The stained glass above the altar rattled as a dull, distant thump rolled through the riverbed—the opening salvo of the Ash Host catapults hurling stone against the north palisade, while across the river, royal couriers fell back toward the King’s Post House courtyard.
Inside the locked chapel of St. Jude, the air hung still and cold between the two men.
Cael stood with his silver gauntlet resting upon the crossguard of his broadsword, his pale eyes fixed upon Jon with a mixture of impatience and mild derision. Outside the bolted oak doors, the footsteps of the two relief guards crunched against the river bridge gravel, their voices muffled by the heavy timber.
“You speak as though you hold some ground here, Hale,” Cael said, his voice quiet, echoing off the high stone vaulting. “You stand in a locked chapel, under armed guard, stripped of your taproom and your tavern keys. You have allied yourself with an imperial magistrate who has lost her seal. What possible witness do you think you possess?”
Jon looked past the knight’s shoulder, to where Signe sat upon the oak bench with her bone stylus resting against the vellum, and where Sister Oda knelt with her rosary beads resting against the communion rail.
