Chapter 85: The Reckoning of the Rows (II)

The frost broke on the feast of Saint Valentine, and with it came the stink of thaw.

Tom stood at the edge of the south field, watching the snow recede like a tide, leaving behind a landscape of grey mud and drowned stubble. The furrows he had ordered dug in the autumn—those long, straight lines that had earned him so many suspicious glances—were still visible beneath the meltwater, their geometry a silent argument against the chaos of the old strip farming. He had planted them with turnip seed from the warehouse, the last of the battery's charge spent on keeping the seed viable through the winter. Now the earth was drinking the melt, and the seed was drinking the earth, and if the weather held, they would know by Easter whether the gamble had been worth it.

"Master Ashwick." Wat's voice came from behind him, rough with the morning. "The King's men are asking for you. The ones who stayed."

Tom turned. Wat stood with his hammer slung through his belt, his face still bearing the bruises from the fight at the manor house. Behind him, the village was stirring—smoke rising from chimneys, the sound of a woman calling her chickens, the creak of a cart wheel somewhere near the church. Ordinary sounds. Miraculous sounds, after the winter they had endured.

"Which ones?" Tom asked.

"The captain. The one with the grey cloak. He says he has orders from Westminster."

Tom nodded and followed Wat up the muddy track toward the manor house. The building still bore the scars of the assault—a broken shutter here, a scorched threshold there—but the King's men had repaired what they could, and the banner of the Three Lions now hung above the door, a declaration of royal authority that kept the bishop's men at a cautious distance. Hugh de Lacy was in the cellars, awaiting transport to London and a trial that would end with his head on a spike. The bishop had sent no further demands. For now, the King's protection held.

The captain was waiting in the hall, a man of fifty with a soldier's bearing and a clerk's patience. He had introduced himself as Sir Richard de Ashby, a name that meant nothing to Tom but clearly meant something to the villagers, who had bowed and scraped until Sir Richard had told them irritably to get on with their work.

"Master Ashwick," Sir Richard said, rising from the bench. "I have received a letter from the King's secretary. It concerns your commission."

Tom felt his stomach tighten. "What of it?"

"The King requires a demonstration. Before the spring planting, you are to travel to Westminster and present your methods to a council of the realm. The King's steward, the Earl of Arundel, and certain other lords will attend. You will explain your system of crop rotation, your methods of soil enrichment, and your use of..." Sir Richard paused, consulting a scrap of parchment. "...the turnip."

"The turnip," Tom repeated.

"The turnip. The King is most interested in the turnip."

Tom allowed himself a small, exhausted smile. In his old life, the turnip had been a commodity, a line item in a spreadsheet, a crop that farmers grew because the market demanded it. Here, in the fourteenth century, it was a revolution. A crop that could feed livestock through the winter. A crop that could restore exhausted soil. A crop that could mean the difference between famine and survival for a kingdom that had lost a third of its people to plague.

"When does the King require me?"

"By the feast of Saint George. You will bring samples of your seed, your ploughshares, and your books. The King wishes to see the proof of what you have claimed."

Tom thought of the warehouse, its battery nearly dead, its lights flickering like a candle in a storm. He thought of the books on veterinary science, the steel ploughshares, the willow-bark tinctures—gifts from a world that no longer existed, preserved in a barn behind a false wall. If he went to Westminster, he would have to leave the warehouse behind. He would have to trust Joan and Wat and the villagers to protect it.

"I will go," Tom said. "But I have conditions."

Sir Richard's eyebrows rose. "Conditions?"

"The village of Wykeham must be protected. The King's men must remain until Hugh is transported to London and the bishop's interest in this place is... discouraged. And I will need a written warrant, under the King's seal, guaranteeing safe passage for myself and my companion."

"Your companion?"

"Mistress Joan of Wykeham. She is a skilled herb-woman, and her knowledge of local plants is essential to my work. I will not go without her."

Sir Richard studied him for a long moment. "You ask much, Master Ashwick."

"I ask what the King has already promised. Safety and a legacy. I am merely ensuring that the promise is kept."

The captain's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Very well. I will send to Westminster for the warrant. But you should know—there are those at court who speak against you. The bishop has friends. They say you are a sorcerer, a heretic, a man who consorts with devils."

"Let them say what they like. The proof will be in the harvest."

Sir Richard inclined his head. "Then let us hope the harvest is bountiful."

---

That evening, Tom found Joan in the herb garden behind the church, her hands buried in the thawing soil. She had been working since dawn, tending the seedlings she had started in the manor's solar, coaxing life from the cold earth with a patience that Tom envied.

"You're going to Westminster," she said without looking up. It was not a question.

"The King has summoned me. A council of lords. They want to see the turnip."

Joan snorted. "The turnip. After everything we have done, after the plague and the war and the bishop's men and Hugh's treason, it comes down to a root vegetable."

"It usually does." Tom crouched beside her, his knees creaking. "In my world, the turnip was one of the most important crops in England. It fed the cattle through the winter. It restored the soil. It made the difference between a good year and a famine."

"And in this world?"

"In this world, it could save thousands of lives. The plague has taken so many. The fields are empty. The lords are desperate for labour, for grain, for anything that will keep their manors alive. The King knows this. That is why he is interested."

Joan sat back on her heels, brushing dirt from her hands. "And what of the warehouse? What of the village? What of us?"

"The King's men will stay until Hugh is taken to London. Wat will guard the barn. And you—" Tom hesitated. "You will come with me. If you wish."

Joan's eyes met his. In the fading light, she looked tired and fierce, like a woman who had been fighting for so long she had forgotten how to stop.

"You are asking me to leave my home. To travel to a city I have never seen. To stand before lords and bishops and a king who has already threatened to burn you as a heretic."

"I am asking you to trust me."

She was silent for a long moment. Then she reached out and took his hand, her fingers cold and calloused and steady.

"I have trusted you since the night you appeared on the Wykeham road," she said. "I am not about to stop now."

---

They left at dawn three days later, with the King's warrant in Tom's belt and a cart carrying samples of seed, a steel ploughshare, and two of the veterinary books. The road to Westminster was long, and the thaw had turned it to mud, but the sky was clear and the sun was warm, and for the first time in months, Tom felt something like hope.

Behind them, the village of Wykeham was stirring. The furrows lay ready. The seed was in the ground. And in a hidden barn, the warehouse hummed its dying song, waiting for the man who had bargained with a king to return.

But ahead, on the road to London, a rider was waiting. A man in black robes, with a seal at his belt and a letter in his hand. He had been waiting for three days, and he had orders that would change everything.

The rider spurred his horse forward, and the thaw began to freeze again.