“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.”
“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 secretpassage, 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.”
