The tallow candle wept wax, as did Mary. Eleanor was on her knees beside her, palm pressed to the little girl’s forehead. In the corner, Sarah sharpened a knife, trying to be as quiet as possible, so as to not add to the room’s noise.

  On a stool, Agnes worked her prayer beads, a soft, insistent click, click, click. When things were brighter, Eleanor would savor the sound of the old woman’s prayers as the hairs prickled behind her ears. But not now, as Mary sobbed and wailed under her shaking hands.

  "There, there, little one. Mama’s here," Eleanor murmured, smoothing damp hair back from Mary's brow, but Mary twisted away.

  "Where’s Papa? I want Papa!” Mary insisted.

  "You’ll see him soon enough, little mouse." Internally, Mary winced though she wouldn’t show a bit of it to Mary. That she and John would meet again soon was a deep and abiding fear so powerful she dare not speak it, even in the lonely corridors of her mind. That Mary and John might be in peace with the Lord as she tilled the Earth alone, for no one and nothing, was the specter that haunted her every step.

  Mary wasn’t listening. “NO!” she yelled.“ He ran away when I got sick! He’s gone and he’s not coming back and I’m going to DIE!” Big tears built and tumbled down her face. “I want Papa! I want him here!”

  More tears came, noisy, hiccuping sobs. Eleanor tried to reach a hand down to her cheek but she pushed it away. But she didn’t stop there, she pounded her little fists pounding weakly on Eleanor’s arm.

  “He hates me!” The last bit was a shuddering sob, and made Eleanor’s chest hurt to hear.

  Eleanor held her daughter tight, rocking her and humming softly.Agnes’s beads clicked faster. Sarah still sharpened her knife, like she hadn’t even heard the fuss.

  Gradually, reluctantly, Mary’s tantrum sputtered out, leaving her heavy and quiet against Eleanor. Her breathing was still fast and shaky, but the fight had gone out of her, for now. She mumbled and snuffled and drifted back to a restless, feverish sleep.

  Eleanor carefully laid Mary down, her own heart feeling like a heavy stone. Agnes sighed, a long, weary sound. “Fever talk. It makes them say all sorts of things. She doesn't know what she’s saying.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Of course, of course.”

  Sarah, setting aside the knife and whetstone on the windowsill, crossed the small space to Eleanor. She knelt beside her, placing a hand briefly, firmly on Eleanor's arm. "Hold fast," she said, keeping eyes with Eleanor. “Like you always have.”

  “No, no word. But others have gone to join with them. Fletcher's son. Martin, from the West field. Twenty, maybe more." Sarah exuded a strange excitement that Eleanor couldn't miss.

  "And where are they going?" Eleanor asked.

  "Brentwood, they say. To join with Straw's men."

  Agnes shook her head, her beads now stilled.

  “They can take everything, you know?" Eleanor and Mary turned to her, surprised to hear her speak so firmly. "House and land, field and home, our very lives. All of Horndon will get the blame, even those of us who stayed home and kept quiet.”

  She looked around at them all, taking in Mary especially. "And now we watch our men ride off to their deaths. Perhaps it will be soft and peaceful here these next few years. A village of women." A bitter laugh escaped her.

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  Eleanor's face tightened, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp anger. Agnes saw it and immediately looked down, chastened.

  "I am sorry, Eleanor. Like Mary, these are my tired words. Forgive me."

  It was not Eleanor who spoke then, but Sarah.

  "I wish I had a horse," She said. "I'd ride with them. Show them what a woman of Horndon can do."

  Agnes smiled, returning to what these women knew her most for, her grandmotherly manners. "The Lord truly brought two halves of one soul together when he joined you and Peter. Fire and more fire."

  Eleanor turned to Sarah, and placed her hand on Sarah’s belly. "And what of the life you carry, Sarah? The gift God has given you?"

  Sarah pushed Eleanor’s hand away. “This babe will be born into a free world," She said. "Or it will be born into none at all.”

  "I know.” Eleanor said. “It was right for John to go, for Peter to take him. But it is our task to keep a home for them all to return to when the fighting is done. To keep the fields tended and the children safe. I have done that for more years than I care to count. We all have our place under heaven, Sarah.”

  Before Sarah could reply, there was frantic pounding on the door.

  Eleanor rose swiftly. "Who is it?" she called out.

  "Eleanor! It's me, Joan! Joan Mokkyng! Please, you must help!"

  Recognition dawned, and with it, a fresh wave of unease. Joan Mokkyng, the miller's wife was a soft-spoken woman and very much not prone to dramatics. For her to come crying to the door meant something very ill.

  Eleanor unlatched the door. Joan was alone, clutching a blood-soaked cloth to her arm.

  "Joan, what happened?”

  Joan spoke through heavy breath. "Reeve's men came back!"

  Gods Eleanor thought. The millers had been hiding Peter Spilman’s son from the count, he was just a manor farmer with far too many children to pay tax on each head.

  "They took him?" Eleanor pressed.

  "No, no, no. I thought he was still inside the mill. I was trying to keep them out, to give him time. I think he heard them. He must have run."

  Eleanor pulled Joan inside, shutting and tying the latch behind them. "Sarah, water! Agnes…”

  Before Eleanor could finish, Agnes was soaking a cloth in something. “I have eyes, Eleanor, I know her arm needs tending.”

  "They were so angry," Joan whispered. "They wanted to search the mill. I wouldn't let them, not without Bartholomew here. I told them no one was there. But they went in anyway. They couldn't find anyone. They were so angry.”

  “Why did they cut you?” Sarah said,

  “One of them had a dagger. He slashed me, said it was a warning.”

  The three women looked at each other, Agnes breathing the heaviest sigh.

  “I don't know where he is.Please, Eleanor, we must find him.” Joan was breaking before them, and Eleanor could see waves of action and regret passing over her, making her dizzy.

  They guided Joan to a stool where Agnes gently took Joan's arm, her experienced eyes assessing the wound. "It needs stitching," she said quietly.

  Eleanor knelt beside Joan, her hand resting reassuringly on Joan's good arm. "We'll find him, Joan. He's a clever lad. He knows the fields, the wood, he'll have found a good hiding place." She spoke with a confidence that Joan needed to hear. "First, we tend to you. Then, we'll form a search. We'll find him."

  Sarah shook her head. "A hiding place? They'll scour every inch of this village. There’s more than just Spilman’s boy hiding.”

  Eleanor cut her off. "We can only face what we can see right now. I will go and give word to the others.”

  "What if… what if they find him first?” Said Joan.

  “We cannot think of that now. You need to rest. For now, that boy’s alive because you were brave.” Eleanor said. “You are the arm of God’s mercy, Joan.”

  Agnes threaded the needle with the thread she had spun with her own hands. Just before she pierced the skin, she paused.

  "He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.”

  A prayer, and a prick of pain