John woke and heard a commotion in the street; he rose without tying the laces on his boots and stumbled outside. Before he'd even shaken off the morning dew, a hand, thick and rough as a butcher's, seized his arm, nearly pulling him to the ground.

  "Kent! You're a sight for sore eyes, you idle dog!" Baryngton's grumbled at him. "Get a move on! We need you!"

  John, still struggling with his trousers, was hauled down the street, his grumbles lost in the wind. "Need me? Why?" he managed to rasp. "Haven't even swallowed a crust, you..."

  "Fletcher's by the market cross, speaking to the people. Go out and help.”

  John scoffed. "Help how?”

  “You’ll figure it out when you get there.” They reached the market cross. A small group of villagers clustered around it, looking lost and uncertain. Fletcher, perched on the cross's base like an overgrown, unkempt gnome, was attempting to incite them.

  "...they drain us of every coin!" Fletcher bellowed, his voice echoing across High Street. "Are we men, or are we spineless?"

  A few uncertain noises answered him. John grimaced. This was a disaster in the making. Baryngton, with a shove, propelled John forward. "Here!" he declared, his voice overwhelming Fletcher's fading speech. "Here's a man familiar with struggle! A man who's bled for his country! John Kent! Tell them, John!"

  All eyes fixed on John. He felt the familiar pre-battle sickness, the same feeling he got before facing down a barrage of French arrows. Before he could refuse, Baryngton practically lifted him onto the cross's base. John stumbled, his weaker leg protesting, nearly collapsing. He grasped the cold, gritty stone, holding on tight. He glared at Baryngton, meeting his small, calculating eyes. He scanned the crowd. Anxious, yearning, and mostly famished faces returned his gaze.

  "The King... needed pikemen." John's voice was flat, almost a monotone. He shifted uncomfortably, head screaming at him to tuck tail and go home. "They came for me. Like they came for some of you. Maybe. Or your fathers. Brothers. They said it was an honor to serve the Crown." He gave a short, bitter laugh, the sound scraping in his throat. "The honor of leaving my family and my trade to go kill people I'd never met. People sitting in their own homes, afraid of their own king."

  He paused, his gaze drifting downwards, his hand unconsciously moving to rest on his thigh, fingers tracing the outline of the old scar beneath the fabric. He swallowed, the words catching. "The wage… it wasn’t a lord’s ransom, but it was something. Enough to keep a bit of bread in my daughter’s belly.”

  He lifted his head, slowly, his eyes hardening with the remembered pain, the frustration, the gnawing fear that had become a constant companion. "Then came France," he said, his voice rising, the words coming a little easier now. "An arrow, no, a crossbow bolt, went straight through here." He tapped his leg, the sound dull against the thick fabric of his breeches. "Felt like the devil himself had reached up and grabbed me."

  He looked back at the villagers, finding comfort in their soft eyes. "I came home a cripple, back to labor owed on land I don’t own. To my last living child wasting away before my eyes.”

  He paused, his hand moving to his pocket, his fingers closing around a small, hard object. He drew it out slowly. It was Robin’s horse.

  He held it up. The silence that fell was immediate.

  "They ran a young boy through with their swords," John said. "A child. For the crime of protecting his sister’s decency." He looked down at the horse. "They take everything. Our sons. Our daughters. Our livelihoods. Our dignity!”

  A hush, then applause, hesitant at first. Feet soon stamped in a growing rhythm. Then came the banging, fists, tools, anything. The sound was swelling as John spoke again.

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  He pointed a finger, not at the crowd, but towards the market house, barely visible in the distance. "We can't face the King's men head-on. But those ledgers, those tax rolls, they're in there. And they can burn!”

  The crowd was so loud at this point John wasn’t sure if he’d be heard as he shouted. "We can go now, and put an end to it." He raised a fist. "No bloodshed," he roared. "Unless they force it upon us! We harm no one who does not lay hands on us. We are not murderers. We are not thieves. We are the children of God, and we will see our families live!"

