Chapter 59: The King’s Price

The fire in the brazier crackled and spat, casting long shadows across the chamber as Tom stood before the King of England. Edward III had returned to his chair, but his eyes remained fixed on Tom with the intensity of a hawk watching a field mouse.

“You have not asked me what I want,” Edward said. “Every man who comes before a king eventually asks. The merchants, the lords, the bishops—they all ask, in their own way. But you stand there, silent, with your hands at your sides.”

Tom’s palms were sweating. He could feel Joan’s presence behind him, a steady warmth at his back. She had not spoken since they entered, and he knew she was watching everything—the King’s gestures, his tone, the way his fingers drummed against the armrest.

“I assumed Your Grace would tell me,” Tom said carefully. “I am not so foolish as to presume what a king might want from a man who appeared out of nowhere with strange gifts.”

Edward laughed—a short, genuine bark. “And there it is. The honest answer. Not the flattery I receive from a hundred lords each week.” He leaned forward, the candlelight carving deep lines into his weathered face. “I want you to understand something, Master Ashwick. I have ruled this realm for over twenty years. I have fought the Scots, the French, the Irish, and my own nobles. I have seen plague take my subjects, but I have never seen the plague take my purpose.”

He rose and walked to the map table, gesturing for Tom to approach. Tom crossed the chamber, aware of the two guards still standing by the door, their hands resting on sword hilts.

“Poitiers was a great victory,” Edward said, tracing a finger along the French coast. “But victories do not win wars. They merely create the conditions for peace. And peace—profitable peace—requires negotiation, ransom, and land.” He looked up. “I have the King of France as my prisoner. Jean himself, captured in the field. A triumph that would make my grandfather weep with envy.”

Tom nodded, though he felt the weight of something unsaid pressing down on him.

“But triumph requires resources,” Edward continued. “Jean’s ransom is immense—four million gold écus. A sum that would take this realm a decade to raise. And my nobles grow restless. They fought at Crécy, at Poitiers, and they expect their rewards.” His eyes narrowed. “They expect me to bleed the commons dry to pay them.”

Tom understood then. The King was not asking for grain or steel. He was asking for something far more dangerous.

“Your Grace wants to know where my warehouse came from,” Tom said quietly. “And whether I can do it again.”

Edward smiled slowly. “I want to know if you can feed an army. Clothe them. Arm them with steel that will not shatter against French plate. Heal their wounds when the surgeons fail.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “I want to know if you can make England richer than any kingdom in Christendom, without burning my people to ashes to do it.”

Tom’s mouth went dry. The warehouse battery was dying—he had told Joan as much, a fading spark that might power one more miracle, perhaps two, before it failed forever. And even if it worked, the goods were limited: turnip seed, ploughshares, tinctures, books. Not an arsenal. Not a treasury.

“Your Grace,” Tom said, choosing his words with care, “I am not a sorcerer. I cannot conjure gold from thin air or forge swords with a word. What I have—what I brought—is knowledge. Practical knowledge. Ways to grow more food from the same soil. Ways to keep livestock alive through the winter. Ways to heal the sick without relying on humours and leeches.”

Edward’s expression did not change. “And you believe this knowledge is worth more than Hugh de Lacy’s head?”

The question hung in the air. Tom felt Joan shift behind him, and he knew she was holding her breath.

“With respect, Your Grace,” Tom said, “Hugh de Lacy’s head is worth one traitor’s death. My knowledge could save a thousand harvests. A thousand villages. A thousand men who might otherwise die of hunger before they ever reach your battlefields.”

Edward studied him for a long moment. Then he turned to the map again, his finger tracing the Thames downstream to the sea.

“I have heard reports,” he said slowly, “of a manor in Wykeham where the winter wheat stood green when every field around it was black with frost. Where the cattle did not die of murrain. Where the village survived the pestilence that took a third of my realm.” He glanced up. “That manor belongs to Hugh de Lacy. And Hugh, I am told, has been selling its surplus grain to my enemies across the Channel.”

“He has,” Tom said. “I watched the carts leave at night. I counted them. I know the merchant who buys them, and the harbour where they dock.”

Edward nodded slowly. “Then you have evidence.” He walked back to his chair and sat, folding his hands. “But evidence is merely the beginning. I need a steward who can show my other lords how Wykeham survived. Who can teach my bailiffs to do what you have done. Who can travel this realm, from Cornwall to Northumberland, and turn barren fields into bread.”

Tom felt the walls closing in. The King was not offering him freedom. He was offering him a cage with a wider door.

“Your Grace,” Tom said, “I am not a teacher. I am a warehouse manager. I told you—what I have is knowledge, not magic. I cannot transplant Wykeham’s miracle across the kingdom. The soil is different. The weather is different. The people are different.”

Edward’s smile faded. “Then what use are you to me?”

The threat was unmistakable. Tom felt the cold settle deeper into his bones.

Joan stepped forward, her voice steady despite the company. “Your Grace, if I may speak.”

Edward’s eyes flicked to her, surprised. “You are the widow of Wykeham?”

“I am,” she said. “And I have watched Master Ashwick work for nearly a year. He does not perform miracles—he performs small, patient acts of wisdom. He reads the land like a ledger. He treats disease before it spreads. He stores grain so it does not rot. He does not command the earth to obey him; he listens to it.”

She paused, her gaze meeting the King’s. “What he offers is not magic, but method. And method can be taught. But it cannot be forced. If Your Grace tries to chain him to a cart and drag him across the realm, he will wither like a root pulled from good soil. But if Your Grace gives him a place to plant himself—a manor, a village, a region—he will grow roots that feed everyone around him.”

Edward was silent for a long moment. Then he laughed—a deep, genuine laugh that filled the chamber.

“You have chosen your companion well, Master Ashwick,” he said. “She argues like a lawyer and speaks like a reeve.” He rose, crossing to a chest near the window. “I will not chain you to a cart. But I will hold you to your promise.” He lifted a document from the chest, sealed with the great seal of England. “This is a royal commission, granting you stewardship of Wykeham Manor and all its lands, in the King’s name, for the duration of your natural life. Hugh de Lacy’s treason forfeits his claim. The estate should pass to the Crown—but I am prepared to grant it to you, in exchange for your service.”

Tom stared at the document. It was too much. Too generous. And he knew—with the certainty of a man who had spent his life reading contracts—that there would be conditions.

“What service?” Tom asked.

Edward smiled. “Teach my bailiffs what you know. One harvest. Prove that Wykeham can feed an army as well as a village. And when the French king’s ransom falls due, I will have a model to show every lord in England how to raise it without breaking his people.”

Tom looked at Joan. She nodded slowly, her eyes bright with something that might have been hope—or warning.

He turned back to Edward. “And Hugh?”

Edward’s smile turned cold. “Hugh de Lacy will be arrested when he arrives tomorrow. He will be tried for treason, and he will hang. You have my word.”

Tom reached for the commission. His hand trembled, but he took it.

“Then I accept, Your Grace.”

Edward nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now tell me—what do you need to begin?”