Chapter 31: The Merchant's Errand

The snow had stopped by the time Willoughby arrived, but the cold had settled into the bones of Wykeham like a tenant who refused to leave. Tom stood at the barn door, watching the merchant's cart lurch through the frozen ruts, its wheels creaking in protest. The horse was a fine bay, well-fed and groomed, and the man who drove it wore a wool cloak that had cost more than most villagers earned in a year.

Catesby walked beside the cart, his face unreadable as always, his hand resting on the pommel of a dagger that had never drawn blood in anger. Tom had seen the steward's kind before—men who hoarded silence the way misers hoarded coin, waiting for the moment when it would buy them the most.

Willoughby climbed down from the cart with the ease of a man who had spent his life on the road. He was past fifty, with a merchant's belly and a lawyer's eyes, and he looked at Tom the way a butcher looks at a prize hog.

"Master Ashwick," he said, extending a hand that had never known a day's ploughing. "I have heard remarkable things about you. Steel that cuts like a saint's blade. Seed that yields three times the common measure. A man who appeared from nowhere and saved a village from the pestilence."

Tom took the hand. It was soft and dry, like parchment. "I am no saint," he said. "And the pestilence is not finished with us yet."

Willoughby smiled. It did not reach his eyes. "Modesty. How refreshing. The court is full of men who would hang themselves with their own boasts." He turned to look at the manor house, its chimneys smoking against the grey sky. "I am told Sir Hugh is away."

"Hunting," Catesby said. "He will return by evening."

"Excellent. Then we have time to talk, Master Ashwick. Time to discuss business."

Tom felt the weight of the letter in his pocket—the one he had not yet decided whether to send to London, the one that would either save him or destroy him. He had written it three times, each version more desperate than the last, and still he did not know if the King would read it or burn it.

"Business," Tom repeated. "What business could a merchant have with me?"

Willoughby's smile widened. "The kind of business that makes men rich, or makes them dead. I have heard that your methods produce grain that could feed an army. I have heard that your steel could arm one. And I have heard, Master Ashwick, that you are a man who understands the value of a secret."

The barn loomed behind them, its false wall hiding a warehouse full of wonders that could burn Tom at the stake. Joan had warned him, again and again, that every gift he offered was a rope around his own neck. And now this merchant, this stranger, was asking to see the miracles with his own eyes.

"I keep my secrets close," Tom said.

"As you should. As you should." Willoughby drew closer, lowering his voice until it was barely more than a whisper. "But I have a secret of my own to share, Master Ashwick. A secret that might interest you greatly."

Catesby had drifted away, pretending to inspect the cart's harness, but Tom knew the steward was listening. Everything in Wykeham was listening. The walls had ears, the trees had eyes, and the snow itself seemed to carry whispers.

"Then share it," Tom said.

Willoughby glanced around, then reached into his cloak and produced a folded parchment, sealed with a blob of wax that bore no crest. He pressed it into Tom's hand.

"A friend of mine in London—a man who serves the King's council—asked me to deliver this to you personally. He said you would understand what it meant."

Tom unfolded the parchment. The writing was cramped and hurried, the hand of a man who did not want to be caught. It took him a moment to decipher the words, and when he did, the cold seemed to seep through his bones like water.

*The King knows of Lacy's treachery. The French grain has been traced. A warrant is being drawn. But there are those who would rather see the matter buried than see the Crown embarrassed. You have until Candlemas to prove your loyalty—or to disappear.*

Tom looked up. Willoughby was watching him with those lawyer's eyes, measuring his reaction.

"Who sent this?" Tom asked.

"A friend. Or perhaps a man who wants to see which way the wind blows before he chooses his own loyalties." Willoughby shrugged. "In London, such distinctions are often the difference between a comfortable retirement and a traitor's grave."

Tom folded the parchment and tucked it into his tunic. The weight of it felt heavier than any chain.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"Because I am a merchant, Master Ashwick. I deal in goods, but I also deal in information. And I believe that a man who can grow grain in winter and heal the sick with nothing but bark and water is worth more than the price of a few bushels. I want to be on the winning side before the battle is fought."

The barn creaked in the wind. Somewhere inside, the battery that powered Tom's lights was dying, one silent hour at a time. He had perhaps a year of modern miracles left, maybe less, and then he would be just another man with good ideas and worn hands.

"You want me to sell you my secrets," Tom said.

"I want you to sell me your loyalty," Willoughby replied. "The price is your life, and the lives of everyone in this village who has ever helped you. The alternative is the pyre."

Tom thought of Joan, of Baldric, of the woman in the linen who had told him Hugh's treason. He thought of Wat, the boy who had sworn to keep the warehouse's secrets, and of the harvest that had saved them from the famine that had devoured other manors.

"I need time," he said.

Willoughby nodded, as if he had expected nothing less. "Candlemas, Master Ashwick. The snow will have thawed by then, and the roads will be passable. I will return with my answer—and with the King's warrant, if I have not heard from you."

He climbed back onto his cart and took up the reins. The bay horse stamped its hooves, eager to be moving again.

"One more thing," Willoughby said, pausing. "The man who sent that letter—he wanted me to tell you that the woman from the burnt village is still alive. She is hiding in the fens, beyond the reach of the bishop's men. But she cannot hide forever."

Tom felt his heart stop. Margery, the woman who had come to warn him, the woman who had vanished into the dark. She had risked everything to tell him the truth, and now she was the one paying for it.

"Tell him I remember," Tom said. "Tell him I will not forget."

Willoughby nodded, and then he was gone, the cart rattling down the frozen road until it disappeared into the grey distance. Tom stood in the yard, the letter burning against his chest, and knew that the winter ahead would be the longest of his life.

Catesby appeared at his elbow, silent as a shadow.

"A dangerous man," the steward said. "Merchants always are."

Tom did not answer. He was already thinking of the lime kiln in the wood, of the steel in the warehouse, of the secret that could bring a lord to his knees.

And of the woman in the fens, waiting for a rescue that might never come.