Chapter 31 #3
Thomas had never claimed it. Not once. He’d sheltered her, protected her, scowled at her quite often. Wanted her, maybe. Loved her, maybe, in the quiet bruised way he had of loving everyone he feared he would fail. But he had not claimed her.
Amelia swallowed hard. “Thomas will come for me.”
Dame Margaret looked toward the chapel door. “Sir Roger expects it.”
“I know.”
“He wants Lord Ashcombe angry enough to trespass with steel.”
“I know that too.”
Father Martin stepped closer and pressed the wax into Amelia’s hand. “Then he’ll need proof before the steel.”
The wax was cold against her palm.
“Keep it,” he said. “The true parish seal. I took an old broken piece from my chest. It may not be enough, but it will begin the questions.”
Amelia closed her fingers around it. “Thank you.”
A shout came from the hall.
“You must go.”
“Where?” Amelia asked.
“The chapel house,” Dame Margaret said grimly.
“That doesn’t sound like an upgrade.”
“It is not meant to be. Sir Roger said she was to go there if Ashcombe was seen on the road.”
Ashcombe. Thomas was coming.
The chapel door burst open. Osric stood in the passage, damp from rain, big-shouldered and thick through the neck, his fair hair plastered to his brow.
He had the family eyes, unfortunately, but none of Dame Margaret’s restraint.
Behind him stood the red-faced man Amelia had glimpsed earlier, the one with the cudgel and a lifelong commitment to unpleasantness.
“There you are,” Osric said.
Dame Margaret stepped in front of Amelia. “She is at prayer.”
“She can pray where Sir Roger tells her.”
Father Martin lifted his chin. “This is the Lord’s house.”
Osric smiled. “Then the Lord can open the door for her.”
He seized Amelia by the arm.
Dame Margaret struck him. Not hard enough to do damage, but sharp enough that the sound cracked through the chapel like a snapped branch.
Osric stared at her, one hand to his cheek.
“Aunt.”
“Take your hand from her.”
His face darkened. “Sir Roger gave the command.”
“And I gave you manners when you still pissed in the rushes. I see only one of us succeeded.”
Under other circumstances, Amelia would have applauded.
Osric’s hand tightened hard enough to bruise. “Move.”
The red-faced man came around the other side. Amelia had one second to decide whether to fight in the chapel and risk Father Martin, Dame Margaret, and Joan being punished for it, or let them move her to wherever Belmaine wanted her and look for a better moment.
Dame Margaret’s eyes met hers.
Fine.
Amelia let Osric drag her toward the covered passage. It grated against every bone in her body.
The chapel house sat beyond the main chapel, attached by a short stretch of roofed stone walk and a heavy door swollen with damp.
Osric shoved it open. Cold air washed over her, stale and dusty, thick with the smell of old incense and moldy straw.
The chamber inside was small and windowless except for a slit too high to reach.
Benches lined one wall. A locked chest crouched in the corner.
The only light came from the candle the red-faced man carried and the narrow spill from the passage behind them.
Belmaine waited inside, standing near the empty hearth, his face stripped of softness now. No gentleman. No concerned neighbor. No defender of lawful order. Only the man underneath.
“Mistress Amelia,” he said. “You have caused a great deal of trouble.”
“People keep saying that like I’m not proud.”
His hand flashed. The slap snapped her head to the side. For a moment there was no pain, only surprise. A white burst behind her eyes. The taste of blood where her tooth had caught the inside of her cheek. Then the pain arrived, hot and humiliating, blooming across her face.
Dame Margaret made a sound behind Osric.
Joan cried out.
And Father Martin said, “Sir Roger.”
Belmaine did not look away from Amelia. “Enough.”
Amelia turned her head. Her cheek burned. Her eyes watered. She refused to let the tears fall.
“Feel better?” she asked.
His nostrils flared, his face going scarlet.
That was satisfying. Perhaps not wise, but satisfying.
Belmaine stepped closer. “Lord Ashcombe has crossed onto my land with armed men. Do you understand what that means?”
“That he has excellent timing?”
“It means he has chosen violence.”
“No. It means you made the mistake of assuming he wouldn’t choose me.”
For the first time, Belmaine’s composure cracked wide enough to show the fear beneath it.
Outside, from somewhere beyond the chapel yard, came the distant thunder of hooves.
Belmaine heard it too.
“Take her through the orchard,” he snapped. “If Ashcombe wants her, let him follow where witnesses cannot see.”
Dame Margaret’s face went white. “Sir Roger, no.”
“She is evidence now,” he said.
The room went silent as even Osric looked at him.
Evidence.
The word hung there, ugly and plain.
Amelia’s fear sharpened into something bright enough to see by.
Belmaine realized what he had said, but too late. Father Martin had gone utterly still. Dame Margaret’s eyes had hardened into iron while Joan looked as if she might be sick.
“Move,” Belmaine snarled.
Osric dragged Amelia through a side door and into the rain.