Chapter 57: The Summons Before Dawn

The words struck Tom like a blow to the chest. He was on his feet before he knew he had moved, the satchel already in his hand, its weight a familiar anchor against his hip. Joan rose beside him, her face pale in the guttering candlelight, but her hand was steady as she caught his wrist.

“The reeve,” she said. It was not a question.

“Taken,” Tom repeated, turning toward the door. His mind raced through the possibilities—Baldric, scarred and stubborn, the man who had first seen hope in Tom’s strange gifts. The man who had believed him when the village whispered warlock. If the bishop’s men had him, they would not be gentle.

The young voice outside the door spoke again, muffled but urgent. “Master Ashwick, the King’s messenger is in the common room below. He says there is no time for delay. The bishop’s men rode south at dusk, toward the manor. They have the reeve in chains.”

Tom wrenched the door open. The boy—a servant, perhaps fourteen, with the livery of the palace—stood in the corridor, breathing hard, his eyes wide with the importance of his errand.

“Who took him?” Tom demanded. “The bishop’s men? Or Sir Hugh’s?”

The boy shook his head. “I know only what the messenger said. The reeve was taken at the village cross, in full view of the folk. The charge is heresy—harbouring a warlock.”

Joan made a sound low in her throat, half anger, half fear. Tom felt the cold settle in his stomach. Heresy. The charge that could burn a man without trial, without mercy. And Baldric had harboured Tom, fed him, given him shelter when the Church’s shadow first fell across the warehouse’s hidden door.

“The King,” Tom said, his voice flat. “He summoned me. Now.”

The boy nodded and turned, leading them down the narrow stair. The common room was quiet, the fire burned low, and the man in the black cloak still sat in the corner, but his eyes were closed now, as if in sleep. Tom did not trust that stillness. He passed the cloaked figure with his hand on the satchel’s strap, Joan close behind him.

Outside, the night air bit hard, the frost crunching beneath their boots. A horse waited, saddled and stamping, its breath pluming in the torchlight. The messenger—a lean man in the King’s livery, his face weathered by years of hard riding—held the reins and offered no greeting.

“You are Tom Ashwick?”

“I am.”

“The King waits at Westminster. He has questions for you, and he has little patience for the answers he has already heard.” The messenger’s eyes flicked to Joan, then back to Tom. “The woman comes too?”

Tom glanced at Joan. She met his gaze and gave a single, sharp nod.

“She comes,” Tom said.

They rode through streets that were dark and silent, the city’s great houses shuttered against the cold. The weight of the satchel bumped against Tom’s hip, and with it the bishop’s seal, the proof of Hugh’s treason, the ledger of grain sold to the French. All of it now seemed thin, brittle, compared to the image of Baldric in chains.

They reached Westminster as the first grey light touched the river. The great hall loomed before them, its stone walls dark with age, its windows glowing faintly with candlelight. Tom had seen cathedrals in his own time, monuments of glass and steel, but this place felt older, heavier, as if the very stones remembered the oaths and betrayals they had witnessed.

The messenger led them through a side door, down a narrow passage, and into a chamber that smelled of beeswax and old parchment. A fire burned in the hearth, and before it stood a man in a plain woollen tunic, his back to them. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and when he turned, Tom saw the face he knew from a hundred portraits and coins: the heavy jaw, the narrow eyes, the hint of a smile that was not warm.

Edward III.

“Tom Ashwick,” the King said. His voice was low, measured. “The warehouse-keeper who fell from the sky.”

Tom’s mouth was dry. He had rehearsed this moment a hundred times on the road, but the words had fled. He made the bow he had practised, deeper than he had intended.

“Your Grace.”

The King studied him for a long moment, then gestured to a chair by the fire. “Sit. You have ridden far, and you will have further to go before this matter is settled.”

Tom sat. Joan remained standing, her hands clasped before her, her eyes fixed on the King with a wariness that Tom recognised.

“Your messenger said the reeve has been taken,” Tom said. “Baldric of Wykeham. He is a loyal man, Your Grace—a veteran of Crécy, a servant of the Crown.”

Edward’s smile did not reach his eyes. “So I am told. And yet the bishop’s men have him, and the bishop answers to Rome, not to me.” He paused. “But you have something that belongs to me, I believe. Something the bishop would rather I never see.”

Tom reached into the satchel. His fingers found the iron-bound chest, the seal, the ledger with its damning entries. He placed them on the table between them.

“Sir Hugh de Lacy has sold grain to the French for two years,” Tom said. “The proof is there, Your Grace. The amounts, the dates, the names of his agents.”

The King did not look at the documents. He looked at Tom.

“And what do you want in return?”

Tom thought of Baldric in chains. Of Margery, who had warned him and now waited somewhere in this city, having already told her tale. Of the warehouse with its dying battery, its hidden stores of seed and steel. Of Joan, standing silent behind him, her fate bound to his.

“The reeve’s freedom,” Tom said. “And a place where my knowledge can serve England without fear of the pyre.”

Edward’s smile widened, and for the first time it touched his eyes.

“A modest request,” he said. “For a man who claims to carry the future in his satchel.” He leaned forward. “Show me.”

Tom’s hand trembled as he reached for the satchel again. He had not planned for this—not here, not now. But the King was waiting, and Baldric’s life hung on the answer.

He drew out the first object: a small leather pouch, its contents rattling softly.

“Seed,” he said. “From a plant called turnip. It feeds the soil as well as the flock. It can break the three-field cycle.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. He reached for the pouch, opened it, and let a few dark seeds spill into his palm. He stared at them as if they were gold.

“And this,” Tom said, drawing out a second object, “is a ploughshare of steel. It cuts deeper than iron, lasts longer, and needs less oxen to pull.”

Edward turned the steel in his hands, feeling its weight, its edge. When he looked up, his expression had changed. The wariness was gone, replaced by something sharper—hunger.

“You have more,” the King said. It was not a question.

Tom hesitated. The battery was dying. The books were priceless. But if he spent his gifts now, on this one man, he might save Baldric—and himself.

“I have more,” he said. “Much more.”

Edward set the ploughshare down and leaned back in his chair.

“Then you and I will talk, Tom Ashwick. At length.” He glanced at Joan. “And the woman will stay. If what you claim is true, I will need witnesses.”

Tom opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. From beyond the chamber door came the sound of boots in the corridor, rapid and urgent. The King’s face hardened.

“Your Grace,” a voice called from the other side of the door, “the bishop’s men are at the gate. They demand the surrender of the heretic Ashwick.”

Edward’s smile returned, cold and thin.

“They will wait,” he said. “I have questions for this man first.”