He stood and lifted her into his arms before she could object.
Alyson gasped. Wat grinned. Edith made a sound of approval. Walter looked toward the rafters as if asking Heaven whether anyone had remembered propriety existed. Hob, traitor that he was, looked pleased enough to burst.
Amelia’s hands landed against Thomas’s shoulders. “I can walk.”
“Aye.”
“That means put me down.”
“Nay.”
She narrowed tired eyes at him. “Lord Ashcombe.”
“Mistress Quinn.”
“People are watching.”
“They’ve been watching since you appeared in my stable and frightened the boys into shrieking like geese.”
He carried her toward the settle near the hearth, where Edith had already arranged a dry blanket, a basin of clean water, strips of linen, and a small pot of something that smelled sharply of herbs. The fire snapped and hissed, sending sparks up the chimney. Someone pressed a cup of hot spiced ale into Thomas’s hand, though he had no memory of accepting it. Someone else brought a trencher with bread, cheese, and a slice of cold pork.
Amelia eyed the food. “Is that for me?”
“For you,” Edith said. “And if you say you’re not hungry, I’ll take offense.”
“I’m starving.”
Thomas set Amelia down on the settle as carefully as if she were glass, though he knew very well she was not. Glass did not throw men into mud, face down liars, or argue with lords while bruised and shivering.
Edith dipped a linen strip into warm water and tended to Amelia’s cheek.
Thomas stayed where he was.
Edith lifted one brow. “Are you planning to hover over my shoulder like a storm cloud in mail?”
“Aye.”
“Fine. Try not to drip on our lady.”
Across the hall, Pickering continued his work. Belmaine had been moved to the lower end beneath guard, his expression carved from hatred and calculation. Crale bent over a table, naming names under the watchful misery of two clerks and Hob’s cheerful attention. Dame Margaret sat near the fire, hands wrapped around a cup, with Joan beside her and Father Martin murmuring softly to both of them.
People moved around one another with blankets, ale, water, and dry blankets. The smell of rain and mud gave way slowly to hearth smoke, hot ale, beeswax candles, wet leather, and the onion pottage Mald had tended so it wouldn’t burn.
Alyson climbed onto the settle beside Amelia and leaned into her. “Did you truly throw him?”
“One of them.”
“Was he very big?”
“Huge.”
Wat’s eyes shone. “Bigger than Hob?”
“Don’t insult me,” Hob called from across the hall without looking up.
Amelia considered. “Not bigger than Hob. Less handsome, though.”
Hob slapped a hand over his heart. “Mistress, you restore my faith in justice.”