Hob called the first name.
“John atte Ford.”
A narrow man with a stooped back came forward, cap in hand, mud on his hem. His wife hovered behind him with a bundle of linen and a wary expression. He owed coin rent for a small holding near the lower meadow and three days’ labor not yet given, according to Wexford’s old roll. According to Amelia’s new one, he owed coin, yes, but only one day’s labor. Two had been given during the ditching and marked by Hugh Tanner before Evesham.
Thomas watched Amelia work. He had meant to watch the tenants, to listen for lies, to note who looked too thin, who had held back payment, who might need seed, who might break by Christmas if pressed too hard. He did all those things because he must, but again and again his attention returned to her.
Amelia did not merely read the names. She knew them. Not all. Not yet. But she had spent the last fortnight asking questions until even Walter had begun answering out of sheer exhaustion. She knew that John atte Ford’s wife had a bad wrist but could spin. She knew the reeve’s eldest son had a gift for numbers and a talent for avoiding work unless watched. She knew Widow Maud had paid two hens already, no matter what Wexford’s mark claimed, because Alyson had chased one of them beneath the buttery table and still spoke of the incident with reverence.
“John atte Ford,” Amelia said, her quill poised. “Coin rent, two shillings and sixpence owed. Two shillings paid today?”
The man swallowed. “Aye, mistress. Sixpence at Martinmas, if my lord allows.”
Thomas looked at Walter.
Walter looked at the roll. “The lower meadow flooded twice.”
Amelia didn’t speak. She merely turned to Thomas and waited.
He nodded. “Sixpence at Martinmas. One day labor still owed, to be given on the south fence before All Saints.”
John bowed so low his cap nearly brushed the floor. “My thanks, my lord.”
Amelia made the mark. The wife stepped forward, setting the linen bundle on the table. “For the stores, mistress. ’Tis not much.”
Amelia opened it. Strips of mended linen, neat and strong, washed until they smelled faintly of lye and cold air.
Her face softened. “This is exactly what Edith asked for. Thank you, Agnes.”
The woman blinked, startled by the use of her name. Then she smiled. It was small, gone almost at once. But Thomas saw it, and something in him shifted uneasily.
Seen, Amelia made people feel seen. He had watched it happen for weeks in little ways. A word to the boy hauling water. A question for the dairymaid. A remembered ache, a corrected count, a bit of honey saved for Alyson, a warning to Wat that he could not say clotpole in front of Friar Huck even if Hob had done so first.
Ashcombe was beginning to lean toward her like plants toward sun.
He was doing it too.
The morning lengthened. The rents came in through cold drafts and the mutter of waiting folk. Coin clinked into the coffer, not enough of it, never enough, but more than Thomas had hoped. Payment in kind piled along the side table under Edith’s sharp eye. Two geese, loud and furious in a wicker crate, were received from a tenant who looked as though he would rather part with a finger. A sack of beans came from the widow at Nether Cote. Three wax cakes from Friar Huck, smelling of honey and smoke along with a jar of honey. A small round of hard cheese from a family with too many children and notenough cow. A measure of oats. A promise of labor. A disputed tally. A lamb owed but not yet ready, its delivery marked for Martinmas if the beast did not die, which Walter recorded with the weary suspicion of a man who knew lambs did many things to avoid becoming payment.
At midmorning, Edith sent watered wine, bread, and a dish of salted fish to the high table, because Thomas had forgotten food existed and Amelia had not. She pressed a heel of bread into his hand without looking up from the roll.
“Eat.”
He looked at it. “I am speaking with Walter.”
“You can chew and listen.”
Walter’s mouth pinched.
Thomas ate.
The bread was coarse and a little stale. The fish was too salty. The wine sour enough to make him regret every choice that had led to the cup. It was still food, and after three bites he discovered he was hungry.
Amelia slid a small piece of cheese toward him. “Also that.”
“Do you intend to feed me like a child all morning?”
“No. Children are better at knowing when they’re hungry.”
