Chapter 35: The Bargain Beneath the Bishop's Seal

The parchment lay between them like a coiled snake. Tom did not touch it. The stranger’s eyes—pale grey, the colour of winter water—watched him with the patience of a man who had learned to wait for answers.

“You said the woman was dead,” Tom said slowly. “And yet this letter is from her.”

“Written before she was found.” The stranger shrugged, a small motion inside a mud-stained cloak. “She knew the risk. She gave it to a boy who ran through the dark to bring it to me. I was already riding this way when they hanged her.”

Tom’s throat tightened. He had saved that woman. Sat with her through the fever’s worst, fed her willow-bark tincture, watched the colour return to her cheeks. And the bishop’s men had found her anyway.

“Who are you?” Joan’s voice cut through the silence. She had not moved from the doorway, one hand braced against the jamb, the other hidden in her skirt. Tom knew she kept a small knife there, honed on the whetstone Baldric had given her.

“A man who serves a master who is not the bishop.” The stranger permitted himself a thin smile. “My name is Simon of Aylesbury. I am a clerk in the service of Sir Walter de Mauny.”

Tom’s mind raced. Sir Walter de Mauny—the King’s own captain, one of Edward’s most trusted soldiers, a man who had fought at Sluys and Crécy and had grown rich on French ransoms. If de Mauny’s clerk was here, in this frozen corner of England, then something larger than a single manor’s treason was moving.

“De Mauny knows about Hugh?” Tom asked.

“De Mauny knows many things. He knows that grain has been leaving the south coast for two years, and that some of it has not reached the King’s armies. He knows that gold has been coming back, and that some of it has not reached the Crown’s coffers.” Simon leaned forward, and the firelight caught the lines of his face—a man who had seen too many winters, too many sieges. “What he does not know is where the grain originates. Until now.”

Tom felt the trap closing. “And you want me to give you proof.”

“I want you to give me what you saw. What the woman told you. Names, dates, routes. The warehouses on the coast where Hugh’s grain is stored.” Simon spread his hands. “In return, de Mauny will see that you are protected. The bishop’s steward will be recalled. The questions will stop.”

“And Hugh?”

Simon’s smile turned cold. “Hugh de Lacy will face the King’s justice. Which, as you may know, is considerably swifter than the Church’s.”

Joan moved closer, her knife still hidden. “And what of Tom? What does de Mauny want from him beyond this information?”

Simon’s eyes flicked to her, then back to Tom. “Sir Walter has heard interesting tales from this manor. A stranger who appeared from nowhere. A barn that yields more wheat than the land has ever given. A man who knows things he should not know.” He paused. “De Mauny collects useful men. He is willing to offer you a place in his household, Tom Ashwick. A position as his steward of new methods. You would be safe. Fed. Paid. One of his own.”

Tom’s heart hammered. It was everything he had dreamed of when he had planned his journey to London—protection, purpose, a place where his knowledge would be valued instead of feared. But he had learned in this world that such gifts came with chains.

“And if I refuse?”

Simon’s face did not change. “Then the bishop’s steward will continue his questions. And you will hang from the same oak as the woman who trusted you.”

The fire crackled. Snow hissed against the shutters. Tom looked at Joan, and saw in her eyes the same calculation he was making.

“I need time,” he said.

“You have until the snow stops,” Simon said. He rose, pulling his cloak tight. “The road to London will be passable by then. I will return with de Mauny’s answer—and yours.” He paused at the door. “The woman’s letter is yours to keep. Read it, if you wish. She spoke of you fondly.”

He was gone before Tom could speak, the door swinging shut behind him, and the sound of hooves faded into the white silence.

Joan moved to the table and picked up the parchment. She broke the seal without asking, unfolded it, and read in silence. When she looked up, her face was pale.

“She wrote it the night before they took her,” Joan said. “She names three ships. The ports. The dates. She says Hugh’s cousin in Calais handles the French side.” She set the letter down. “This is enough to hang a dozen lords.”

Tom stared at the paper. The woman had given him everything, and it had cost her her life.

“De Mauny will protect you,” Joan said, but there was no conviction in her voice. “He will protect you the way a man protects a useful tool. Until you are no longer useful.”

“I know.” Tom ran a hand through his hair. “But the alternative is the oak.”

“There is a third way.” Joan’s voice dropped. “Take the letter. Take what you know. Ride to London yourself, before de Mauny’s man returns. Put it directly into the King’s hands. Edward is in Westminster—he will be there through the winter. If you go to him first, you are not de Mauny’s servant. You are the man who exposed a traitor.”

Tom looked at her. “Baldric said the King would never see me.”

“Baldric is a reeve who has never been to court. You are a man who walks out of nowhere with miracles in his hands.” Joan’s eyes burned. “The King rewards people who make him richer. You can do that, Tom. You can do that better than any man in England.”

Outside, the wind rose, and the snow began to fall harder.

Tom reached for the letter and folded it carefully, placing it inside his tunic against his heart.

“Then I will go to London,” he said. “And I will pray that Edward of Windsor is the man the songs claim him to be.”

Joan said nothing, but she reached out and took his hand, and they stood together in the firelight while the snow buried the world beyond the door.