone would discuss for years.
“Sir Roger sent for Father Martin,” Joan said softly.
Amelia’s grip tightened. “Where is he?”
“In the lower chamber. He refused to come up until Dame Margaret was allowed to attend you.”
“Smart man.”
“Aye. Too smart, mayhap. Sir Roger doesn’t like smart men.”
“That explains Crale.”
Joan’s eyes flashed with delighted horror. “Mistress.”
“Sorry. Nope, I’m not really. Continue.”
Joan leaned closer. “Father Martin says he’ll speak to you in the chapel before Compline. He said a woman accused falsely should be shriven where witnesses can see she still has a soul.”
“That sounds very holy.”
“It means he doesn’t want to be alone with Sir Roger’s men in the hall.”
“That also sounds very smart.”
Joan nodded, then glanced toward the door. “He said to tell you wax remembers.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“But he does.”
“Aye.”
The sound of steps came down the corridor. Heavy. Male.
Joan snatched the poker from Amelia’s hand and shoved it under the bed with surprising efficiency. “Look sad.”
“I am sad.”
“More helpless. Less stabby.”
“I don’t do helpless.”
“Try badly, then.”
The door opened before Amelia could answer.
Dame Margaret entered first, and behind her came Sir Roger Belmaine.
He had changed his cloak. The new one was dark blue wool lined in fur, clasped with silver at the throat. His pale hair had been combed, his gloves removed, his expression smoothed back into one of gentlemanly concern. He looked as if the day had grieved him rather than entertained.
Amelia wanted to throw the remaining cup shards at his head.
She arranged her hands in front of her instead and tried for helpless.
Judging by Dame Margaret’s faint lift of one brow, she was not doing a convincing job.
“Your chamber is comfortable?” Belmaine asked.
“It has a lock on the outside, but very cozy.”
His smile didn’t change. “For your protection.”
“Yes. Strange how many men keep protecting me from unlocked doors.”
Joan made a tiny choking sound and turned it into a cough.
Dame Margaret moved to the window and adjusted the shutter as if she had nothing better to do.
Belmaine looked at Joan. “Leave us.”
“No,” Amelia said.
His gaze cut back to her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“No. I’m not being left alone with you.”
“You are beneath my roof.”
“Against my will.”
“You’re overwrought.”
“I am extremely wrought.”
Dame Margaret’s mouth compressed.
Belmaine took one slow step closer. “Mistress Crale.”
“Not my name.”
“For the present, it is the name the law gives you.”
“Then the law needs glasses.”
“Your wit will not save you.”
“No, but it gives me something to do while everyone else catches up.”
There. The charm was thinning again. She could see it in the tightness near his mouth, the flatness in his eyes. Belmaine didn’t mind fear. He expected it, enjoyed it.
Mockery, however, sat poorly with him. Good to know.
He turned his attention to Dame Margaret. “Father Martin will speak with her.”
“So Joan tells me,” Dame Margaret said.
“He will remind her of the obedience owed to a husband.”
Amelia laughed before she could stop herself.
Belmaine’s eyes snapped to her. “You find holy counsel amusing?”
“I find the timing ambitious.”
“You shame yourself.”
“No, Sir Roger. You brought a stranger to Ashcombe, called him my husband, locked me in a room, let him come in my chamber after me, and now you’re trying to sprinkle Latin over the whole mess until it smells less like kidnapping. Shame is busy elsewhere.”
Joan stared at the floor as if the rushes had become fascinating scripture.
Dame Margaret’s face showed nothing, but one hand tightened near the keys at her belt.
Belmaine stepped close enough that Amelia had to will herself not to step back. The cuffs on his expensive tunic were edged in embroidery.
“You are a landless woman with no kin,” he said softly. “No father. No brother. No husband save the one standing ready to claim you. Ashcombe has no lawful hold on you. I do.”
Fear moved through her body, swift and bright.
“Do you practice these speeches in a mirror?”
For one second, she thought he would strike her. But Belmaine was too careful for that, which somehow made him worse. Instead, he smiled. “You’ll be moved before dawn.”
Dame Margaret turned. “Moved?”
“To Crale’s keeping.”
The words went through Amelia like cold water.
Joan went pale as Dame Margaret stepped forward. “Sir Roger, that would be unwise while the claim remains disputed.”
“The claim is not disputed beneath this roof.”
“It will be disputed beyond it.”
“Not if she is restored to her husband’s home before Ashcombe gathers his wits.”
“Restored?” Amelia said. “That’s a pretty word for sold.”
Belmaine ignored her. “Father Martin will record that she was counseled. Dame Margaret, you’ll witness that she was treated gently. Joan will remember only what she’s told to remember.”
Joan’s chin jerked up.
Belmaine looked at her. “Won’t you?”
The girl swallowed. “Aye, Sir Roger.”
Belmaine gave a satisfied nod. “Mistress Crale, your husband will come for you after Compline. You would be wise to greet him meekly.”
“Would I?”
“Very.”
“I’ll put it on my list.”
His brows drew together. “Your list?”
“Yes. Of things I have no intention of doing.”
Dame Margaret made a sound in her throat that might have been a cough, or a prayer for patience, or the death rattle of her last thread of composure.
Belmaine’s gaze slid over Amelia once more, cold and assessing. Then he turned and left, taking most of the air with him.
The door shut and the lock turned. Joan whispered something that sounded very much like a word Amelia had last heard from Hob.
Dame Margaret turned slowly.
“Where did you learn that?” she asked.