Chapter 30 #2
Dame Margaret guided her up a narrow stair, past a landing where a girl carrying linens nearly collided with them and turned crimson.
At the top, the air cooled. The corridor was paneled in dark wood, the boards scrubbed clean, the rush matting underfoot fresh enough to smell grassy when stepped on.
A small window looked toward the orchard, where a few apples clung stubbornly to black branches.
The east chamber had a bed with green curtains, a coffer at the foot, a stool, a narrow table, and a basin set near the window. A small fire sulked on the hearth, smoking more than warming. Someone had set out bread, cheese, a cup, and a jug of small ale.
And yes, there was a lock on the door, a rather large one.
Dame Margaret followed her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
The woman did not flinch. “Aye.”
That was annoying. It was easier to hate people when they had the courtesy to be obvious monsters.
Dame Margaret shut the door, though not fully. A guard’s shadow crossed the threshold beyond.
“No one will touch you in this house,” she said quietly. “Not Crale. Not any man. You have my word.”
Amelia turned from the lock. “Do you believe him? Crale?”
Dame Margaret looked at her for a long moment. “I believe Sir Roger has reasons for everything he does.”
“That’s definitely not an answer.”
“No.”
The woman crossed to the table and poured small ale into the cup. “Drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“You are. You’re also cold, frightened, furious, and too proud to admit the first three.”
“I’ll admit furious.”
“I had gathered.”
Amelia took the cup because her hand was shaking and she wanted it occupied. The ale was weak and sour, but it wet her mouth.
Dame Margaret moved to the hearth, adjusted the wood with iron tongs, and coaxed the sullen fire into a better flame. “You should eat.”
“Is this where you tell me obedience will make everything easier?”
“No. Obedience rarely makes anything easier for women. It merely makes men quieter.”
Amelia stared at her as Dame Margaret brushed ash from her hands.
“But hunger makes fools of us all, and fools are easier to trap.”
A laugh escaped before she could stop it. It came out thin and jagged.
Dame Margaret’s face softened, barely. “There. Not dead yet.”
“Give me time.”
“Not too much. Sir Roger dislikes waiting.”
“Sir Roger can take a number.”
“A what?”
“Never mind.”
A sound came at the door. Crale’s voice, low and irritable. “I would speak with my wife.”
Every muscle in Amelia’s body locked.
Dame Margaret turned toward the door. Her voice changed completely, becoming brisk as a gate slammed in someone’s face.
“You will not.”
“I have rights.”
“You may discuss them with Sir Roger in the hall.”
“She is my wife.”
“She is in my chamber corridor.”
“I demand—”
The door opened two inches. Dame Margaret stood in the gap, filling it with keys, fur, and the terrifying confidence of a woman who had managed stores, servants, and men’s stupidity for years.
“You demand loudly,” she said. “That does not make you important.”
Crale muttered something Amelia did not catch.
Dame Margaret stepped out, pulled the door behind her, and Amelia heard the click of the latch.
Voices murmured in the corridor. Crale’s rising, then Belmaine’s smooth intervention, then footsteps retreating.
The room seemed smaller once the lock had clicked into place. The bed curtains sagged like tired theatre drapes. The fire snapped. Beyond the window, dusk pressed against the horn panes, blue and damp, turning the orchard into bars of branch and shadow.
She set the cup down before she dropped it.
This was bad. No, bad was too small a word.
This was a beautifully organized disaster with legal stationery.
A kidnapping wearing church shoes. Belmaine had found her weak spot with horrifying precision.
No papers. No family. No provable past. No way to explain that her real life began seven centuries in the future without earning herself a cell, a priest, or a bonfire.
And Thomas had let her go. The thought hit so hard she had to sit. The stool wobbled beneath her. She pressed both hands over her mouth and stared at the floorboards, at the small black crescent of dirt caught near one nail. Her eyes burned.
He had known she was telling the truth. She had seen it in him. He knew Crale was a liar. He knew Belmaine was a snake in a fur-lined cloak. He knew she was scared. And still, he had stood there.
No, that wasn’t fair. She sniffed. Fair could go choke on a rushlight.
Thomas had stood between her and Belmaine for weeks. He had guarded Ashcombe with his body and his pride and all the battered pieces of his honor. Belmaine had not beaten him. Belmaine had cornered him with the one weapon Thomas couldn’t fight without costing everyone else dearly.
The law. The king’s displeasure.
Amelia wiped beneath her eyes with the heel of her hand, angry that there was anything to wipe.
“You’re not crying,” she told the room.
The room, being furniture, didn’t argue. A softer scrape came from the other side of the door.
“My lady?”
The voice was female.
Amelia stood. “Who is it?”
“Joan, my lady. I’ve brought warm water.”
