Chapter 81: The Furrow and the Flame

The morning after Hugh de Lacy's fall, Tom woke to the sound of hammers.

Not the hammer Wat had raised against the lord's men, but the steady, rhythmic tapping of a smith's work. He lay still for a moment in the loft above the barn, listening. The air smelled of wet earth and woodsmoke, and beneath it, faintly, the sharp tang of the forge. Joan slept beside him, her breathing slow and even, one hand curled near her face like a child's. He had not meant to fall asleep here. They had come to check the warehouse, to see how much life the battery had left, and the next thing he knew, dawn light was slanting through the cracks in the boards.

He eased himself up, careful not to wake her, and climbed down the ladder.

The warehouse stood in the shadows behind the false wall, its lights flickering weakly. The battery indicator showed a thin red line, pulsing like a heartbeat. Tom stood before it, his breath fogging in the cold. The seed crates were still stacked, the ploughshares wrapped in oiled cloth, the books in their leather bindings. He had spent years managing inventory, tracking pallets and SKUs and delivery windows, and he had never once imagined that a dying battery would feel like a countdown to the end of the world.

He reached out and touched the nearest crate. Turnip seed. Enough to plant a hundred acres. Enough to feed a village through a winter.

Enough to change everything.

"Master Ashwick."

Wat stood at the barn door, his hammer resting on his shoulder. The boy—no, not a boy anymore; the siege at the ford had burned that out of him—had a smear of soot across his cheek and a look in his eyes that Tom recognized. It was the look of someone who had crossed a line and was not sure he could cross back.

"The forge is lit," Wat said. "The men want to know what comes next."

Tom nodded. He pulled on his coat and followed Wat outside.

The village of Wykeham lay before him, a huddle of thatched roofs and wattle fences, smoke rising from chimneys. The ford was still churned to mud from the fighting, and the burned timbers of Hugh's wagon stood black against the grey sky. But the fields beyond were waking. The frost had broken. Men were already at work, turning the soil with wooden ploughs, their breath steaming in the cold air.

They stopped when they saw him.

Tom felt their eyes on him—not hostile, not yet, but watchful. He was still the stranger who had appeared from nowhere, the man who spoke of wonders and carried steel that cut through iron. He was still the warlock, or the saint, or whatever they needed him to be. The King's commission in his belt made him something more, but it also made him dangerous. The King's men had come and gone, taking Hugh de Lacy to London in chains. They had left behind a royal warrant, sealed in wax, and a promise that the Crown would remember Wykeham.

They had also left behind the bishop's men.

Tom did not see them now, but he knew they were out there. The bishop of Winchester had not forgotten the heretic who had escaped his grasp. The King's protection was a shield, but it was also a leash. Every day Tom spent in Wykeham was a day the bishop could use against him.

He pushed the thought aside and walked toward the fields.

"Master Ashwick!" A woman's voice, sharp and familiar. Joan had climbed down from the loft and was hurrying toward him, her hair loose, her cloak wrapped tight. "You did not wake me."

"You needed the sleep."

"I need to know what you are planning." She fell into step beside him, her eyes scanning the fields. "The men are looking to you. They think you will lead them."

"I'm not a leader. I'm a logistics manager."

"You are a man who bargained with a king and won." She looked at him sidelong. "That is close enough."

They reached the edge of the fields, where the men had gathered. Wat was there, and Baldric the reeve, his scarred face grim but not unfriendly. The other villagers stood behind them, their tools in their hands—not weapons now, but the implements of survival.

Baldric spoke first. "The King's warrant gives us the right to work this land in his name. But it also means the Crown will expect a share of what we grow. The bishop will expect his tithe. And the lord—" He spat. "The lord is gone, but his steward remains. He has already sent word to the bishop."

"I know," Tom said. "That's why we need to move fast."

He turned to face the assembled men. He was not a speechmaker. He had spent his life in warehouses, not courtrooms or battlefields. But he had learned something in the past months: that people did not need speeches. They needed a plan.

"The old ways will not save us," he said. "You know this. You have seen the plague. You have seen the famine. You have seen what happens when the lord takes everything and leaves nothing." He paused, letting the words sink in. "The King has given me the right to plant these fields in his name. That means we answer to him, not to the bishop, not to Hugh's steward. But it also means we have to prove that we can do what no one else can."

He reached into his coat and drew out a handful of seed. The turnip seed, dark and small, gleamed in the pale light.

"This is not wheat," he said. "It is not barley. It is something new. It will grow in poor soil, in cold weather, and it will feed your cattle through the winter. It will feed your children. But it will only work if we plant it together. Every man, every woman, every child who can hold a hoe. We plant today. We plant tomorrow. We plant until the last frost."

A murmur ran through the crowd. Some of the men looked skeptical. Others looked hopeful. Baldric stepped forward and took the seed from Tom's hand, turning it over in his calloused palm.

"My grandfather planted turnips," he said slowly. "They were pig food."

"They were pig food because no one knew how to cook them," Tom said. "I do. And I will teach you."

Baldric looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Then we plant."

The men moved toward the fields, their tools rising and falling in the cold air. Tom watched them go, feeling the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders. This was the beginning, he knew. Not the end. The King's commission was a shield, but it was also a target. The bishop would come. Hugh's steward would scheme. And somewhere in the darkness of the warehouse, the battery was still fading, counting down to the day when the lights would go out for good.

Joan touched his arm. "You did well."

"I told them the truth."

"You told them what they needed to hear." She looked up at him, her eyes bright. "There is a difference."

He was about to answer when a shout came from the edge of the village. A boy was running toward them, his legs pumping, his face flushed with exertion. He skidded to a stop in front of Tom, gasping for breath.

"Master Ashwick! Riders! Coming from the south!"

Tom's blood went cold. "How many?"

"A dozen. Maybe more. They carry the bishop's banner."

Joan's hand tightened on his arm. "He didn't wait."

"No," Tom said. "He didn't."

He looked toward the fields, where the men were still working, unaware of the danger bearing down on them. Then he looked toward the barn, where the warehouse waited in the darkness. The battery was dying. The seed was planted. And the bishop was coming.

He had one chance. One choice.

"Wat," he said. "Get the men. Tell them to bring their tools."

Wat nodded and ran. Tom turned to Joan.

"The warehouse," he said. "We need to move the seed. All of it. Hide it in the woods, in the caves, wherever we can. If the bishop finds it—"

"He won't," Joan said. "Not if we're quick."

They ran for the barn, the sound of hoofbeats growing louder behind them. Tom's heart pounded in his chest, but his mind was clear. He had spent his life moving goods, tracking inventory, solving problems. This was just another problem. A deadly one, but a problem nonetheless.

He reached the false wall and pulled it open. The warehouse lights flickered, dim and weak, but they were still on. Still fighting.

He stepped inside and began to work.