  Fletcher, his face alight with a fierce grin, jumped down from the cross and roared, "To the market house!”

  Baryngton echoed the cry, "Burn the records!”

  They moved like a river, slow at first, then gathering speed and force, flowing towards the market house. John, still perched precariously on the cross, felt a surge of adrenaline. He had meant every word, and a fire was set. He had to keep control.

  "Remember!" John shouted, his voice hoarse but carrying over the growing rumble of the crowd. "No violence! Only the records! We show them we are not animals.”

  He jumped down, wincing as his leg jarred, and joined the flow, positioning himself near the front, alongside Fletcher and Baryngton. Fletcher, his broad shoulders leading the way, acted like the prow of a ship, parting the smaller groups that still lingered, unsure of what to do. Baryngton, his eyes darting nervously, scanned the surrounding buildings, alert for any sign of resistance.

  "Fletcher, with me!" John commanded, his voice gaining an authority he hadn't known he possessed. "Baryngton, stay at the rear! Make sure no one strays, and keep order! We go in, we get the records, and we burn them. Nothing else!"

  The market house loomed closer, its heavy oak doors closed and barred, a symbol of the authority they were about to defy. A few figures, guards or perhaps even clerks, stood nervously on the steps, their faces pale, their hands hovering near their swords. They looked woefully unprepared for the tide of humanity bearing down on them.

  As the crowd reached the steps, Fletcher bellowed, "Stand aside! We mean you no harm. We seek only the tax records. Open the doors, and no one gets hurt."

  The guards hesitated, glancing at each other, their fear palpable. One, a young man with a wispy mustache, made a move to draw his sword, but his older companion stopped him with a sharp shake of the head.

  "No," the older guard said, calm enough though trembling slightly. "We're not dying for documents. Open the doors."

  The younger guard, his face a mixture of relief and shame, fumbled with the heavy bar. The doors creaked open, revealing the dim interior of the market house.

  "Remember!" John yelled again, pushing his way to the front. "Only the records! No looting! No violence!”

  Inside, the market house was a tableau of chaos. Long tables, normally laden with goods, stood empty, witnesses to the upheaval. Shelves that once held meticulously organized records were being systematically stripped bare.

  "Everything!" roared a thickset man, his tunic bearing the emblem of a blacksmith's guild. He heaved a heavy ledger from a shelf. "Every scrap of parchment! Bring it outside.”

  A woman beside John nodded. "Can't read a word of it," she muttered, "but we can’t take any chances.”

  Nearby some tore at the parchment with their bare hands, ripping and shredding the documents.

  "Out! Out with it all!" Fletcher roared. Baryngton, his usual intensity amplified, was even less discerning. "Burn it! Burn it all!" he shrieked, grabbing handfuls of documents, regardless of their content.

  Only a handful of villagers, the wealthier merchants who could actually read, showed any hesitation. "Are we sure…?" one began. “What if they’re valuable?” A younger craftsman snatched the ledger from his hand. "Valuable to whom?" he sneered. "Let it burn!" Outside, the scene was even more chaotic. Villagers streamed from the market house, their arms overflowing with parchment, ledgers, and boxes. The pile in the market square grew rapidly, transforming from a heap of documents into a towering pyre.

  As the last of the records were brought out, a few villagers began to toss burning brands onto the pile. The dry parchment ignited instantly, flames leaping and dancing. A thick column of black smoke billowed skyward.

  A rider burst into the square, his horse rearing. Young, breathless, mud-spattered, his eyes wide with terror, he scanned the scene – the burning records, the villagers' feverish joy. He locked eyes with John and opened his mouth, but no words came. He wrenched the reins, turning his horse. Without a word, he spurred his mount out of the square, disappearing, leaving only echoing hooves and swirling dust and smoke. The cheering died, replaced by an uneasy murmur. Friend or foe?

  A single burning page lifted from the pyre, twisting on the hot air, and followed where the rider had left.