The east chamber had a bed with green curtains, a coffer at the foot, a stool, a narrow table, and a basin set near the window. A small fire sulked on the hearth, smoking more than warming. Someone had set out bread, cheese, a cup, and a jug of small ale.
And yes, there was a lock on the door, a rather large one.
Dame Margaret followed her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
The woman did not flinch. “Aye.”
That was annoying. It was easier to hate people when they had the courtesy to be obvious monsters.
Dame Margaret shut the door, though not fully. A guard’s shadow crossed the threshold beyond.
“No one will touch you in this house,” she said quietly. “Not Crale. Not any man. You have my word.”
Amelia turned from the lock. “Do you believe him? Crale?”
Dame Margaret looked at her for a long moment. “I believe Sir Roger has reasons for everything he does.”
“That’s definitely not an answer.”
“No.”
The woman crossed to the table and poured small ale into the cup. “Drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“You are. You’re also cold, frightened, furious, and too proud to admit the first three.”
“I’ll admit furious.”
“I had gathered.”
Amelia took the cup because her hand was shaking and she wanted it occupied. The ale was weak and sour, but it wet her mouth.
Dame Margaret moved to the hearth, adjusted the wood with iron tongs, and coaxed the sullen fire into a better flame. “You should eat.”
“Is this where you tell me obedience will make everything easier?”
“No. Obedience rarely makes anything easier for women. It merely makes men quieter.”
Amelia stared at her as Dame Margaret brushed ash from her hands.
“But hunger makes fools of us all, and fools are easier to trap.”
A laugh escaped before she could stop it. It came out thin and jagged.
Dame Margaret’s face softened, barely. “There. Not dead yet.”
“Give me time.”
“Not too much. Sir Roger dislikes waiting.”
“Sir Roger can take a number.”
“A what?”
“Never mind.”