They reached the butcher's shop. A bell chimed as Arthur pushed the heavy door open. The smell of raw meat, sawdust, and dried blood hit them. Behind the heavy wooden counter stood Thomas, a massive man with a stained apron and a cleaver in his hand. Thomas looked up, his eyes widening. He wiped his hands on a rag, his expression hardening into a guarded, unfriendly mask.
"Your Grace," Thomas said. His tone was perfectly polite and entirely devoid of respect. "We haven't seen you in the village for some time."
"I require supplies," Arthur said. His voice was clipped, cold, entirely different from the rough rasp Beatrice had grown used to. It was the voice of a man who owned the land they stood on, even if it was rotting beneath his feet.
"Is that so?" Thomas leaned heavily on the counter. "I recall the last time supplies went up to Harrow Gate. The bill went unpaid for six months."
Arthur flinched. It was microscopic, a tiny tightening of the eyes, but Beatrice saw it. The silence in the shop grew heavy, thick with the old resentments of a village that had been dragged down by its lord's neglect.
Arthur reached into his pocket. He pulled out the leather pouch and untied the strings with clumsy, bandaged fingers. He tipped it over the counter. A heavy, solid gold pocket watch slid onto the wood. It was beautifully chased, the crest of the Ashborne family deeply engraved on the front.
Beatrice sucked in a quiet breath. That wasn't a trinket; that was a piece of him.
Thomas stared at the watch. He didn't touch it. He looked up at Arthur, a sneer pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Pawning your father's timepiece for a side of beef, Your Grace? How far the mighty fall."
Arthur went pale. His hand hovered over the watch, shaking. He looked like he was going to be sick. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The crushing weight of his shame had pinned him to the floorboards.
Beatrice stepped forward. She moved so smoothly she was at the counter before Thomas could react. She slammed her hand down flat on the wood, covering the gold watch entirely.
"We are not pawning anything," Beatrice said. Her voice was sharp, loud, and rang off the tiled walls. She fixed Thomas with a glare that could have stripped paint from a hull. "We are purchasing, and we are paying in gold, because paper notes are entirely useless to men who don't know how to run a proper ledger."
Thomas blinked, taken aback by the sudden fury of this dirty, ragged woman. "Who are you?"
"I am the housekeeper of Harrow Gate," Beatrice lied without missing a beat, her chin jutting out. "And the Duke has grown tired of his meals tasting of poor quality. I need a whole chicken, a ham hock, four pounds of your best bacon, a sack of flour, and three pounds of salt. Now."