The rider hesitated. “My lord?”
“Carefully,” Thomas said. “To the solar.”
Not to the hall or to the armory.
Hob took it, and even he looked sobered when the weight settled in his hands. “Fine blade.”
“Aye,” Thomas said. “Go.”
Amelia’s gaze followed the sword until the solar door swallowed it.
More words followed.
Thanks. Honor. Instructions that Sir Aymon’s safe arrival had been received with gratitude and that Lady Eleanor would remember Ashcombe’s service.
Walter recovered enough to ask three precise questions, all of which the rider answered. Edith ordered hot ale and bread for the riders because royal messengers might carry favor, but they still had stomachs.
Friar Huck murmured something about providence and then looked sharply toward the solar, as if the bees had whispered through stone.
Thomas let the words pass around him like smoke.
When the riders were taken into the hall, he turned to Amelia.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Do not lie to me.”
A red curl had slipped free near her cheek, the end damp from mist and bright against the fading bruise. She looked as she had in the stables months ago, when she had asked him what year it was.
“The sword frightens you,” he said.
Her eyes flicked to the solar. “No.”
“Amelia.”
She was shaking. He saw it in the small tremble of her hands before she folded them into the sleeves of Edith’s old gown.
Thomas lowered his voice. “Come.”
“Where?”
“To the solar.”
Her face changed. “No.”
The word came out too quickly.
Men led the riders’ horses to the stable. Edith’s voice carried from the hall as she ordered bread cut thick and ale warmed properly. Alyson asked whether the queen had sent any sweets, and Wat said queens probably had better things to do than send sweets, and Alyson replied that seemed a dreadful misuse of power.
But between Thomas and Amelia, the world had narrowed to one word.
No.
“Why?” he asked.
She looked at him.