Chapter 83: The Measure of a Manor

The horn sounded again, closer now, a brazen cry that rolled across the frozen fields and broke against the village like a wave against a seawall. Tom stood at the edge of the furrows and counted the men who had come to stand beside him. Wat’s hammer was not the only tool raised. There were billhooks and flails, a wood-axe, a boar-spear that had not seen use since the last wolf was killed in these parts. Twenty-five, Wat had said. Tom counted thirty-one, and then a few more who drifted in from the cottages, their faces grey with fear but their hands steady on whatever they carried.

“They will not fight,” Baldric said, coming up beside him, his sword drawn but held low. The reeve’s scarred face was grim. “These are farmers, not soldiers. Hugh’s men will cut through them like a scythe through wheat.”

“They do not need to fight,” Tom said. “They need to be seen.”

He walked to the centre of the village green, where the old stone cross stood, its edges worn smooth by generations of hands. The sky was the colour of pewter, and the frost had not yet lifted from the shadowed side of the cottages. He could hear the horses now, the suck of hooves in mud, the jingle of harness. The black lion banner came into view first, snapping in the wind, and then the men themselves, a dozen riders in mail and leather, their faces hard and their hands near their weapons.

Sir Hugh de Lacy rode at their head. He was younger than Tom had expected, perhaps thirty, with a narrow face and pale eyes that moved across the village without seeming to rest on anything. He wore a fur-lined cloak over his armour, and his horse was a destrier, black as the lion on his banner. He reined in at the edge of the green and looked at the villagers, at their improvised weapons, at Tom standing by the cross.

“What is this?” he said. His voice was calm, almost amused. “A rebellion of peasants? I have ridden hard from London, Master Ashwick, and I am in no mood for theatre.”

“You have ridden hard from London,” Tom said, “because you know the King has questions for you. Questions about grain. Questions about France.”

Hugh’s expression did not change, but something flickered in his pale eyes. “The King has questions about many things. He is a king. It is his nature. But I have answers, and I have friends at court who will speak for me. You, on the other hand, have a barn full of heresy and a warrant for your arrest.”

He raised his hand, and the men behind him shifted in their saddles, readying themselves.

“I have something better than a warrant,” Tom said. He reached into his tunic and drew out the leather tube, the same one he had shown the bishop’s men on the river. The red seal caught the weak light. “I have a royal commission. Signed by Edward himself. I am to implement new methods of husbandry across England, and I am to begin here, at Wykeham. Every field, every furrow, every bushel of grain is now under the King’s protection.”

He held the tube up so that all could see. “To interfere with the King’s commission is treason. To threaten the King’s steward is treason. To sell grain to the French is treason.”

The last words landed like stones in still water. The villagers stirred, murmuring. Hugh’s men glanced at one another. Hugh himself sat motionless on his destrier, his face unreadable.

“You have proof of that last charge?” he said quietly.

“The King has proof,” Tom said. “And he has been waiting for you to return so that he might discuss it with you personally. He has sent men south to escort you back to London. They will be here by nightfall.”

For a long moment, Hugh said nothing. Then he laughed, a short, sharp sound that held no warmth. “You are cleverer than you look, Master Ashwick. I will grant you that. But you have made a mistake.”

“Have I?”

“You have told me that the King’s men are coming. You have told me that I am to be arrested. And you have told me that I have until nightfall.” He leaned forward in the saddle, and his pale eyes were cold. “What is to stop me from burning this village to the ground, taking your proof, and riding for the coast? I have ships. I have friends in Normandy. The King’s men will find nothing but ashes.”

Tom felt the fear in the villagers, a palpable thing, a tightening of the air. He felt Joan’s hand find his own, her fingers cold but steady. He looked at Hugh de Lacy and saw a man who had already decided to run, a man who would do anything to save his own skin.

