Chapter 74: The Shadow of the Gallows

The hooves on the muddy road grew from a whisper to a thunder. Tom stood in the yard of Wat’s forge, the morning light cold and sharp, and he felt the weight of the village’s eyes upon him. Men had gathered from the cottages and the hovels, twenty-five of them, as Wat had promised. They carried scythes and pitchforks, axes and hammers. They were not soldiers. They were farmers, and they looked to Tom as if he were a general.

Joan stood beside him, her hand still warm from where it had held his. Her face was pale, but her jaw was set.

“They will be at the gate in a minute,” Wat said, shading his eyes against the low sun. He spat into the dust. “Sir Hugh’s men. I count a dozen, maybe more.”

“And the King’s men?” Tom asked.

“No sign,” Wat said. “They ride from London. They will not be here before noon.”

Tom’s mind raced. The warehouse stood hidden behind the false wall in the barn at the edge of the village. Inside it, among the dying lights and fading battery, lay the proof of Hugh’s treason—the accounts, the letters, the seal that matched the satchel he had given the King. But Hugh did not know the warehouse existed. He knew only that Tom had something, and he meant to burn it before the King’s justice could arrive.

“We cannot fight them,” Tom said. “A dozen trained men-at-arms against twenty-five villagers with scythes. We would be slaughtered.”

“Then we do not fight,” Joan said. “We delay.”

Tom turned to her. “How?”

She pointed to the road that ran through the village, a narrow, muddy track between high hedgerows. At its southern end, where the track bent sharply past the old mill, stood a cart that had sat abandoned for a year, its axle broken, its bed rotting.

“Hugh’s men must ride through that bend,” Joan said. “If that cart is overturned across the road, they must stop to move it. That buys us time.”

“Time for what?” Wat asked.

Tom’s eyes went to the barn, and then to the thin line of smoke that rose from the village’s bread oven. “Time to make them believe we have nothing to hide.”

He moved quickly, his words sharp as he gave orders. Wat and three of the strongest men dragged the old cart across the road, its bed tilted, its wheels sinking into the mud. Others fetched sacks of grain and piles of firewood, stacking them behind the cart to make the obstacle appear accidental, the debris of a hard winter. Women and children were sent into the cottages, doors barred, shutters closed.

Tom himself walked to the edge of the village, where the road curved past the church. He stood there, alone, as the hoofbeats grew louder.

The first horseman appeared around the bend, a hard-faced man in a steel cap and a padded jack. Behind him came others, their breath misting in the cold air, their spears slung across their saddles. At their head, on a great black destrier, rode Sir Hugh de Lacy.

He was thinner than Tom remembered, his face lined by the campaigns in France. His eyes were pale and cold, and they found Tom at once.

“Ashwick,” he said, reining in his horse. His voice was flat, like a blade drawn across stone. “You have a talent for being where you are not wanted.”

“Sir Hugh,” Tom said, and he made himself bow. “I am surprised to find you in England. I thought you were still selling grain to the French.”

The words hung in the air. Hugh’s eyes flickered, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword.

“You speak of things you do not understand,” Hugh said. “I am here to collect what is mine. The tithes of this manor. The produce of these fields. And the heretic who has been spreading his poison among my people.”

“Your people?” Tom said. “I have seen the people of Wykeham. They are thin. They are hungry. They have paid their tithes and their taxes, and still they starve. Is that what you collect?”

Hugh’s face twisted. He urged his horse forward, and Tom felt the animal’s breath warm against his face.

“You are a dead man,” Hugh said quietly. “You have been a dead man since the day you appeared on my road. I will hang you from the oak at the crossroads, and I will burn whatever devilry you brought with you.”

Tom did not step back. He had faced kings and bishops, plagues and floods. He had made a bargain with Edward of England, and he had learned to measure a man’s worth in the weight of his words.

“Burn it?” Tom said. “You will find nothing to burn. The barn is empty. I sent the seed and the tools south, to the King’s own granaries. Your proof is gone, Sir Hugh. All that remains is the account of your treason, written in your own hand, and delivered to Edward’s court.”

Hugh’s face went pale, then red. “You lie.”

“Do I?” Tom reached into his belt and drew out a folded parchment. It was blank, but Hugh did not know that. “This is a copy of the agreement between your steward and the merchant of Calais. It bears your seal. Shall I read it to you?”

Hugh’s sword was out in a heartbeat, its point at Tom’s throat. Behind him, Tom heard the villagers shift, heard the creak of bows being drawn.

“You will burn,” Hugh hissed. “You will burn, and your witch with you.”

“My witch?” Tom said, and he smiled. “Joan is no witch, Sir Hugh. She is the woman who will testify before the King’s justices when they arrive at noon. She has seen the grain wagons leave under cover of night. She has heard your steward’s confession. She knows where the money went.”

The point of the sword trembled. Hugh’s eyes darted past Tom, to the village, to the road, as if he expected to see the King’s banners on the horizon.

“There are no justices,” Hugh said. “The King is in France. He does not care about a manor in the middle of nowhere.”

“He is not in France,” Tom said. “He is in London. And he cares very much about twelve thousand pounds in back taxes.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Hugh’s men shifted uneasily in their saddles, their eyes on their lord. Hugh’s face worked, his jaw tight, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

Then he laughed. It was a harsh, broken sound.

“You have nothing,” he said. “You have a blank parchment and a peasant’s tongue. When I have hanged you, I will burn your village to the ground and salt the fields. There will be no witnesses.”

He raised his sword, and Tom heard the bows creak behind him, and he knew that in a moment the air would be filled with arrows and blood, and he thought of the warehouse, of the seed and the books and the dying lights, and he prayed that he had done enough.

And then, from the south, came the sound of trumpets.

The notes were clear and bright, cutting through the cold morning air. Hugh’s head snapped around, his face a mask of disbelief. His men looked at each other, their hands tightening on their weapons.

Tom let out a breath he had not known he was holding. He looked past Hugh, down the muddy road, and there, at the bend where the old mill stood, he saw the first flash of steel. Then another. Then a dozen, and more, until the road was filled with the glint of helmets and the flutter of pennons.

At their head rode a man in a surcoat of royal blue, a golden lion embroidered on his chest. He carried a banner, and the banner bore the leopards of England.

Hugh de Lacy turned, and Tom saw the fear in his eyes at last—a deep, cold fear, the fear of a man who has waited too long to run.

“The King’s justices,” Tom said softly. “They are here.”

The trumpets sounded again, closer now, and the hoofbeats of the royal escort rolled over the village like thunder.