Chapter 33 #3
Amelia should have been angrier. She was angry.
Somewhere inside her, an entire committee of emotional accountants had begun tabulating damages with ink, ledgers, and a worrying enthusiasm for interest. But Thomas was there, soaked and shaking with fury, holding her hand as if he would rather cut off his own than let go again.
The committee could meet later.
Pickering’s voice cut through the rain. “Sir Roger Belmaine, Edmund Crale, Osric of Belmaine, and all men involved in the making or use of this alleged attestation will remain under guard until I have heard every witness.”
Belmaine went white. “You cannot mean to take the word of servants, women, and a frightened priest over mine.”
Dame Margaret stepped forward.
“I am Dame Margaret of Belmaine,” she said, each word clean enough to shine. “I kept this house before Sir Roger’s first beard. I saw what he did. I heard what he said. And I will speak.”
Joan whispered, “Me too.”
Father Martin lifted the true wax fragment. “And I.”
Walter added, with relish, “And I have accounts.”
Pickering sighed. “God defend us from accounts.”
Walter’s nostrils flared. “These are excellent accounts.”
“Of course they are.”
Hob hauled Osric upright by the back of his tunic. Osric’s face was muddy, furious, and deeply undignified, which Amelia considered a marked improvement over smug.
She looked at him. “You’re welcome for the life lesson.”
Osric spat mud. “Witch.”
Thomas moved.
Amelia squeezed his hand. “Don’t. I already dropped him once. Let him keep the word. It’s all he has.”
Hob laughed so hard Osric nearly fell over again.
For the first time since Belmaine’s gate had closed behind her, Amelia felt the ground beneath her feet become ground again.
Galahad stamped nearby, shaking rain from his mane and eyeing Belmaine with the offended majesty of a creature who believed villains should have the courtesy to be dispatched quickly so everyone might return to their oats.
The white blaze down his face gleamed even in the gloom, and Amelia, absurdly close to crying, thought he looked like a warhorse painted by someone who had been told to make him dramatic and had taken the instruction personally.
Thomas turned toward her, his gaze catching on the mark on her cheek again.
“I should’ve killed him.”
“Probably not great for the legal strategy.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know. That’s why I’m mentioning it.”
He lifted his free hand, slow enough that she could refuse, and touched the air near her cheek without quite touching the bruise.
That restraint, more than any rage, undid something in her.
He could have split a man’s wrist before the dagger cleared leather, but he would not touch her without leave.
Amelia’s throat tightened. “I’m all right,” she said.
His eyes met hers. “No,” he said. “You’re not.”
“No,” she said. “But I’m here.”
His hand closed more firmly around hers. “Aye,” he said, voice rough. “You are.”
Pickering cleared his throat.
Walter cleared his throat louder, because apparently even legal reckoning had a hierarchy.
Friar Huck rode closer and leaned down from his round horse, holding out a small cloth bundle. “Honey cake?”
Amelia stared at him.
“Huck.”
“What? You look poorly.”
“I was abducted.”
“Aye. That often leaves one peckish.”
Hob nodded. “Fighting too.”
Thomas closed his eyes as if praying for strength, patience, or perhaps a merciful blow to the head.
Amelia took the honey cake. Because honestly, after the day she’d had, refusing seemed rude.
The cake was sticky, slightly crushed from Huck’s sleeve, and fragrant with honey and spice.
Crumbs clung to her damp fingers. It tasted of smoke from some hearth, of beeswax, of flour stretched carefully because Ashcombe counted every mouth and every measure, of a home that had somehow followed her into Belmaine’s orchard and refused to let her be swallowed by it.
Behind them, Belmaine stood in the rain with his fine cloak darkening, his men disarmed, his household watching, and the law he had tried to weaponize now turning slowly, creakily, beautifully toward him.
Pickering began issuing orders in a voice that made men obey before they quite realized they had decided to.
Belmaine’s men were separated and guarded.
Crale was taken by two Ashcombe men, both of whom looked as if they would welcome any foolishness from him as a personal gift.
Father Martin drew Dame Margaret and Joan beneath the shallow shelter of the chapel eaves, murmuring comfort, while Walter hovered near Pickering with the cloth-wrapped documents held like relics.
Thomas stayed beside Amelia. His thumb moved once over the back of her hand, rough and careful, and the small motion traveled straight through her with such ridiculous force that she nearly laughed.
Or cried. Or kissed him in front of the entire orchard, which would have caused Walter to perish on the spot and then haunt them all with disapproving ledgers.
Belmaine looked at their joined hands as his mouth flattened.
Amelia bit into the honey cake. It was sweet, sticky, and entirely inappropriate for a scene involving abduction, forged documents, attempted murder, and royal law.
She looked at Sir Roger Belmaine and smiled.
He didn’t smile back.
Which was, all things considered, the best thing that had happened all day.