“Because you are not a fool,” Tom said. “If you burn the village, you destroy the only thing that might save you. The King does not want your head, Sir Hugh. He wants your grain. He wants your ships. He wants your taxes. If you ride for the coast, you are a traitor with nothing to bargain with. If you stay, you are a debtor with everything to lose but everything to gain.”

He took a step forward, and then another, until he stood within arm’s reach of Hugh’s destrier. The horse tossed its head, but Hugh held it steady.

“You owe twelve thousand pounds,” Tom said. “The King told me himself. That is a debt that would ruin most men. But you have lands. You have grain. You have a manor that could produce three times what it does now, if it were managed properly. I can show you how. I can show the King how. And a lord who increases the King’s revenues is a lord who might be forgiven a great deal.”

Hugh stared at him. The wind gusted, and the black lion banner snapped. Somewhere behind them, a child began to cry, and was hushed.

“You are offering me a way out,” Hugh said slowly.

“I am offering you a choice,” Tom said. “Ride for the coast and be hunted for the rest of your life. Or stay and face the King, and let me help you make your peace.”

The silence stretched. Tom could hear his own heartbeat, could feel the cold seeping through his boots. He had gambled everything on this, on the hope that Hugh de Lacy was more pragmatist than villain. If he was wrong—

Hugh laughed again, but this time there was something different in it, a grudging respect. “You are a strange man, Master Ashwick. I have known merchants and stewards and reeves, but never one who bargained like a king.”

He turned to his men. “Dismount. We will wait for the King’s escort.”

The men exchanged glances, but they obeyed. Hugh swung down from his destrier and stood facing Tom, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “But understand this,” he said quietly, so that only Tom could hear. “If you are lying, if this is a trap, I will kill you myself. And I will make it slow.”

Tom met his gaze. “I would expect nothing less.”

Behind them, the villagers were lowering their weapons, their faces a mixture of relief and confusion. Wat was staring at Tom as if he had never seen him before. Baldric had sheathed his sword and was speaking quietly to the men, organising them into some semblance of order. And Joan—Joan was watching Tom with an expression he could not read, something between wonder and fear.

“You will need somewhere to stay,” Tom said to Hugh. “The manor house has been closed since Michaelmas. It will be cold, but it is better than the road.”

Hugh nodded curtly, and gestured for his men to follow him. As he passed Tom, he paused. “The King’s men,” he said. “When will they arrive?”

“By nightfall,” Tom said.

Hugh’s pale eyes flicked to the furrows, to the villagers, to the barn where the warehouse lay hidden behind its false wall. “Then we have until nightfall,” he said, “to decide what kind of peace this will be.”

He walked on, and his men followed, leading their horses toward the manor house. The villagers parted to let them pass, and then closed behind them, a silent, watching crowd.

Tom let out a breath he had not realised he was holding. His legs felt weak, and his hands were shaking. Joan was beside him in an instant, her hand on his arm.

“You gambled,” she said.

“I know.”

“You gambled with all of us.”

“I know.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she said, “You won.”

“For now,” Tom said.

He looked up at the sky, at the clouds that were beginning to break, letting through a pale, watery sunlight. The frost was melting on the furrows, and the smell of turned earth rose from the field. Somewhere in the barn, the warehouse’s lights were still flickering, the battery still dying. He had bought them time, but time was the one commodity he could not manufacture.

“We need to get that battery charged,” he said.

Joan frowned. “The what?”

“The warehouse,” he said. “The lights. The books. Everything. We need to find a way to keep it running. Because if it dies, so does everything we have.”

He looked at the manor house, where Hugh de Lacy’s banner now flew from the roof beside the King’s own standard, which Baldric’s men had raised at dawn. Two lions, side by side, one black and one gold. A truce, or a trap. He did not know which.

“And then,” he said, “we need to talk to Hugh about turnips.”

Joan stared at him. Then, despite everything, she laughed. It was a small sound, quickly swallowed by the wind, but it was enough. Tom took her hand, and they walked together toward the barn, where the seed was waiting, and the furrows lay open to the sky, and the long winter was finally, slowly, beginning to thaw.