Chapter 79: The King's Measure at the Ford

The water ran brown and swollen with the thaw, and Tom stood at the edge of the ford with his boots sinking into the mud. Behind him, Wykeham’s fields lay dark and furrowed, the seed already buried, waiting for a warmth that had not yet come. Before him, the road rose through the bare trees toward the manor house, and on that road, a column of horsemen had halted.

They flew no banner that Tom could see, but the morning light caught the steel of their helms, and their horses stood in the patient, orderly ranks of men who had done this before. Wat came up beside him, his hammer resting on his shoulder.

“They are not Hugh’s men,” Wat said. “Too neat. Too quiet.”

“They are the King’s,” Tom said. He had seen enough of Edward’s household on the road to London to recognize the way they sat their saddles. “The commission. It has reached them.”

A single rider broke from the column and spurred forward, splashing through the ford’s shallow edge. He was a lean man in a plain surcoat, mud-spattered to the knees, and he reined in before Tom with a soldier’s economy of motion.

“Master Ashwick?” the rider asked.

“I am.”

The rider reached into his saddlebag and drew out a rolled parchment, sealed with green wax. He held it out. “From the King’s own hand, delivered to the sheriff at Oxford. You are to read it and answer.”

Tom took the parchment. The seal was intact, the royal arms pressed deep into the wax. He broke it with his thumb and unrolled the page, scanning the cramped, clerkly hand. It was brief, as royal documents went. It confirmed his commission as Surveyor of Husbandry for the counties of Hampshire and Berkshire, with authority to commandeer seed, tools, and labor in the King’s name. It commanded all sheriffs, bailiffs, and reeves to render him aid. And it added, in a postscript written in a different, more hurried hand:

*The traitor de Lacy has not yet been taken. He fled northward when he learned of the warrant. My men pursue, but he knows the country. Be on your guard.*

Tom read it twice, then folded it and tucked it into his belt.

“The King’s men are not here to arrest Hugh,” he said quietly, so only Wat could hear. “He has slipped the net. He is running.”

Wat’s jaw tightened. “Then he will come back. A man like de Lacy does not run far without turning to bite.”

The rider cleared his throat. “There is more, Master Ashwick. The sheriff has sent word that a company of the Bishop of Winchester’s men was seen crossing the river at Reading three days past. They are not in the King’s service, and they are not under his protection. The sheriff asks whether you require an escort.”

Tom looked at the column of horsemen waiting at the ford. They were perhaps twenty strong, enough to hold off a dozen of Hugh’s retainers, enough to make the bishop’s men think twice. But an escort would be a leash. It would tie him to the King’s will, and the King’s will was a hungry thing.

“Tell the sheriff I thank him for his offer,” Tom said. “But I have work to do here that cannot wait for an armed procession.”

The rider nodded, unsurprised. He wheeled his horse and splashed back through the ford, and the column turned as one and began to move northward along the river road, their hooves beating a soft rhythm on the wet earth.

Joan came down from the village path, her skirts kilted above the mud. She carried a basket of early greens, and she stopped beside Tom, following his gaze to the departing column.

“They did not stay,” she said.

“The King’s favor is a thing to be spent quickly, before it cools.” Tom handed her the parchment. She read it in silence, her lips moving over the clerk’s Latin, and then she looked up.

“Hugh is not taken.”

“No.”

“Then he is out there.” She nodded toward the bare hills to the north. “With men who will follow him into the fire, because they have nothing else left. And he knows what we have planted. He knows what this land can yield.”

Tom thought of the warehouse, hidden behind its false wall, its battery fading. He had counted the days since the lights had last burned bright. A week, perhaps two, before the darkness became total. And in that darkness lay the turnip seed, the steel ploughshares, the books of veterinary science that could save a herd from the murrain. Without the light, he could still find his way by feel, but the books would be useless, and the tools would be nothing but iron in the dark.

“He will not burn the barn,” Tom said. “He does not know what is in it. He thinks I am a charlatan with a few tricks.”

“He knows you are dangerous,” Joan said. “That is enough. A man does not need to understand a fire to fear it.”

She was right. She was always right, and it galled him that he had not seen it first. Hugh de Lacy had lost his manor, his grain, his standing with the King. All that remained to him was vengeance, and vengeance did not need a reason. It only needed a target.

“We will not wait for him,” Tom said. He turned to Wat. “How many men can we arm?”

Wat spat into the mud. “Farmers with hammers and scythes. Enough to hold a barn door, not enough to hold a road.”

“Then we do not hold the road.” Tom looked north, where the hills rose dark against the pale sky. “We go to him.”

Joan’s hand found his arm. “Tom—he has a dozen trained men. You would walk into that with a company of ploughmen?”

“No.” He covered her hand with his own. “But I would ride to the sheriff at Oxford and tell him where Hugh will be tonight. A man who is running needs shelter, and there is only one place within a day’s ride that will take him without asking questions.”

Wat frowned. “The priory at St. Giles. The prior has never turned a man away, no matter his crimes.”

“And the prior is an honest man,” Tom said. “He will not lie to the sheriff when the King’s warrant is shown.”

Joan studied him for a long moment, and then she smiled, a thin, hard smile. “You are learning,” she said. “You are learning how the world works.”

“I am learning how to make it work for me,” Tom said. “That is the King’s lesson.”

He looked once more at the empty road where the column had vanished, and then he turned back toward the village. The seed was in the ground. The battery was dying. And somewhere to the north, Hugh de Lacy was riding to meet his fate.

Tom meant to be there when he arrived.