Thomas didn’t lower his sword.
“Master Pickering,” Belmaine said, finding his court voice with impressive speed. “Lord Ashcombe has invaded my land and assaulted my household.”
Pickering looked at the red-faced man lying facedown in the mud. “Your household seems to have been assaulted by a small woman and a branch.”
“The branch didn’t do as much as I’d hoped,” Amelia said.
Pickering’s gaze slid to her. One brow rose.
Friar Huck beamed. “That’s our girl.”
Thomas’s face tightened at the words, as if they cut and healed at once.
Belmaine drew himself up, though rain had flattened his hair and robbed his fine cloak of much of its authority. “This woman is Edmund Crale’s lawful wife.”
Father Martin stepped forward. “The attestation is false.”
Walter came down from his horse with a speed that belied his age and a ferocity that suggested, given a choice, he’d have preferred to stab someone with a quill.
“And the seal is false.”
He held out a cloth-wrapped packet.
Pickering took it.
Walter’s eyes gleamed with the terrible glory of a steward about to eviscerate paperwork.
“Also, Edmund Crale was held for theft and assault near Worcester less than a fortnight past. He was released three days ago after a payment made by one of Sir Roger’s men.”
Crale, who had been hovering near the orchard wall with the air of a rat considering a drainpipe, made a small noise and looked as if he wished very much to evaporate.
Pickering turned slowly toward him. “Is that so?”
Crale backed up one step.
Hob lifted his axe. “Run. I could use the cheer.”
Crale stopped.
Sir Aymon looked down at Belmaine from his horse, all pale elegance and cold offense. “Your men on the old road were more convincing than this one.”
Belmaine’s eyes flashed. “My men?”
“The two who survived said enough before they thought better of it.”
Sir Aymon touched the bandage at his temple. “You should choose hirelings with stronger loyalty or weaker fear.”
Pickering looked at Thomas. “Lord Ashcombe, lower your sword.”
Thomas didn’t move. Amelia stepped close and touched his wrist.
His hand was cold beneath her fingers, rain-soaked and rigid, the tendons standing out beneath scarred skin. She could feel the violence in him, not wild, never that, but banked and burning with such force that it made the air around them seem heated.
“Thomas,” she said softly.
He looked down at her. The rage in his face didn’t vanish. It broke around her instead, like water around stone. Slowly, he lowered the blade.
Belmaine exhaled.