Chapter 53: The Door That Closed

The king’s gaze did not leave Tom’s face, but Tom felt the shift in the air—the way the hall’s warmth seemed to drain toward the door, toward the man who now stood in its frame. Sir Hugh de Lacy had not changed much since Tom had last seen him at the manor: the same lean, wolfish build, the same close-set eyes that moved too quickly, the same mouth that smiled as though it had just tasted something bitter. He wore travel-stained mail beneath a surcoat that had once been fine, and his boots were caked with the mud of a long road.

He did not look at Tom. He walked past him as though Tom were a servant, and knelt before the king with a grace that Tom envied.

“Your Grace,” Hugh said, his voice smooth as river stone. “I came as soon as your summons reached me. The roads are treacherous this time of year.”

Edward III did not tell him to rise. He let Hugh kneel on the cold flags for a long moment, his fingers drumming once against the arm of his chair.

“You know this man?” the king asked, nodding toward Tom.

Hugh’s eyes slid sideways, taking Tom in with a flicker of recognition that he did not bother to disguise. “I do, Your Grace. He called himself a steward on my manor of Wykeham. A strange man, given to strange claims. I had thought him fled.”

“Fled,” the king repeated. “Or sent?”

A murmur ran through the hall like wind through barley. Hugh’s jaw tightened, but he kept his composure.

“Your Grace, I am a loyal subject. I have fought for you in France. I bled at Crécy.”

“And sold grain to my enemies at Calais,” Tom said.

The words fell into the silence like a stone into still water. Hugh’s head snapped toward him, and for the first time Tom saw the fury beneath the man’s polished surface—a dark, roiling thing that had been waiting for an excuse to surface.

“You dare—” Hugh began.

“Silence.” The king’s voice was quiet, but it cut through Hugh’s outrage like a blade through wool. Edward rose from his chair and walked slowly toward Tom, his boots echoing on the stone. He stopped an arm’s length away, close enough that Tom could smell the woodsmoke and wine on his breath.

“You come to my court with a dead bishop’s seal and a dead woman’s testimony,” the king said. “You name a knight of my realm a traitor. You claim to have been sent by God, or by some other power I do not yet understand. And you expect me to believe you?”

Tom met the king’s eyes. He had rehearsed this moment a hundred times on the road, through snow and fear and the gnawing ache of a battery that was slowly dying. He had imagined every question, every accusation. But now that he stood here, with Hugh de Lacy kneeling a few feet away and the weight of a kingdom pressing down on him, the words he had prepared felt thin.

“I expect you to look at the evidence, Your Grace,” Tom said. “The bishop’s steward kept records. Sir Hugh’s sales were written down—quantities, dates, the names of the French merchants he dealt with. The bishop’s men found them before they found me. I have seen them. They are real.”

“And where are these records now?”

Tom’s mouth went dry. He had left them in the satchel, hidden beneath the false floor of the cart—but the cart was outside the city walls, and the bishop’s men were hunting him.

“I can take you to them,” he said.

“You can take me to them,” the king repeated, his voice flat. “A dead bishop’s seal, a dead woman’s testimony, records you cannot produce, and a warehouse full of wonders that no man can explain. You ask me to hang a knight of my realm on the word of a man who appeared from nowhere and speaks in riddles.”

Hugh de Lacy smiled. It was a small, tight smile, barely a movement of his lips, but Tom saw it.

“Your Grace,” Hugh said, rising without permission, “this man is a charlatan. He bewitched my reeve, my tenants. He turned my own village against me. I came here to petition you for justice, not to answer accusations from a madman.”

The king turned to Hugh, his eyes hard. “You came here because I summoned you. Do not mistake my patience for ignorance.”

Hugh bowed his head. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I meant no offense. But I have served you faithfully for fifteen years. I have bled for you. And this—this creature—has done nothing but sow discord and confusion since the day he appeared.”

Tom felt Joan’s hand brush his arm. She had moved closer, her face pale but composed. She had not spoken since they entered the hall, but now she stepped forward, and the king’s gaze shifted to her.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her hands, “I am Joan of Wykeham. I knew Sir Hugh’s first wife. She died of a fever, they said. But I knew the signs. She was poisoned.”

The hall erupted. Voices rose in a cacophony of shock and outrage, and the king raised a hand for silence. Hugh’s face had gone white, then red, and his hand moved instinctively toward the dagger at his belt.

“You lie,” he snarled. “You were always a meddlesome woman, Joan. I should have had you burned with the rest of them.”

“The rest of them?” Tom said, his voice cutting through the noise. “You mean the woman who knew your secrets? The one the bishop’s steward hanged on your orders?”

Hugh’s mouth opened, but no words came. The king looked at him for a long moment, and then he turned and walked back to his chair. He sat down heavily, his hands gripping the armrests.

“Take Sir Hugh to the tower,” he said quietly. “Let him cool his heels until I decide what to do with him.”

Two guards stepped forward and seized Hugh’s arms. He struggled, his eyes wild with fury and fear, but they dragged him toward the door. As he passed Tom, he spat.

“You will burn,” he hissed. “You and your witch. The Church will see to that.”

The door closed behind him, and the hall fell silent. Tom stood in the middle of the floor, his heart hammering, Joan’s hand still pressed against his arm. He had done it. He had named the traitor. He had brought the accusation.

But as he looked at the king’s face, he saw no triumph there. Only a weary calculation, the weighing of costs and benefits, the cold arithmetic of power.

“You have given me much to consider,” Edward said. “But you have also given me a problem. The Church wants you. The bishop’s men are in my city, and they will not leave without you. And I cannot protect a man who claims to come from nowhere.”

Tom swallowed. “Your Grace—”

“I will give you one night,” the king said. “One night to prove your worth. Tomorrow, you will show me this warehouse of yours. You will show me what you can do. And if I am satisfied, I will decide what to do with you.”

He rose and walked toward the door, pausing only to look back at Tom over his shoulder.

“Do not disappoint me, Steward.”

The door closed behind him, and Tom was left alone with Joan in the vast, cold hall. The candles guttered in the draft, and somewhere beyond the walls, he heard the bells of London tolling the hour.

One night. He had one night to convince a king that everything he had risked was worth saving.

And somewhere in the darkness of the city, the bishop’s men were still hunting him.