Chapter 70: The King’s Standard at the Ford

The mud was cold against Tom’s knees, but he did not rise. The smoke from Hugh’s torches curled thick across the river, stinging his eyes, and through it he watched the golden banner snap and dance on the ridge. Lions of England, quartered with the fleur-de-lis of France—a claim, a defiance, a promise that the Crown had come at last.

Joan’s hand was on his arm, her grip fierce. “Tom. Tom, get up. They’ll ride us down if we stay in the open.”

He rose, mud sucking at his boots, and pulled her toward the lee of the barn. The thatch was wet, mercifully wet, and the flames that Hugh’s men had set were sputtering against the damp straw, sending up more smoke than fire. A few of Hugh’s retainers had scattered at the sight of the royal column, their torches dropped in the mire. Hugh himself stood at the ford’s edge, waist-deep in the freezing water, staring at the ridge.

His horse had bolted. His men were melting into the trees. And the King’s vanguard was already picking its way down the slope, steel glinting beneath the grey sky.

“He’s trapped,” Joan whispered.

Tom shook his head. “He’s cornered. That’s worse.”

Sir Hugh de Lacy did not run. Tom watched the man square his shoulders, wade back to the bank, and stand there in the mud with his hands empty at his sides. A lord who had sold grain to the French, who had starved his own tenants to fill his purse, who had tried to burn a barn full of seed that might have saved a generation—he stood now as if he were the wronged party, waiting to greet his sovereign.

The first riders reached the ford. Their horses splashed through the shallows, and Tom recognized the livery of the King’s own household—the leopards and lilies stitched on their surcoats. Behind them came a man he knew: Sir Robert de Vere, the King’s messenger, grim-faced and mud-spattered from the ride.

Robert reined in before Hugh de Lacy and looked down at him without affection.

“Sir Hugh. The King commands your presence.”

Hugh lifted his chin. “I am here to protect my property from thieves and heretics. This manor has been infested with a warlock who—”

“The King commands your presence,” Robert repeated, and there was steel in his voice now. “You will come quietly, or you will come bound. Choose.”

Hugh’s jaw worked. For a moment, Tom thought the man might argue, might call for his men, might do something desperate and foolish. But Hugh de Lacy was not a fool. He had survived two decades of royal service, had profited from the wars in France, had built his fortune on the backs of tenants he had never once visited. He knew when a game was lost.

He walked toward the waiting horses with his head high, but Tom saw the slight tremor in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched as he passed the smoking barn.

Robert turned his horse toward Tom and Joan. His face was unreadable.

“Master Ashwick. The King is a day’s ride behind us with the main host. He sent us ahead to secure the manor and take the traitor.” He paused. “You are to remain here until he arrives. He has questions about the seed, about the ploughs, about your methods.”

Tom felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. “And the bishop’s men?”

Robert’s expression flickered. “They have been told to wait. The King’s word holds for now—but it will not hold forever. Edward III is not a man who suffers rivals to his authority, but neither is he a man who forgets a debt. You have given him proof of treason. He will not see you burned for it—not while you are useful.”

“Useful,” Tom echoed. The word tasted like ash.

Joan stepped forward. “And what of the village? What of the people here who followed Tom’s methods, who ate the bread from his seed? Will they be punished for his sake?”

Robert’s gaze softened, just slightly. “The King has no quarrel with peasants who feed themselves. He has a quarrel with lords who starve their tenants and sell to his enemies.” He glanced at Hugh’s retreating figure, now being helped onto a spare horse by two men-at-arms. “Sir Hugh will hang. His lands will be forfeit. And you, Mistress Joan, will be named as a witness to his treason—a reward for your service to the Crown.”

Joan said nothing, but Tom felt her hand find his in the cold.

Robert wheeled his horse. “Stay in the manor,” he called over his shoulder. “Keep your warehouse hidden. When the King arrives, he will want to see what you have built—and what you can build for England.”

The column of horsemen moved off, splashing through the ford and up the far bank, taking Hugh de Lacy with them. The smoke from the barn drifted after them like a ghost, and the river ran dark beneath the grey sky.

Tom stood in the mud for a long time, watching them go.

“You’re trembling,” Joan said quietly.

He looked down at his hands. She was right. The shivering was not from the cold.

“I thought,” he said, and stopped. Swallowed. “I thought when the King took the proof, that would be the end of it. That he would simply let us go home.”

“Home?” Joan’s voice was soft. “Tom. Where is home for you now?”

He had no answer. The warehouse stood behind him, its battery dying, its seed and steel and books waiting in the dark. The reek of smoke clung to his clothes. And somewhere on the road to London, a king was riding toward him with questions about the future—a future that belonged to a man who had never meant to be here at all.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I think I’m about to find out.”

Joan was silent for a moment. Then she stepped closer, and her hand came up to rest against his cheek, warm and calloused and very real.

“Then we will find out together,” she said. “Whatever that means. Wherever that leads.”

Above them, the clouds were breaking. Pale winter sunlight spilled across the muddy yard, catching the smoke and turning it gold. And from somewhere beyond the ridge, faint but growing stronger, Tom heard the sound of hooves on the road.

The King was coming.

And Tom Ashwick, the warehouse manager who had fallen out of time, stood at the threshold of the only future he had left—and walked forward to meet it.