Chapter 52: The King’s Hour

The inn’s common room had emptied save for the two guards by the door and the black-cloaked man who now sat across from Tom and Joan, his hands folded on the scarred oak table. A single tallow candle guttered between them, casting their shadows long against the lime-washed wall.

“The king,” Tom repeated, tasting the words. “Margery truly reached him.”

Robert nodded. “She rode with a merchant’s train carrying wool to the Calais staple. From there, a ship to Sandwich, then a horse to Westminster. She has been in the king’s household since the Feast of Saint Lucy.” He paused. “She told him everything. The grain shipments, the French gold, the false accounts Sir Hugh swore before the exchequer. His Grace has been waiting for the proof you carry.”

Joan leaned forward. “Then why are we still sitting in this inn, with bishop’s men at the door?”

Robert’s mouth tightened. “Because the bishop’s men are not the only ones watching. The king’s council is divided. Half of them owe Sir Hugh favors, or fear what his arrest might reveal about their own dealings. If Edward moves too openly, the accusations could be dismissed as the ravings of a common woman and a vanished warehouse keeper.” He looked at Tom. “The king needs you to walk into Westminster Hall with the evidence in your hands, before witnesses, and name Sir Hugh de Lacy a traitor to the realm.”

Tom felt the weight of the sealed satchel against his ribs. The bishop’s seal, the iron-bound chest’s contents, the grain ledgers he had copied in the dead of night—all of it pressed against him like a second skin.

“And if I refuse?” he asked.

Robert’s eyes were flat. “Then you become a convenience. The bishop’s men take you quietly, and the king loses his proof. Sir Hugh continues to sell English grain to the French, and when the war resumes—as it will, for it is never truly over—English soldiers will die hungry because of it.” He paused. “You did not come this far to walk away.”

Tom looked at Joan. Her face was pale in the candlelight, but her jaw was set. She had risked everything to follow him—her home, her name, her life. He reached under the table and found her hand. It was cold, but her fingers closed around his.

“Tomorrow,” Tom said. “I will stand before the king.”

Robert rose. “Then rest. Dawn comes early, and Westminster does not wait for laggards.” He gestured to the guards, who stepped aside as he moved toward the door. At the threshold, he paused. “One thing, Master Ashwick. The king has heard much about your strange knowledge—your seeds that sprout in winter, your medicines that cure the fever. He is a practical man. He will want to know how you came by such gifts.”

Tom’s throat tightened. “And what will you tell him?”

Robert’s smile was thin. “I will tell him the truth. That you are a man who keeps his promises.” He vanished into the night, and the door swung shut behind him.

---

They were given a small chamber above the stables, straw pallets laid before a hearth that had not been lit in days. Tom built a fire from kindling he found in a corner, and the flames caught quickly, casting warmth into the small space. Joan sat on her pallet, unwinding the linen from her hair, and Tom watched the firelight catch the red strands, turning them to copper.

“You are thinking of the warehouse,” she said, without looking at him.

He started. “How did you know?”

“Because you have that look. The one you wear when you are counting what you have lost.” She turned to face him. “It is still there, Tom. Hidden behind the false wall, with Wat to guard it. When this is done, you can go back.”

“Can I?” He rubbed his face. “Even if the king believes me, even if Hugh is hanged for treason, what then? I am still a man from nowhere, with knowledge no one can explain. The bishop is not the only one who burns men like me.”

Joan rose and crossed the small space, kneeling before him. Her hands found his, warm now from the fire. “Then we do not go back,” she said. “We take what we have and we build something new. There are lands in the north, empty since the pestilence. A man with your skills could hold a hundred acres and make them bloom.”

“And you?” he asked, his voice rough.

Her gaze held his. “I have followed you across half of England, Tom Ashwick. I did not do it to abandon you at the gates of Westminster.”

The words hung between them, heavy as the smoke curling toward the rafters. Tom reached out and touched her cheek, and she did not pull away.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “I will stand before the king. And whatever happens after, I want you to know—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Tell me after,” she said. “When you are a lord and I am a lady, and we are both too old to care what the Church thinks.”

He laughed, a low, broken sound, and she smiled. For a moment, the fear receded, and they sat together in the firelight, two exiles holding onto each other against the dark.

---

Dawn came grey and cold, the sky the color of old pewter. Tom dressed in the best clothes he had—a wool tunic Joan had mended on the road, a cloak of rough-spun that had seen better days. He tucked the satchel beneath his arm and descended to the common room, where Robert waited with two horses.

“Westminster,” Robert said. “The king holds court in the Great Hall from the third hour of the morning. You will have one chance to speak.”

Joan appeared at Tom’s side, her hair bound tightly beneath a wimple, her own satchel slung across her shoulder. She did not ask if she could come. She simply mounted the second horse and looked down at him.

Tom swung into the saddle. The horse shifted beneath him, nervous, and he steadied it with a hand on its neck. He thought of the warehouse, of the rows of crates and the fading battery, of Wat’s face in the torchlight as he promised to guard the secret. He thought of the village, of the reeve who had trusted him, of the woman who had died for speaking the truth.

He thought of Hugh de Lacy, selling grain to the enemy while his own people starved.

“Ride,” Tom said.

They moved through the waking streets of London, past the stalls being raised for the day’s market, past the cathedral bells calling the faithful to Mass. The Thames ran grey and sluggish beside them, and the wind carried the smell of salt and fish and sewage. Westminster loomed ahead, its towers dark against the pale sky.

Robert reined in at the gates, speaking quietly to the guards, who stepped aside. Tom and Joan followed him into the courtyard, where servants scurried like ants and men in livery stood watch with halberds gleaming.

The Great Hall stretched before them, vast and cold, its hammer-beam roof lost in shadow. At the far end, on a raised dais, sat a figure in deep blue velvet, a gold crown catching the thin light from the high windows.

King Edward III.

Tom’s heart hammered against his ribs. He felt Joan’s hand brush his, quick and reassuring, before she stepped back into the shadows of the crowd.

Robert turned to him. “Go,” he said. “Speak your truth, and trust that the king hears all.”

Tom walked forward, the satchel heavy against his chest. The crowd parted before him, faces turning, whispers rising like wind through leaves. He felt their eyes on him—curious, suspicious, hungry.

He reached the dais and knelt, lowering his head. The stone floor was cold beneath his knees.

“Rise,” said a voice from above, deep and resonant. “You are the man they call the Steward of Wykeham?”

Tom looked up into the king’s face. Edward III was in his late thirties, his beard trimmed, his eyes sharp and calculating. He wore the weight of a kingdom like a second skin.

“I am, Your Grace,” Tom said. “And I have come to name a traitor.”

The king’s eyes flickered, and the hall fell silent. Somewhere behind him, Tom heard the soft creak of a door opening—and the murmur of a voice he knew too well.

Sir Hugh de Lacy had arrived.