"So they mean to attack the court? Lord Almighty" The color had drained from Walter’s face, leaving him looking older than his years.

  Aye," the messenger confirmed. "Drive them out. Send a message that'll be heard all the way to London. Men are flooding in from every corner.”

  "This… this could be it," Peter said, his voice low and thoughtful. He looked around the table, his eyes lingering on each man in turn. "This could be the spark. The beginning of what we've been waiting for."

  What now, then? A silent exchange passed between the gathered men. Private concerns – wives, children, fields, livestock – filled their heads, and turned their tongues. Talking over each other, or considering quietly, they tried to put in place what their next days would bring.

  Walter looked to Beatrice. He knew what she would say without her uttering a word. Rayleigh was their home. They would stay. Fletcher and Baryngton, Rayleigh men to the bone, had one priority: fire. They had seen tax rolls burning in their dreams, and meant to see it through.

  John, his leg a particularly poignant excuse, said he’d stay with Will. There’d be no midnight ride for him. But his mind was still sharp; He'd survey the manor house and see what work there might be in bringing the rabble to order.

  "Right," Peter said, at the close of the fractured discussion. "I'll ride back with Matthew tonight. I have contacts in Brentwood, family too. I can help coordinate things there." He paused, looking at the men remaining. "If things go badly here, make your way to Brentwood. Seek me out. I'll connect you with the others."

  He looked directly at John, then at Fletcher and Baryngton. "And while you're here, take everything you can get your hands on from the lord's manor. Weapons, food, supplies, anything of value. Strip it bare. Then make your way to the center of things. He offered a grim smile, pointed at John. "Let them see what it costs to push honest men too far."

  The remnants of the meal were finished in a hurried, nervous flurry. Fletcher and Baryngton, their faces set with grim purpose, excused themselves, heading to their own homes to prepare, and no doubt, to spread the word. Peter clasped Walter's shoulder, exchanged a few quiet words with Beatrice, and then, with a final nod to the room, he was gone, disappearing into the night with the messenger.

  Only Will, Beatrice, Walter, and John remained. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. At first light, they would try to rally the rest of Rayleigh, to bring as many people as possible to Walter's house, to spread the news from Brentwood and prepare for what was to come.

  "Won't be hard to find folk willing," John said, breaking the silence. He glanced towards the door where Fletcher and Baryngton left. "Those two have more brothers and cousins than rabbits in a warren. They’ll bring plenty.” The rebellion, it seemed, had found its recruits, ready or not.

  After settling them in with blankets by the hearth, Beatrice placed a hand on Walter's shoulder. "We should rest," she said. "Tomorrow will be long." Walter looked up at her, his usual expression replaced with a grim set to his mouth. "Aye, lass," he rumbled. "Long indeed.” He reached up and covered her hand with his.

  After Beatrice and Walter yielded to sleep, the house fell utterly still. The whirlwind had passed, leaving John alone with an ocean of anxiety, surging on his mind in rhythm. Soon, Walter's snores, deep as an old ox, broke through the house, peppering John with repeated irritation.

  John lay stiff, mind a rat's nest of thoughts. Sleep was a distant country.A long time bled by, marked by the moon's slow crawl and the pop of embers collapsing into ash.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "Can't sleep, eh, Kent?" Will asked, already sounding hostile. "Too busy shittin' yourself about tomorrow?"

  John settled onto a stool, pulling a threadbare blanket tighter, more for comfort than warmth. "Something like that."

  "Thought so." Will snorted. "What the hell are you all doing anyway?

  "You might think I'm a fool, but-"

  "Oh, I don't need no convincing on that account, you daft cripple."

  John bristled slightly. "Alright, rabbit-foot, I hear your point. We're not exactly a king's army.”

  A flicker of amusement crossed Will’s face. "Those bastards are gonna crush your skulls under their horses' hooves, ya know that, right? Then they're gonna trim their ball hair with your shears.”

  John winced. "Can't believe you haven't found another wife with a mouth like that. A real Essex poet, if you ask me."

  "Comes from dealing with arseholes all my life," Will grunted, shifting his weight with a groan. "Soldiers, merchants, lords… they're all the same. Promise you the moon and stars, then piss on your grave while you're still warm enough to feel it."

  John sighed, the fight draining out of him. "Folks seem to think this is different. Even Eleanor. Gods, if she were a man, she'd be riding hard for Brentwood right now, I know it. King's lucky the Lord put her in a softer body, else he'd have a dagger in his ribs already."

  "Different?" Will barked a laugh, a harsh, painful sound that ended in a cough. "Different how? Different bunch of bastards telling you to die for 'em, that's all. It's all flowery shite.”

  “They skewered a little boy in Horndon for trying to protect his sisters. It’s all been different since then.”

  “Ack,” Will said. “He was a fly buzzing around a warhorse's arse. Got swatted, didn't he? That's what happens to flies. They get swatted."

  John flinched. He knew Will wasn't trying to be cruel, not really. "He was a child, Will."

  "And children die, Kent. All the bloody time. Fever, a kick from a horse, a sword in the gut, makes no difference in the end, does it? Dead is dead. Worm food." He said. "My lot, they coughed themselves to death. They were gonna die no matter what, no matter the tax, no matter the King. It's just the way of things.”

  John stared into the middle-dark. "I don't know, Will. I'm just a broken-down tailor with a head full of bad memories and a leg full of aches. I'm being pulled this way and that. Peter's yanking on one arm, shouting 'Fight! Fit to tear the damn thing off. You’re tugging on the other, saying 'family’ And all I want, all I've ever wanted, is to be left alone, or maybe just to feel the sun on my face without the stink of blood and fear in my nose."

  He looked back at Will. “Maybe I'm too used to following orders.”

  "Aye, orders are a comfort, aren't they? Someone else takes the blame. Someone else decides who lives and who dies. You just follow."

  He paused, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Thing about orders, though, Kent is they're only as good as the man giving 'em. And most men are beggars, selling away the last bits of their sense."

  "I'm not looking for sense, Will," he said. "I'm looking for… I don't even know. Maybe just someone to tell me I'm not completely mad."

  "I ain’t the man for the job," Will said.

  "Maybe I am mad," he said quietly.

  Will just grunted. "Help me shift this leg before it fuses to the stool. You’re making my arse ache.”

  John carefully helped Will adjust his injured leg, the movement eliciting a groan from the older man. A heavy silence fell between them again, but it was different now, less charged, almost companionable.

  John leaned his head back against the wall, a bitter laugh escaping his lips, quickly stifled. Here they were, a cripple, a cynic, and a handful of villagers, waiting on the end times. He imagined the scene: Belknap's knights, armored and mounted, facing a ragged line of farmers with sharpened sticks and stolen weapons shaking in their hands. He slipped into a fitful sleep, images of what was to come replaying on a bloody loop behind his eyes.

  All this sound and fury, for what? Pennies in the pocket of a King.