Edith appeared in the hall doorway with Amelia beside her.
The rider drew a sealed letter from his satchel. Walter took one involuntary step, then stopped, face pinched with the pain of not snatching the parchment from another man’s hand.
Thomas accepted the letter and turned it over. The seal was whole.
“Read it,” Thomas said, handing it to Walter.
Walter looked momentarily overcome. Then he cleared his throat, broke the seal with reverence, and began.
The queen, through her lady, thanked Baron Thomas Ashcombe for his service upon the old road, for the rescue of Sir Aymon de Sauveterre, kinsman and trusted servant, and for the return of certain letters whose loss might have caused trouble far beyond one manor’s bounds. Belmaine’s treachery would be pursued. Ashcombe’s loyalty, demonstrated in deed rather than noise, had been carried to ears that mattered.
Thomas heard only pieces. Royal favor. Not pardon, mayhap, but protection. Recognition. A rope cut before it tightened.
Walter’s voice trembled near the end. “In gratitude, and in hope that Lord Ashcombe shall wield both sword and judgment in loyal defense of land and crown, Her Grace sends this token.”
The rider turned. One of his men stepped forward carrying a long wrapped bundle.
Thomas’s eyes went to Amelia as she stood near the hall steps with Edith behind her, Wat and Alyson pressed close, one hand at the hollow of her throat. Her green eyes were steady, curious as the rider unwrapped the bundle.
The cloth fell away to reveal a sword. Newly forged and bright as winter. The blade clean and keen, the crossguard simple but finely worked. The grip was dark leather bound in silver wire.
And set into the hilt, where the blade met the guard, was a sapphire fat as a robin’s egg.
Blue fire caught the weak sun.
Beside him, Amelia let out a gasp.
Thomas forgot the yard. Forgot the queen’s rider, the letter, Walter’s breathing beside him, and Hob’s low curse somewhere near the stable.
There was only Amelia, all the color draining from her face as if the sword had reached across the yard and stabbed her in the heart.
The rider was still speaking. “…the stone came from old stores held by the queen’s goldsmith. Fine work. An inscription may be added if you wish, or left plain.”
Thomas barely heard him.
The sapphire flashed again. Amelia swayed, and he caught her before she hit the ground.
“I’m fine,” she said.
No one believed her.
Not even the mule, which had wandered close enough to look personally disappointed by everyone involved.
Thomas’s jaw tightened. “You are not.”
Hob’s gaze moved from her face to the blade and back. His humor faded. Walter had gone still too, the queen’s letter hanging from his hand, forgotten. He knew enough of Amelia now to understand when she had found a problem too large for one of her lists.
The queen’s rider frowned. “Is the gift displeasing?”
“No,” Amelia said too quickly. “Not at all. It’s very beautiful.” She swallowed, then added with the brittle brightness of a woman building a ladder out of lies, “The meal did not agree with me this morning. Apologies.”
Thomas accepted the sword long enough to feel the weight.
Fine balance. Good steel. The hilt was cold, the sapphire seemed colder.
Amelia’s eyes fixed on it as if she recognized it. As if she had known it longer than any of them.
Thomas handed the blade to Hob, hilt first. “To the solar.”
