A low, surprised sound came from somewhere on Ashlynnâs side of the hall; half a laugh, quickly bitten back, but it was followed by several lighter giggles as everyone, from Charlotte Otker to Baroness Mairwen, took a moment to âadmireâ the intricately decorated, bluish-black steel bulge, covered in golden filigree inlays that protruded from Owainâs waist.
"Itâs armor, Wife," Owain said tightly. "Real armor, made by men who know their craft. The seam between the fauld and the inner thigh is..." he started before biting back his words and glaring at her as he saw the mirth in her eyes and heard the laughter from the crowd.
"Of course, itâs âreal armorâ," Ashlynn teased. "Protecting your most vital treasures, isnât it? But the knights who taught me said that it was important for armor to be properly fitted to provide real protection. Having a bunch of empty space to rattle around in canât be doing your precious jewels any good, can it?"
This time, the giggles and snickers spread to both sides of the hall as several ladies hid their smiles behind their hands while their faces turned brilliant shades of pink and red. Several knights and lords, however, looked on with eyes that held their first real sympathy for Lord Owain since the night began. It was one thing to have your codpiece mocked by your peers; men would trade those insults with each other for hours on end without any heat or hurt.
But to hear it from your own wife was a different thing entirely.
"As if youâd know," Owain snorted dismissively.
"Thatâs true enough," Ashlynn said. "You were in too much of a hurry to murder me on our wedding night to bother taking your trousers off and revealing your inadequacies there," she said sharply.
"I wonât hurry this time," Owain promised her as he held out his arms so that Gilander and Garrik could buckle his breastplate into place. "If you think that battered antique youâve strapped on will stand up any better against my blade than your wedding dress did that night, then youâre sorely mistaken."
"You really should have let a real man stand in your place, Ashlynn," Owain said. "It wouldnât have preserved your life for long, but it would have spared you the humiliation of being beaten in front of the lords of the realm."
"And once youâre dead," he added, turning his head while Gilander adjusted one of his pauldrons. "Thereâs nothing stopping me from stripping you bare again and revealing your mark to everyone whoâs called you âSaintess.â"
The laughter that had filled the hall a moment before went out of it like a snuffed candle. High Priest Aubinâs hand had closed around the pendant at his throat, and his white, bushy brows furrowed together as he glared at the murderous marquis.
Lady Ragna, who had been watching Ashlynn with a delight she had not bothered to hide, was no longer smiling, and neither were any of the members of the Blackwell retinue. Even on Owainâs side of the square, Sir Gilander had stopped working at the strap he was tightening, and his eyes had gone very carefully to the floor.
"I donât know about that, Husband," Ashlynn said, and her voice was quiet now in a way it had not been a moment before. "If thereâs one thing Iâve learned well from you, itâs how to stay alive, no matter what you try to do."
"Besides," she added in a tone that was sharper and more barbed. "Iâve rarely had the luxury of wearing armor in battle at all. If I can slay ghosts and giants in a light dress, I canât imagine a little lord will pose much of a threat, even if he is wrapped up in half a treasuryâs worth of pretty plates."
"And did you have to borrow the High Inquisitorâs Holy Flame Blade to kill those ghosts and giants, too?" Owain said, grunting lightly as the weight of his chain mail settled onto his shoulders. The load would be easier to manage once Gilander and Garrik finished tying it in place, but for a moment, he felt like he was carrying a small child on his shoulders.
"For one of them, yes," Ashlynn admitted as she ducked her head so Cadeyrn and Liam could help her into her own coat of mail. "In the mountains beyond the Vale of Mists, at the summit of Fortress Peak, a ghost older than the Kingdom of Gaal possessed a friend of mine... He shattered my sword. Were it not for Ignatious, I might have really died that day," she said.
"I had to have a new blade forged, just for fighting you," Ashlynn said, gesturing to the sword waiting for her to belt on her final pieces of armor. "I dug up some antiques to use for scrap steel. I hope you donât mind."
"Mind?" Owain snorted. "Why would I mind facing off against a blade youâve cobbled together out of scrap?"
"You should be familiar with the weapons that offered up their steel," Ashlynn said conversationally. "Edge of Light, for example."
Suddenly, Owainâs hand stopped moving on the buckle of his vambrace as he recognized the name of the famous blade carried by the Lothian familyâs founding ancestor, Caun Lothian.
"War Spike," Ashlynn added, prompting Gilander to look up at his lordâs face in recognition of the warhammer that Cellach Lothian had carried when he set the Vale of Mists ablaze... and that had been missing ever since the night of the Midnight Massacre.
"Bone Reaver," Ashlynn said into a suddenly quiet hall, ending on the mighty axe carried by Owainâs own grandfather throughout the War of Four Templars.
"Impossible," Owain said, unwilling to believe that anyone, even a Saintess, had been able to retrieve those lost, legendary weapons from wherever theyâd vanished to.
Throughout the hall, whispers flew quickly, and more and more eyes opened wide as those who knew the history of their march shared the significance of those names with their neighbors who didnât know until every eye in the Great Hall was fixed on Lady Ashlynn and the sword her squire was buckling around her waist.
"You really should be careful, Husband," Ashlynn said in a voice that was suddenly harder and colder than any tone sheâd used before. "If youâre going to bury someone alive, you should know they have a habit of making friends with the dead. And some things really will come back to haunt you..."