He found the second packet beneath it, wrapped in oilcloth and shoved deep into a hollow where a desperate man’s bound hands might have hidden it.
When he drew it out, the seal was smeared with rain but unbroken.
The queen’s mark.
Thomas stood in the roofless chapel with rain on his hair, blood on his sleeve, and a royal packet in his hand.
For one breath, he thought of Ashcombe. Not the stones. Not the title. The place.
Edith in the kitchen, threatening lads with ladles and tenderness in equal measure. Walter bent over the rolls,muttering as if parchment had insulted his lineage. Wat carrying water with his chin up like a knight before battle. Alyson licking honey from her thumb when she thought no one watched. Friar Huck and his bees and his mead and his entirely inappropriate belief that honey cake could mend the world.
And Amelia. With ink on her fingers, mud on her hem, red curls refusing every pin, asking questions no one else thought to ask. Amelia telling him there were always moving pieces, always another way to arrange the chaos if one could only bear to look at all of it at once.
He had looked at Ashcombe and seen a battlefield.
She had looked and seen a life worth saving.
Thomas tucked the packet beneath his cloak and returned to the road.
Sir Aymon had managed to sit up with Hob’s help, though judging by both their faces, neither man had enjoyed the process. Aymon’s dark hair clung to his brow, and mud streaked one cheek like war paint. His nose had the straight, proud shape of a man who had been born to be obeyed and had taken the ditch as a personal slight.
“You are Ashcombe,” Aymon said.
“I am.”
Aymon’s gaze moved to the three men bound or groaning in the mud. “The queen was told you were dangerous.”
“She heard correctly.”
“She was also told you might be useful.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Aymon’s mouth curved despite the blood at its corner. “My ribs are inclined to optimism.”
Hob gave him a considering look. “You may live after all.”
“I had intended to.”
“Good. Makes carrying you less troublesome.”
Aymon looked offended. “I can ride.”
Thomas crouched before him. “Can you breathe without bleeding more than you speak?”
“That is an uncharitable question.”
“It is a useful one.”
“Then no,” Aymon admitted, with the air of a man granting a minor diplomatic concession.
Hob grunted. “He’s highborn. They all answer plain questions sideways.”
Thomas pulled the packet from beneath his cloak and held it where Aymon could see.
Relief cut through the man’s battered pride. “Saints.”
“One packet,” Thomas said. “The other?”
