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.