A key turned. The door opened, and a maid slipped in carrying a steaming ewer and folded linen over one arm. She had a round face, brown hair escaping from beneath a plain coif, and eyes so wide with curiosity they practically needed their own chair.
The guard remained outside the open door.
Joan dipped a quick curtsy. “Dame Margaret said you’d need washing.”
“That sounds ominous.”
The girl blinked, then decided it was safe to smile. “Only hands and face, my lady. Unless you like to be cleaner.”
Amelia stared at her, then, absurdly, she laughed.
Joan’s smile grew. “My aunt says washing has saved more souls than preaching, though Father Martin says that’s near heresy.”
“Father Martin?”
“The chaplain here, my lady.” Joan poured water into the basin. Steam rose, smelling faintly of rosemary. “He says much is heresy when his feet ache.”
Amelia walked to the basin slowly, trying not to look too eager. Warm water. Actual warm water. She might be imprisoned, but apparently she could be imprisoned with rosemary and hot water.
History was complicated. She dipped her hands in and nearly groaned.
Joan looked pleased. “I can bring more if you wish.”
“You’re very kind.”
The girl lowered her voice. “Are you truly his wife?”
Amelia met her gaze in the polished bit of metal hanging near the basin. A poor mirror, wavy and dim, but enough to show a pale woman with wild eyes and a wimple losing its argument with gravity.
“No.”
Joan’s mouth opened.
Amelia turned. “I’ve never seen Edmund Crale before today. I don’t know him. I didn’t marry him. I didn’t run from him. I’m not his wife.”
Joan swallowed. “He says you’ve forgotten on purpose.”
“That’s convenient for him.”
“Aye.” Joan glanced toward the door. “He asked Father Martin to speak sense to you.”
“When?”
“Before you came upstairs. Sir Roger sent for him as soon as we heard the riders. Father Martin was in the chapel copying something and was most displeased.”
“Does Father Martin know a Father Odo?” Amelia asked carefully. “Of Saint Alphege’s near Alcester?”
Joan’s brow wrinkled. “Father Odo?”
“That’s the priest named on the parchment.”
“I don’t know. Father Martin knows many priests. He complains about most of them.”
“Did you hear him complain about this one?”
The girl bit her lip. “I heard Sir Roger say the attestation was enough until inquiry could be made. Father Martin said…” She looked toward the door again.
Amelia lowered her voice. “What did he say?”
Joan leaned closer, eyes shining with the dangerous pleasure of gossip. “He said Father Odo’s hand was too fair for a man dead these three years.”
The room tilted as Amelia gripped the edge of the basin.
Joan’s eyes went wider. “My lady?”
Dead. Father Odo was dead. The attestation had named a dead priest. There it was. Not freedom. Not yet. But a crack in the wall. A thin, glorious crack.
“Joan,” Amelia said, keeping her voice calm with both hands, “are you certain?”
“I only heard what Father Martin said. Then Sir Roger told him he had an uncharitable imagination.”
“Did Father Martin believe the document?”
Joan hesitated. “He said wax remembers what men forget.”
That sounded like a priestly way of saying absolutely not, the document was nonsense, and someone had been naughty with a seal.
Amelia almost smiled. Then she remembered Belmaine was not stupid. If Father Martin suspected forgery, he would be managed and silenced. Or worse.
“Where is Father Martin now?”
“In the chapel, mayhap. Or Sir Roger’s counting room.”
Joan twisted the linen in her hands. “You shouldn’t ask too many questions.”
“People keep telling me that.”
“Do you listen?”
“Rarely. It’s a character flaw.”
Joan looked impressed.
Amelia dried her hands, her brain coming alive so fast it nearly hurt. Belmaine’s house was filled with servants who saw things, heard things, carried things.
Thomas would be looking for proof while Walter would be clawing through the parchment like a starving badger. Friar Huck would talk to lots of priests and Hob would find someone to terrify.
Amelia’s job was to stay alive, stay untouched, and gather anything she could.
Also possibly not strangle Crale with her own wimple. Priorities.
A horn sounded faintly from the yard below as Joan flinched.
“What is it?”
“Only supper gathering.”
“Do prisoners get room service?”
Joan’s nose wrinkled. “Room what?”
“Food brought here.”
“Oh. Aye. Dame Margaret said you were not to go below unless Sir Roger commands it.”
“How generous.”
Joan collected the used linen. “Do you need anything else?”
A ladder. A lawyer. A working phone. Thomas’s face when he realized she was safe and he owed her at least thirteen apologies.
“My cloak,” Amelia said. “If they’ll let you. And a candle. More than one, if you can.”
Joan nodded. “I’ll ask.”
“And Joan?”
The girl paused.
“If anyone asks, I cried a lot, said very little, and seemed obedient.”
Joan’s eyes sparkled. “Are you?”
“Absolutely not.”