Chapter 65: The River’s Warning

The barge moved sluggishly against the current, its hull groaning like an old man rising from prayer. Tom stood at the prow, watching the grey water slide past, the winter-bare trees along the bank still skeletal against the pale sky. Behind him, Joan sat wrapped in her cloak beside the steersman, a silent figure whose eyes never stopped moving—scanning the shore, the reeds, the distant smoke of a village they would never enter.

They had been on the river for three days. Three days of cold rations and colder sleep. Three days of watching every boat that passed, every horseman on the high ground above the bank. The King’s writ had bought them passage, but the King’s writ had not bought them safety. The bishop’s men were not the kind to respect parchment they could not read.

“Master Ashwick.” The steersman, a wiry man named Cuthbert, pointed ahead with his chin. “Bridge. You’ll want to be below.”

Tom squinted. The bridge was a low stone arch, barely wide enough for two carts, and on it stood a knot of men. Not peasants—their cloaks were too clean, their horses too well-fed. He counted six. Six men with the lazy confidence of those who had been told to wait.

“Church or crown?” Joan asked, coming to stand beside him.

“Too early to tell,” Tom said. “But they’re not toll-takers. Toll-takers don’t carry swords.”

Cuthbert spat over the side. “They’ll stop us at the mid-channel. The arch is narrow. Can’t slip past unless you want to swim.”

Tom’s mind raced. He had no weapon but a knife he barely knew how to use. Joan had her herbs, her sharp tongue, and a small iron blade she kept hidden in her sleeve. They had no soldiers, no escort, no protection but the King’s name—and the King was a hundred miles away, busy with his war and his traitors.

“Do they know who we are?” he said, half to himself.

“The bishop’s men knew you were headed south,” Joan said quietly. “And Hugh de Lacy knew the river. He used it to move his grain for two years. If he has sent word ahead…”

She did not finish. She did not need to.

Tom turned to Cuthbert. “Is there a channel on the far side? Something shallow, close to the bank?”

The steersman frowned. “There’s a reed bed about a hundred yards before the bridge. Water’s shallow but passable if you know the way. You’ll scrape bottom, and you’ll make noise. But it’ll put you past them, and they’ll have to ride hard to catch up.”

“Do it.”

Joan’s hand found his arm. “If they see us turn, they’ll know we’re hiding.”

“They’ll know anyway,” Tom said. “The question is whether they can do anything about it before we’re gone.”

He moved to the side of the barge, watching the reed bed approach. It was a brown tangle of stalks and mud, ice clinging to the edges, and the channel through it was barely visible—a dark thread of water that twisted and vanished among the reeds. The men on the bridge had seen them now. One of them raised a hand, not waving, but pointing.

“Now,” Tom said.

Cuthbert leaned into the tiller, and the barge swung hard to port, its flat bottom scraping against mud with a sound like grinding teeth. Tom braced himself as the hull shuddered, then slid forward into the narrow channel. Reeds slapped against the sides, tall and brittle, rattling like the laughter of old men. The men on the bridge shouted—words lost in the wind—and Tom heard the unmistakable sound of hooves on stone.

“They’ll ride to the next ford,” Joan said. “They know this river.”

“Then we won’t be on it much longer,” Tom said. He turned to Cuthbert. “Where can we put ashore? Somewhere they won’t expect?”

The steersman thought for a moment, his weathered face creased. “There’s a fishing village a mile south. Small. No lord, no church, no reason for anyone to stop. You can hire a cart there, if you’ve coin.”

“And if they follow us?”

“Then you’ll have to outrun them on land.” Cuthbert’s voice was flat. “And you won’t.”

The barge slid out of the reeds into open water again. Behind them, the bridge was already small, the men on it reduced to dark specks against the grey sky. But Tom knew they were not gone. They were riding now, hard, along the bank road, cutting across the loops of the river to reach the ford ahead.

Joan stood close to him, her shoulder brushing his. “The King said he would protect us.”

“The King said he would make us useful,” Tom corrected. “There’s a difference. Protection is what he gives to things he values. We’re still proving we’re worth it.”

She was silent for a long moment. Then she said, “And if we don’t reach Wykeham? If the warehouse battery dies before we can use it?”

Tom looked at the water, at the grey sky, at the distant smoke of the fishing village that was their only hope. He thought of the seeds, the ploughshares, the books—all of it waiting in the dark, growing colder with every passing day.

“Then we’ve lost everything,” he said. “And the only thing we’ll have left is the knowledge that we tried.”

Joan’s hand found his again. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was fierce.

“Then we make sure we don’t lose,” she said.

The wind shifted, carrying the smell of woodsmoke and salt. The fishing village was closer now, its huts clustered on a muddy bank, its boats drawn up on the shore like sleeping seals. And behind them, faint and far off, Tom heard the sound of hooves again—closer than before, and growing closer still.