Thomas turned to her. His face was unreadable for one terrible heartbeat, and then all the soldier-stillness cracked. Not fully. Thomas was still Thomas, built of stone, scars, and an unreasonable fondness for enduring things silently. But his eyes changed. The bleakness that had lived there since she’d first known him loosened its grip.
He looked younger. No, not younger. Less alone.
The messenger cleared his throat. “There is more, my lord.”
Everyone went silent again as Thomas turned back.
“More?”
“Aye, my lord.” The messenger looked toward his men and nodded.
Two riders dismounted and went to the packhorse behind them. From its panniers, they lifted a small iron-bound chest.
The chest was set before Thomas. The messenger produced a key.
“By Her Grace’s gratitude for Sir Aymon de Sauveterre, who departed Ashcombe three days past and spoke warmly of your care, your honor, and your household’s service, this is sent for the repair and keeping of Ashcombe.”
He turned the key. The lid opened. Gold and silver gleamed.
Coins. Cups. Small ingots. A folded chain. Enough bright metal to catch the gray daylight and throw it back into every stunned face around the yard.
Alyson gasped. “Treasure.”
Hob crossed himself. “Saints alive.”
Huck whispered, “That will buy a great many bees.”
“Huck,” Edith said.
“What? It will.”
Walter looked down into the chest and made a small, broken sound that would have been embarrassing if everyone else had not been too stunned to notice.
Amelia stared. Not because she cared overmuch for gold. In her old life, numbers had lived on screens and in budgets and bank accounts, tidy little columns that behaved until they didn’t. But here, coin meant roofs repaired before winter. Seed grain. Paid men. Sound walls. Oxen. Salt. Wool. Shoes for Wat and Alyson. Time to breathe.
Thomas looked into the chest as if he did not trust it.
The messenger went on. “Sir Aymon also sends his thanks. He said to tell you he has ridden from finer halls with fewer honest men in them.”
Hob’s chest expanded dangerously.
“He said that?” Hob asked.
The messenger’s mouth twitched. “He did.”
Hob nodded as if personally responsible for all honesty south of the Avon.
The messenger continued. “And he said Friar Huck’s mead is to blame if he sings poorly upon the road.”
Huck beamed. “Praise comes in many forms.”
Thomas looked from the letter to the chest, then to the people gathered in the yard. His people. Wet-eyed, hollow-cheeked in places, half-starved by worry and winter before it had even arrived. People who had followed him when he had not known how to lead anything but men into battle.
His hand found Amelia’s.
“This was not mine alone,” Thomas said.
Walter made a faint sound of protest at the legal imprecision.
