Chapter 42: The Snowbound Vigil

Dawn came grey and bitter, the sky a low lid of cloud that promised more snow before noon. Tom woke to find Joan already stamping the horses, her breath pluming in the cold air. The priest was gone—vanished in the night like a bad dream—but his words lingered in the frost on the window glass.

“He’ll have sent word ahead,” Joan said, not looking at him. “That was no warning for our benefit. That was a bell rung for those who follow.”

Tom nodded, his hands stiff as he saddled the mare. The bishop’s seal lay cold against his chest, a weight that felt heavier with every mile. They rode out of the inn yard before the sun had fully breached the treeline, the snow crunching beneath hooves, the road ahead a pale ribbon winding through a world stripped of colour.

By midday, the snow began again—thin at first, then thick as a curtain. The road narrowed between hedgerows bent under white, and the horses slowed, nostrils steaming. Tom pulled his hood tighter and thought of the warehouse: the warm hum of its lamps, the steel shelves, the books that held answers to questions no one here would ever ask. All of it waiting for him, if he survived to return.

They passed a village where the church bell tolled, slow and mournful. A funeral, or a warning. Joan crossed herself and murmured something Tom did not catch. He did not ask.

“The war,” she said, breaking the silence as the snow began to ease. “The tollgate keeper said it was ending. What does that mean for us?”

Tom considered the question, the reins loose in his hands. “It means the King will be looking for new enemies. Old debts. Traitors in his own household, perhaps.”

“Hugh’s treason could still serve you, then.”

“Or it could bury me. A king who has just made peace does not want to hear that one of his lords has been selling grain to the French for years. It would embarrass him. It would force him to act.” Tom shook his head. “Men who bring such news are often the first to be silenced.”

Joan was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, “Then we need more than the news. We need something he wants.”

Tom looked at her. “Such as?”

“You said the warehouse has books. Knowledge. Tools that could feed a kingdom.” She met his eyes, and there was a fierceness in them that had nothing to do with the cold. “You have been thinking of yourself as a man with a secret. But the King is a man with a war to pay for. A man who has just made peace with France will need to feed his soldiers, his court, his people. You have the means to do that.”

“If he believes me.”

“Then make him believe you.”

They rode on, the snow thinning to a flurry. The road began to climb, and through the bare branches of the trees Tom caught his first glimpse of London—a distant smudge of smoke and stone rising from the grey horizon, the Thames a silver thread beneath it. His heart beat faster, though he could not say whether it was hope or fear.

They were perhaps three days out now, if the weather held.

That evening they found shelter at a small priory, its gatehouse manned by a lay brother who looked at them with dull suspicion. But the seal Tom wore—the bishop’s seal, heavy and ornate—bought them a corner of the refectory and a bowl of thin broth. The brother asked no questions. Tom was grateful for that.

He sat by the fire with Joan, the flames painting their faces in gold and shadow. She had pulled off her gloves and was warming her hands, and he noticed the raw redness of her knuckles, the small scars of a life spent working.

“What will you do,” she asked, “if the King refuses you?”

Tom stared into the flames. “I don’t know.”

“You must know. You have been planning this for weeks.”

“I planned for the road. Not for the end of it.” He looked at her. “I planned to reach London. I did not plan what comes after.”

She smiled, a small, tired thing. “Then we are alike. I have been running from what comes after for three years now.”

He wanted to reach for her hand, but he did not. Instead, he said, “What comes after for you, Joan? If we survive this?”

She was quiet for a long moment. “I do not know either. Perhaps I will go back to Wykeham. Perhaps I will find somewhere new. A place where no one knows my name.” She looked at him, and there was something unreadable in her eyes. “Perhaps I will stay with you.”

The words hung between them like smoke. Tom opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a knock came at the refectory door.

The lay brother entered, his face apologetic. “There is a rider at the gate,” he said, glancing at Tom. “He asks for a man matching your description. He says he is sent by the steward of Sir Hugh de Lacy.”

Tom felt the blood drain from his face. Joan’s hand found his under the table, squeezing hard.

“Tell him,” Tom said, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest, “that no such man is here. We are pilgrims, bound for Canterbury.”

The brother nodded and withdrew. Tom let out a breath he had not realised he was holding.

“They are close,” Joan whispered. “Closer than we thought.”

Tom looked at the fire, then at the dark window beyond it, where the snow had begun to fall again, thick and silent.

“Then we ride before dawn,” he said. “And we do not stop until we reach London.”

But even as he said it, a cold certainty settled in his gut: Hugh’s men were not the only ones on this road. The bishop would have sent his own. And somewhere between here and the King’s court, the snow would not be the only thing waiting to bury them.

The fire crackled. The night pressed in. And Tom felt, for the first time, that the road ahead was not a path to safety—but a trap closing around him from every side.