The cheers had choked off like a guttering candle flame, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than the roar had been. That was the treacherous nature of cheers, John thought – a fever, loud and fleeting, burning bright and then leaving only ashes. The pyre, or what remained of it, was still smoldering. A greasy, black plume clawed its way upwards, staining the pale evening sky and spitting out a stench of burnt paper and scorched leather, the ghostly scent of authority consumed.

  He edged closer to the smoking remains, the heat licking at his face. He’d fanned the embers of discontent into this blaze, pointed these blunt, honest folk towards the market house like hounds onto a scent, given them a focus for their rage. And now, watching the smoke writhe against the morning sky, he wondered what could be next.

  Fletcher was still preening. He stood planted, hands braced on his hips, chest puffed like a robin’s, surveying the dwindling knots of villagers as if they were legions of conquered men, himself the triumphant general after some glorious, if somewhat ragged, battle. His grin was wide, bordering on manic.

  “I’d say we better see to marching on Chelmsford,” Fletcher declared, his voice booming out over the hushed square, aimed at no one and everyone. John’s eyes slid shut for a moment. Chelmsford. The name landed in his gut like a stone; the prize would be fat, the county town was ripe with wealth and officialdom. But he imagined the high walls, manned by men who knew how to kill and he shuddered.

  “Chelmsford’s suicide,” John said, his words aimed directly at Fletcher’s swelling chest, “plain and simple. We’re not made for storming keeps.” He gestured towards the smoldering pyre. "That fire was one thing. Stone walls and archers are another."

  A muscle twitched in Fletcher’s jaw. He spun around, his grin twisting into a sneer. “Cowardice, Kent?” he spat, the word laced with contempt. "You? Who lit the fire? " He jabbed a finger towards John’s chest, the force of it almost pushing John back a step. His voice rose,attracting the wavering attention of the villagers once more. “You had them roaring like lions an hour ago! Now you want them to bleat like sheep at the first shadow?”

  “Sense, Fletcher, not cowardice,” he said. John looked over the faces of the villagers, catching their eyes. “Belknap’s in Brentwood to hold court, they say. But we all know what that means. To make an example. To hang a few for the King’s pleasure and scare the rest back into line.”

  Fletcher was sweating and red-faced. “We took Rayleigh, and we can take Chelmsford. It’s the heart of Essex. The heart!" He thumped his chest, a gesture that would have been comical if it weren't so terrifyingly earnest. " We're not stopping until the King himself hears our demands!"

  “Brentwood’s where Belknap will be. Think of what Belknap will do if we give him a free hand. He'll come here, to Rayleigh, to every village that defied him. He'll make examples. He'll hang us, burn our homes, take everything we have left."

  Fletcher glared at John. “Fine,” he spat. “You take your sheep to Brentwood. I’ll take the wolves to Chelmsford. We’ll see who makes history.”

  Right! Those heading to Brentwood, listen up!" He scanned the square, his eyes moving over unfamiliar faces, trying to gauge who might be reliable, who might understand what needed to be done.

  “Are there any here who know the road well?” John asked, his voice projecting over the square. He looked around, meeting hesitant gazes. “Anyone who’s travelled it recently?”

  A few moments of silence, then a hand went up hesitantly. A lanky lad, standing near the edge of the square. “I have, sir,” he said, stepping forward slightly. “Thomas is the name. I’ve been to Brentwood market with my father.”

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “Good, Thomas.” John nodded, relief washing over him. “And who else knows the way?” He scanned the crowd again. Another hand went up, then another, and another. You four, scout ahead. Keep a sharp eye out for anyone and anything. Signal, or ride back if you see trouble.”

  The men nodded, a nervous energy animating them, heightened by the morning air. “Right, we’ll get ourselves ready.” They moved away with purpose, disappearing down a side street.

  “Food, tools, anything useful. Women, can you see to the provisions? Sort through what’s edible, what’s ruined. Bundle what we can carry.” A few women headed towards the building like scavengers to a fallen carcass. “Men,” John continued, his voice cutting through the murmur of activity, “weapons. Anyone with a blade, a billhook, a decent axe, bring it forward. Even a sturdy cudgel will do. We’re not going to war armed like field hands, not if we can help it.”

  Farmers began to draw forth their tools, the implements of their trade, now repurposed for a darker aim. A few younger men brandished knives, some barely more than eating irons, others longer, sharper, knives used for skinning rabbits.

  “Baryngton,” he called out. “Baryngton, you know horses. See if there are any left in the stables behind the market house.”

  “I’ll go where I please, Kent.”

  John just stared at him, a long, level look that held no heat, just a bone-deep weariness. “Please yourself, Baryngton. But if you’re ever so inclined, please go see to the horses.”

  He watched Baryngton stalk off, muttering under his breath, more likely to pocket a stray coin than find any horses, John figured. He ran a hand through his hair, the grit and smoke clinging to him. He’d gotten himself tangled in this mess, hadn’t he? Riding the wave, whether he liked it or not. Better to steer the damn thing than get swallowed whole.

  “Right!” he barked again, louder this time, forcing energy into his voice he didn't feel. “Move it, people! Brentwood ain’t getting any closer while we stand here gawking at ashes. Let’s see what we’ve got! Food to the square! Tools and blades to me! And someone find some bloody waterskins!” He clapped his hands, the sound sharp in the quieting square. “Let’s go!”

  John started sorting through the weapons, separating the marginally useful from the utterly pointless. He hefted a billhook, and tossed it to a younger man who looked less likely to stab himself than an enemy. “Here. Pointy end goes towards trouble. He turned to the main road, and caught sight of Fletcher’s wolves swaggering east, a dwindling tail of bravado. Fletcher, puffed like a poisoned toad, would lead the way to Chelmsford’s stone jaws. John watched them go, shaking his head more in weariness than anger.

  Then there was Baryngton. He’d trailed after Fletcher, of course, drawn to the noise and the preening like a fly to rot. John’s mood lightened a bit watching Baryngton wander out of his view. The man just rubbed him wrong, always looking like he was sizing folks up for a swindle. John just hoped, for the sake of the louder fools following Fletcher, that Baryngton’s particular brand of trouble-seeking didn’t get them all killed faster.

  John watched his remaining band as they finished prepartion, as best as they could. Sacks were slung, tools clutched with white-knuckled desperation, faces grimly set, or maybe just grim.“Brentwood,” he said, voice scraped raw by too much shouting and too little water. He looked out over this collection of strangers, faces he barely recognized, let alone trusted, all his true allies scattered to the four winds. He needed a sharp, clever soul he could maybe, maybe, rely on. But that was a problem for later. Right now, the road. He stabbed a finger west, the gesture like a grudging shove into the teeth of the coming, merciless day. "Walk on."

  They moved, out and away from Rayleigh, as the last tendrils of smoke wafted above the roofs. Then the silence fractured. A sound, thin and sharp as shattered glass, pierced the dusk. Bells. John strained to place them, the sound bouncing off darkening fields, directionless. John swore under his breath.

  Fate wasn't riding on the sound of those bells; fate was the sound, a shrieking, clanging monster, and they were walking, boots dragging, straight into its gaping, bloody throat. He could practically taste the iron tang of it on the air, the promise of more blood, more pain, and probably, a whole lot more running.