Chapter 33: The Road’s Long Shadow

The cart lurched through a frozen rut, and Tom bit his tongue against the jolt. The mule, a sturdy beast with a grey muzzle and a patient temper, plodded on without complaint. Baldric sat beside him, his scarred hands loose on the reins, his eyes fixed on the ribbon of road that wound through the bare elms and frost-browned hedgerows. Behind them, Wykeham had vanished into the haze of a cold afternoon, and with it the smoke of its chimneys, the lowing of its byres, the faces of the people Tom had sworn to save.

Four days to London. Five if the snow came again.

The letter burned against his chest, a folded square of vellum sealed with the de Lacy ring—a ring Tom had lifted from Sir Hugh’s own writing desk while the lord lay drunk in his hall. The words inside were not his own. They were the fevered woman’s words, Margery’s words, Joan’s words, all stitched together into a confession that would hang Sir Hugh de Lacy for treason. Selling grain to the French. Two years of it. The very grain Tom had grown.

He had not read the letter since sealing it. He did not need to. He had written it himself, in a hand that shook only once, and he had signed it with Hugh’s name.

“You are quiet,” Baldric said.

“I am thinking.”

“That is what frightens me most.”

Tom almost smiled. The reeve had a dry wit, worn thin by years of war and service, but it still surfaced in the strangest moments. Tom had seen him hold a dying man’s hand at Crécy, had heard him speak of the arrow storm with a kind of hollow wonder. Baldric had been a soldier before he was a reeve, and he carried the scars of both trades.

“How far to the next village?” Tom asked.

“Three miles, if the ford is not flooded.” Baldric glanced at the sky. “The clouds are building. We will have snow before dusk.”

“Then we push on.”

The mule’s ears flicked, but the beast did not quicken. Tom shifted on the hard seat, feeling the cold creep through his boots. His modern boots, with their rubber soles and steel shanks, were hidden beneath patched leather gaiters, but the cold still found the gaps. He had worn them every day since the warehouse had brought him here, and they were beginning to show the strain. He had a second pair, but those were buried in the warehouse, wrapped in oilcloth, waiting for a spring he might never see.

“You think the King will read it?” Baldric asked.

“The King will read whatever his clerks put before him.”

“And his clerks will read whatever the chancellor puts before them.”

“Then I will make sure it reaches the chancellor.”

Baldric was silent for a moment. The cart creaked. The wind picked up, carrying the first needle-sharp flakes of snow.

“You have a plan,” Baldric said.

“I have a hope.”

“Those are not the same thing.”

Tom turned to look at him. The reeve’s face was a map of old battles—a scar across the brow, a nose that had been broken twice, a jaw that had been shattered at Crécy and healed crooked. His eyes were grey and steady, and they had seen too much.

“I know,” Tom said. “But hope is what I have left.”

Baldric nodded slowly. He did not argue. He had seen men die for hope, and he had seen hope save men who had no right to be saved. He knew the difference between a fool and a desperate man, and he had decided, somewhere along the road, which one Tom was.

The snow began to fall in earnest, drifting across the road in white veils. The mule lowered its head and plodded on. The cart wheels turned, grinding through the frozen mud. Tom pulled his cloak tighter and thought of Joan, standing in the doorway of her cottage, her hand on his arm, her voice low and fierce.

*“If you die on this road, I will find a way to bring you back, if only to kill you myself.”*

He had laughed. She had not.

The road climbed a low hill, and at the crest Baldric reined the mule to a halt. Below them, a village lay in a valley, smoke rising from its chimneys, a church tower grey against the white sky. It was a small place, huddled against the wind, and the snow was already covering its roofs.

“We can find shelter there,” Baldric said. “There is an inn, if the plague has not taken it.”

Tom looked at the village. It seemed peaceful, untouched by the horrors that had swept the realm. But he knew better. The plague did not announce itself. It came in the night, with a fever and a cough, and by morning half the village was dead.

“Do we know anyone there?” Tom asked.

“I know the innkeeper. He served at Crécy with me. A good man, if he lives.” Baldric paused. “He owes me a debt.”

Tom nodded. He had learned to trust Baldric’s debts. They were few, and they were always paid.

The cart started down the hill, the snow covering their tracks behind them. Tom felt the letter against his chest, solid and dangerous. He thought of Sir Hugh, drunk in his hall, unaware that his own ring was riding toward London in the pocket of a man he had threatened to hang.

He thought of the French knight rotting in chains in the manor house, and the secrets he had whispered to the fevered woman.

He thought of the bishop’s steward, whose questions had come early and would not wait for spring.

And he thought of Joan, standing in the snow, watching him go.

The village grew closer. The inn’s sign creaked in the wind—a painted boar, its tusks chipped and faded. Baldric reined in before the door, and Tom climbed down, his legs stiff with cold.

The inn door opened, and a man stood in the threshold, blocking the light.

“Baldric,” the man said. His voice was rough, like stone grinding against stone. “I thought you were dead.”

“Not yet, Godric. Not yet.”

The man stepped aside, and Tom followed Baldric into the warmth, the letter still burning against his chest.

Four days to London. Five if the snow came again.

And behind them, on the road, the distant thunder of hooves was growing louder.