Thomas put his arm around her.
No one said a word, not even Walter.
After a time, Pickering rose.
The hall quieted by degrees, like a pond settling after stones had been thrown.
“The prisoners will be held under guard until morning,” he said. “Sir Roger Belmaine will be removed under royal authority. Edmund Crale will remain secured separately, as will Osric andthe named men. Father Martin’s testimony, Dame Margaret’s, Joan’s testimony, Sir Aymon’s statement, and the corrected accounts will travel with me.”
Walter made a small noise at the accounts.
Pickering looked at him. “Copies, Walter.”
Walter relaxed only slightly. “Good.”
“Lord Ashcombe,” Pickering continued, “no formal ruling is made tonight regarding any larger matter of tenure. I am not king, nor council, nor miracle worker.”
Huck muttered, “We can pray.”
Pickering ignored him. “But I will report that Ashcombe has rendered aid to the queen’s household, preserved royal correspondence, exposed fraud, and submitted witnesses in good order.”
Thomas almost looked around to see whether Pickering meant some other hall.
Amelia, under his arm, whispered, “Don’t ruin it by looking surprised.”
His mouth twitched. “I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
Pickering’s gaze moved to her. “Mistress Amelia.”
She straightened as much as she could. “Master Pickering.”
“Until this matter is settled, no man may claim you by that false attestation. If Edmund Crale repeats the claim, he perjures himself further. If Sir Roger’s men repeat it, they join him.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Pickering gave a curt nod. “Try not to throw anyone else before morning.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“See that you do.”
Hob raised one hand. “Does that apply to all of us or only Mistress Amelia?”
Pickering looked at him for a long moment. “Especially you.”
At last the hall began to break apart. Guards took Belmaine toward the old storeroom that would serve as a holding chamber. He went stiff-backed, still trying to wear nobility like armor. But his cloak was wet, his wrists were bound, and every eye in Ashcombe watched him go.
At the doorway, he turned. “This is not finished.”
Amelia stood before Thomas could stop her.
She was pale. Bruised. Wrapped in a shawl over a damp gown, with her hair coming down in fiery, half-tamed curls and one child’s sticky handprint on her skirt from a honey cake.
She looked like a woman dragged through hell and thoroughly annoyed by the inconvenience.
“No,” she said. “But you are.”