Chapter 58: The King’s Accounting

The chamber held its breath. Tom felt the weight of Edward’s gaze like a physical thing, pressing down upon his shoulders, seeking the cracks in his composure. Beyond the door, the bishop’s men waited with the patience of wolves who knew their prey had nowhere left to run.

“Your Grace,” Tom said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt, “I did not cross half of England to surrender to the Church before I had spoken to my king.”

Edward III did not move from his chair. He was younger than Tom had imagined—still shy of forty, with the hawkish features that had made him a legend from Sluys to Crécy. But the eyes that studied Tom now held none of the glory of the battlefield. They were the eyes of an auditor, counting every bushel, every penny, every man who might yet die in France.

“The bishop’s men,” Edward said slowly, as though tasting the words, “are on my soil. They are not on their own land. They have no authority here without my leave.” He tilted his head. “But they are persistent. Tell me, Master Ashwick—what have you done to make the Church so eager to see you burned?”

Joan stepped forward before Tom could speak. “He has saved lives, Your Grace. He has fed villages when the harvest failed. He has healed the sick with knowledge that does not come from Rome or Paris.” Her chin lifted. “And he has discovered that Sir Hugh de Lacy, your loyal knight, has been selling grain to the French for two years.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Edward’s face did not change, but something flickered in his eyes—a calculation, a weighing of odds.

“I know,” he said.

Tom felt the ground shift beneath him. Robert’s words on the road came back to him: *Margery has already told the King.* He had hoped it was a lie, a desperate gambit to keep him moving. But the King’s flat acknowledgment confirmed it.

“You know,” Tom repeated. “And yet you let Hugh de Lacy keep his lands. You let him sit at your table, take your coin, and sell your kingdom’s bread to your enemies.”

Edward rose from his chair. He was not a tall man, but the authority of the Crown filled the room like smoke. “I let him keep his lands,” he said, “because I needed proof. A knight’s word against a knight’s word is nothing. But a witness—a man who has seen the grain loaded, who knows the routes, who can name the captains and the ports—that is worth more than a hundred accusations.”

He walked toward Tom, stopping an arm’s length away. “You have that proof.”

It was not a question. Tom swallowed. “I have seen the ledgers. I have counted the sacks. I know the name of the merchant who carries the gold back from Calais.”

“Then we will speak of what you know.” Edward’s eyes flicked to the door. “But first, we will deal with the bishop’s men.”

He gestured to a servant who had been standing motionless in the shadows. “Tell the bishop’s men that the King is at his prayers. They may wait in the courtyard until I am finished. If they are cold, offer them wine. If they are hungry, offer them bread. But they do not enter this chamber.”

The servant bowed and slipped out. Edward turned back to Tom.

“You have until dawn,” he said. “After that, I must decide whether you are a tool of the Crown or a gift to the Church. And I warn you, Master Ashwick—I do not keep tools that I cannot use.”

Joan’s hand found Tom’s again. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was fierce. “Your Grace,” she said, “my husband saved your kingdom’s crops. He turned fallow fields to green. He healed men who would have died of the flux. Is that not worth more than a heretic’s pyre?”

Edward studied her for a long moment. “You are the widow of Wykeham.”

“I am.”

“Then you have seen what he can do.” The King’s voice was flat, unreadable. “Tell me, Mistress Joan—did the crops grow faster than any natural season would allow?”

Joan hesitated. Tom saw the calculation in her eyes, the same calculation that had kept her alive through plague and famine and the bishop’s interrogations.

“They grew,” she said carefully, “because the seed was good and the soil was tended. The methods Master Ashwick used were strange to us. But the harvest was real. The bread was real. The children who ate it are still alive.”

Edward nodded slowly. “Then we will speak of this ‘real’ harvest.” He returned to his chair, settling into it with the weariness of a man who had spent too many years at war. “Tell me everything, Tom Ashwick. From the beginning. And do not lie to me—because if you do, I will know, and the bishop’s men will have you before the cock crows.”

Tom took a breath. He thought of the warehouse, its steel shelves and dying battery. He thought of the turnip seed that had saved Wykeham’s fields, the willow-bark tinctures that had eased a hundred fevers, the books of veterinary science that had kept the manor’s oxen alive through the winter. He thought of Wat, the reeve who had trusted him, and the fevered woman who had died for telling the truth.

“Your Grace,” he said, “I am not from this world. I do not know how I came here, or why. But I have knowledge that can feed your people, heal your soldiers, and fill your treasury with gold that does not come from the sweat of starving peasants.”

Edward leaned forward. “And what would you ask in return?”

Tom met his gaze. “Safety. For me, and for those who have helped me. And the chance to use what I know before the Church burns it as heresy.”

The King was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled—a real smile, this time, with teeth in it.

“You have a bold tongue, Master Ashwick. I like that.” He rose again, crossing to a small table where a map of England lay spread beneath a candle’s light. “But boldness will not save you from the bishop. And it will not save you from Hugh de Lacy, who even now rides south with a company of men-at-arms, demanding your head.”

Tom felt the cold settle in his stomach. “De Lacy is coming here?”

“He is,” Edward said. “And he will arrive by noon tomorrow. So you see, Master Ashwick—we have very little time to decide what kind of man you are.”