Chapter 34: The Inn at the World’s Edge

The common room stank of woodsmoke, wet wool, and the sour breath of men who had ridden too far. Tom sat with his back to the wall, the letter from Sir Hugh’s steward burning against his chest like a coal pressed to skin. Baldric had taken a stool near the hearth, his scarred face half-lit by the flames, speaking low with Godric—a man whose eyes had not left Tom since they entered.

The inn was called the Boar’s Rest, though the painted sign above the door showed little more than a chipped silhouette. It sat at the crossroads where the old Roman road met the sheep track to Oxford, and it was the last place a man could sleep before the fens swallowed the horizon. Tom had counted six men in the room besides themselves. Three slept slumped over trestle tables. Two played dice in the corner with the weary rhythm of men who had lost more than coin. The sixth was the innkeeper’s daughter, a girl of perhaps fourteen with a bowl of thin pottage she set before Tom without meeting his eyes.

“You’ll want to eat,” she said. “The road to London eats men who ride it empty.”

Tom thanked her, but his stomach turned at the smell of barley and onion. He had not slept properly since the fever woman’s words had unhorsed him. Sir Hugh de Lacy, lord of Wykeham Manor, debtor to the Crown and traitor to the realm—selling grain to the French while Edward III starved his own garrisons to feed the war. The knowledge sat in Tom’s chest like a splintered rib.

Baldric rose from the hearth and crossed to him, lowering himself onto the bench with a grunt. His voice was barely a murmur.

“Godric says the bishop’s men passed through here three days past. Two riders, heading south. They asked about a stranger with strange tools and a barn that glowed at night.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “Then they’re ahead of us.”

“Aye.” Baldric scratched at the stubble on his chin. “But they were riding for Winchester, not London. The bishop’s seat. They’ll report, then come back with more than questions.”

“How long?”

“A week. Maybe less, if the snow holds off.” Baldric glanced toward the door, where the wind rattled the shutters. “But the letter you carry—if it reaches the King’s hand before the bishop’s men reach Wykeham, you might still have a life to bargain with.”

Tom nodded, but the weight of the plan pressed down on him. He had never seen the King. He had never seen London. He had only the vague map in his mind, drawn from books and memory, of a city that had not yet burned in the Great Fire, that had not yet known the Tudors or the Stuarts or the smoke of a thousand chimneys. He was a man from a future that did not exist, riding toward a throne that had no name for him.

The inn door banged open.

Tom’s hand went to the knife at his belt before his mind caught up. A man stood in the threshold, snow crusting his shoulders, his face shadowed beneath a hood of rough wool. He was tall, broad, and carried a long staff in one hand and a satchel in the other. His boots were caked with mud to the knee.

The room went still. The dice stopped rattling.

The man stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He scanned the room once—slow, deliberate—and then his eyes found Tom. Held him.

“Warehouse man,” he said.

Tom’s blood chilled. No one in this world called him that. No one but Joan, and Baldric, and the dead.

“You’ve the look of a man who’s been running,” the stranger said, lowering his hood. His face was lean, weathered, with a scar that split his left eyebrow and a nose that had been broken more than once. His eyes were pale grey, like winter water. “And you’ve the look of a man who doesn’t know where he’s running to.”

Baldric rose slowly, his hand resting on the haft of the axe at his belt. “State your name, friend, or be on your way.”

The stranger smiled, thin and cold. “I’m no friend. But I’m not your enemy either.” He reached into his satchel and drew out a folded parchment, sealed with a blob of dark wax. He tossed it onto the table before Tom. “That’s from the woman you saved. The one who served in Sir Hugh’s kitchen.”

Tom stared at the seal. It was not the de Lacy badge. It was a bishop’s crook, pressed into the wax.

“She’s dead,” the stranger said. “The bishop’s men found her this morning, hanging from the oak by the mill pond. They left her there as a warning.” He met Tom’s eyes. “You’re next, warehouse man. Unless you’re willing to make a bargain.”