Elin Hale did not walk to the map table like a petitioner approaching a royal lord; she walked across the taproom flagstones with the brisk, steady stride she had used in the border infirmary at Stoneford Gap when a young surgeon lost his nerve over a gangrenous leg and had to be moved aside from the operating board.
Jon stepped half a pace to his left to give his wife the center of the oak table, keeping his scarred hands resting on the bevel so Honest Measure held the five-foot circle clear and bright around her.
Across the board, Sir Cael Ardent glanced briefly at the innkeeper’s wife. In his golden tactical record, Elin Hale was indexed under a single three-word civilian notation—Publican’s wife; nurse—a peripheral non-combatant asset who boiled water in the rear courtyard and had no bearing on the defense of the western wall.
“The war council is not a place for the women of the house, Mistress Hale,” Cael said, though his voice remained courteous enough by the standards of a camp command tent. “Your husband and I are discussing the military preservation of this parish.”
Elin did not answer his courtesy, nor did she look at his white rose surcoat.
