“I was being thorough.”
“You were screaming at the wildlife.”
Deck leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “He knocked over the sign.”
“It attacked me first.”
“The sign?”
“The rat.”
Maureen, who had clearly worked at Ashcombe long enough to handle Americans, school groups, and footballers with endorsement deals, said gently, “Perhaps we should all remain out of the restricted areas.”
Gaz opened his mouth.
Bree pointed at him. “Do not argue with the lady who knows where the medieval toilets were.”
Gaz closed his mouth.
Maureen blinked once, then continued as if this were a perfectly normal part of her tour.
“As I was saying, the inscription gave us quite a stir. We’d always known there was a Lady Ashcombe, but earlier records were damaged. The cleaning made it legible at last.”
“Is there more?” Bree asked.
“A little. Thomas Ashcombe had been thought unmarried until the records were reexamined. Then we found references to his wife in manor rolls and one chapel record. Amelia, no family name listed. Described only as having come from afar.”
Linda let out a small sound.
“She was involved in the household accounts,” Maureen said, “which was unusual enough to be noted by one rather cranky steward. There are references to improved well practices, linen stores, care of children after the war, and some years later, a famous honey-tithe dispute with the friary that had apparently involved three abbots, two angry reeves, and far too many bees. She was clever, had red hair, was stubborn, and rather particular about clean water.”
Bree laughed through her tears. “That’s her.”
Deck came to stand behind Bree, his hand settling gently at the small of her back. He had learned, during one year of being married to Bree, that sometimes the wisest thing a man could do was provide warmth, vertical stability, and no commentary whatsoever.
Gaz hovered in the doorway, trying to look respectful and brave while keeping one eye on the passage in case the rat returned with reinforcements.
“There’s also the legend of the sword,” Maureen said.
Bree’s shoulders tightened.
“The Ashcombe Sword. It was said to have chosen Thomas Ashcombe after Evesham, then to have vanished from time totime. Local stories claim it returned whenever Ashcombe most needed it. Very romantic nonsense, naturally.”
“Sure,” Bree said faintly. “Naturally.”
“The old plaque in the tower says the lord who carried it could not be parted from what he loved.”
Linda closed her eyes.
Bree wiped her face with a ruined tissue, which was no longer a tissue so much as damp confetti. “Do you have another one?”
Linda reached into her purse and produced a packet.
Bree stared at it.
“What?” Linda said.
“That was very Amelia of you.”