Belmaine bowed over her hand before Thomas could prevent it.
Amelia froze.
So did Thomas.
Belmaine did not kiss her fingers, which proved the man had some wish to leave Ashcombe with his teeth still in his head. He merely held her hand half a heartbeat too long, his thumb resting over her knuckles.
“A pleasure,” he said again.
Amelia pulled her hand back with a smile so polite Thomas knew she wanted to wipe her fingers on her gown.
She went inside with Edith, shoulders straight.
Only when she had vanished into the hall did Thomas remember there were other men in the yard and that he was not permitted to challenge a guest to single combat for holding a woman’s hand too long.
The rule seemed poorly made.
Battle required one kind of strength. Peace, Thomas was discovering, required another. At that moment he found he much preferred battle.
Belmaine turned the full warmth of his attention back on Thomas. It was worse than his interest in Amelia.
“Walk with me, Ashcombe,” he said, lowering his voice to the register of a friend. “I came not to gawp at your walls, whatever the temptation, but to do you a kindness. You’ll not like it, so let me say it plainly.”
A kindness from Roger Belmaine usually came with a hook in it. Still, hospitality had rules, and neighbor had duties to neighbor, even when one neighbor had all the sincerity of a fox offering to watch the hens. Thomas could not turn him out, not with witnesses, not with the crown already sniffing around any man who had ridden behind Montfort.
So Thomas walked as they crossed the yard toward the low wall beyond the hall, where one could see the fields, the fresh-cut stubble, the stacked sheaves, and the barn finally full enough to let a man breathe.
The yard smelled of straw, horse sweat, ash from the kitchen fire, and the sweet dust of barley stacked in the barn. Somewhere a hammer rang against iron. A pair of geese waddled past the well with the certainty of creatures who believed the manor had been built for their convenience. Beyond the wall, the stubble fields shone gold in the sun, every acre hard won.
Belmaine clasped his hands behind his back and gazed over it all as if it were already his.
“You have done well,” he said. “Better than expected.”
“By whom?”
Belmaine laughed. “Do not be prickly. It makes you look guilty.”
Thomas stopped.
Belmaine took another step before turning back, his brows raised in mild surprise. The yard lay behind them, but not far enough. Walter lingered near the well, pretending not to watch. Hob stood with Belmaine’s men and held a cup of ale as if considering whether it was better used as drink or weapon. Wat had crept close to the hall door until Edith’s hand emerged and pulled him back by the collar.
“You speak freely for a guest,” Thomas said.
“I speak freely as a friend.”
“We are not friends.”
“No.” Belmaine’s smile thinned. “But we are neighbors, and neighbors can be more useful than friends. Friends weep over a body. Neighbors know where the land boundaries lie after the body cools.”
Thomas stared at him.
Belmaine spread his hands. “You see? Plain speech. You always preferred it, if memory serves.”
“My memory of you is poor.”
“Then allow me to improve it.” Belmaine turned back to the fields.
“There are men at court who have not forgotten which banner you followed. As usual, the king wants gold. A forfeited manor is gold that needs no thanking, no bargaining, and no waiting upon a reluctant purse. A man so placed as you needs friends near the throne.”