John woke to Mary's wet, rattling cough, the sound tearing through his thin sleep. He rose, and went to build the fire, his hand falling on the meager pile of wood by the hearth. He cursed; it was smaller than he remembered. He'd been working the fields near every hour God sent, trying to coax something from the stubborn earth. And with no sons to help gather and cut there was little wood for the fire, and even less food in the larder.

  He set off to Peter’s as he promised Eleanor. Though they'd shared a lifetime in Horndon, John had rarely found himself at Peter's door. The holding was meager, a patch of earth grudgingly granted to a man for his toil.

  As John drew closer through the cold, he saw Peter and two other men patching the thatch on the cottage roof. Peter spotted him and clambered down the ladder, wiping sweat from his brow. "John," he greeted, relief evident in his voice. "You made it." He indicated the strangers, who were now descending cautiously. "This is Henry Fletcher and Roger Baryngton. Come from Raleigh with news."

  John clasped their hands in turn. "A pleasure," he said, his eyes taking in the two men. Fletcher was a bear of a man, broad-shouldered and thick-limbed, with a bushy beard that framed a face weathered by sun and wind. Baryngton was slighter, almost wiry, with sharp features and a quick, nervous energy that set John's teeth on edge.

  "Heard tell of you," Henry began, his voice a low rumble. "Peter says you're a good man."

  "I try to be," John replied. He wasn't sure what to make of these men, with their fine clothes and their talk of news. He'd learned in the army to be wary of smiling strangers, or those who deal in loose compliments.

  "Come inside," Peter urged, his hand on John's back, steering him towards the cottage door. "Sarah's got ale."

  John ducked his head and stepped across the threshold, the heavy wooden door groaning shut behind him. Peter followed close behind, his hand brushing John's back as he passed. "Sarah, love," he called out, "our friend John's here. Fetch him some ale, would you?" Sarah rose and moved quietly to a cupboard. She retrieved a clay tankard and filled it from a pitcher of ale, her movements deliberate and unhurried.

  Fletcher, the larger of the two strangers, gestured towards the bench with a broad smile. "Come, friend, warm yourself," he boomed, settling his bulk onto the bench. John heard the beginning of rain breaking against the roof and walls. Fire sounded grand.

  Baryngton, the slighter man, remained perched on his stool, his sharp eyes flitting between John and a small tangle of parchment on the table. "We were just discussing strategy," he said. John moved towards the fire, taking the offered seat beside Fletcher. He accepted the tankard from Sarah with a murmured thanks.

  “Strategy for what?” He finally managed.

  Fletcher leaned forward. "Have you heard what happened in Fobbing?"John shook his head, his stomach churning with a premonition.

  Fletcher grinned, a quick flash of teeth. "The villagers there refused to pay the tax. They threw the collector out, said they'd already paid their share and set them packing.

  John stared at him, speechless.

  "It's not just Fobbing, John," Baryngton added with a sibilant whisper. "Essex, Kent, Suffolk… the seeds of discontent are sprouting everywhere."

  "Madness," John muttered, shaking his head. "Taxes are the price we pay, Peter," he said, turning to his friend with a desperate plea in his eyes. "If not in coin, then in blood. The crown will retaliate, no kingdom can allow its people to refuse their sovereign. There will come with knights and spears, know that they will come."

  Fletcher leaned in closer. "Aye, they will. And we need to be ready for them.”

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  John stared at him, speechless. This was madness. Open rebellion.

  “We have a network. We have contacts in Brentwood, Chelmsford, Colchester... even London. Men, and even women, traveling between villages, spreading the word, organizing."

  "By the saints, organizing what?" John finally broke into a voice of near-panic.

  "For what needs to be done." Baryngton said, his eyes gleaming. ”We will liberate the tax records.”

  "With fire," Fletcher clarified. "We'll reduce those extortionate records to ash. With no records they will have nothing to hold us to, no way to know our balance paid.”

  "We will burn every last parchment," Peter hissed, "Until these traitors in London eat their bread with ash.”

  “You spit in the eye of the King.” John stood up, scraping the table against the dirt floor. “and there will be death in every corner of Essex.”

  Fletcher’s jovial demeanor fading, and he rose slowly, his bulk casting an imposing shadow. "Death is already here, fool!" Baryngton rose alongside his compatriot, digging his nails into the table and mirroring John’s stance. Peter, caught between his friend and his newfound allies, held up his hands in a placating gesture.

  “John’s a good man.” He said. “He’s war-weary, and wants peace. Who could fault a man for this?And it's true, in the end we may indeed know greater pains.” He turned to John. “But St. Peter’s graveyard is getting crowded with babies and little boys, and I’ve decided…” He turned to look at his wife Sarah, who was cradling her stomach protectively. “...that my child will live long enough to have their own family.”

  Peter looked almost apologetic as he said. "Friend, Mary's been looking thin.”

  A quiet sadness settled over John; of course he'd noticed. Her long arms, her sweet face, her delicate hands, all pressed flush to her bones. Then he remembered the cough, that ugly rattling cough that had jarred him from rest. His shoulders slumped just a touch, but he kept his eyes on them, each man locked together in a long tense moment. They studied the flick of the others' eyes, and the shape of the others' mouths. Then John cried. He cried slow, quiet tears. She was the last of his children, and one of his few final joys. To lose her now, after having just found her again would be…

  He thumbed the wooden horse from his pocket, the one that still carried Robin’s blood, and slowly he sat back down at the table. In that quiet moment, Baryngton started to speak, like he was reciting a prayer.

  "What have we deserved,” he began softly, “that we should be kept thus in servage? We are all descended from one father and mother, Adam and Eve. What can they show, or what reason give, why they should be more the masters than ourselves?”

  Baryngton looked into the eyes of each man around the table, and Sarah’s, which made her shift. But she could not look away.

  “They have their wines, spices, and good bread, while we have the drawings of the chaff and drink water. They have handsome houses and manors,” he continued, glancing outside at the cold storm, “and we have the pain and travail, the rain and the wind in the fields.”

  Fletcher leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thick thighs, his gaze intense. Peter unconsciously straightened his posture, as if called to attention.

  “We are called their slaves, and if we do not serve them readily, we are beaten; and we have no sovereign to whom we may complain, or who will hear us or do us justice.”

  “So,” he paused, his volume coming more from his belly. “Let us go to the King, he is young, and tell him of our slavery, and tell him how we will have it otherwise, or else we will provide ourselves some remedy. And if we go together, all manner of people now in bondage will follow us to be made free; and when the King seeth us, we shall have some remedy, either by justice or otherwise.”

  John exhaled slowly, the breath escaping him like a kettle. He looked at Peter, then at Fletcher and Baryngton, his gaze lingering on Sarah's pale face. Madness, it certainly was. But wasn't it madness, too, to submit to ruin for fear of ruin?

  "Those are the words of John Ball," Baryngton said, changing tone. "I've heard men recite them in the streets of Rayleigh, and seen them burn through crowds like a brush fire. I learned them myself, to spread them across the countryside." He tapped his chest, his fingers drumming against his breastbone. "These words are my bread. I eat of them, and they nourish me."

  After a long moment John closed his eyes and nearly whispered. "Eleanor. I need to speak with Eleanor."

  "Aye, John. She needs to hear this." He hesitated, then added, "And John..."

  John met his friend's gaze.

  "Whatever you decide, we're with you." Peter said.

  John pushed himself to his feet and nodded to the others. He paused at the door, the wind howling like a banshee outside, and looked back at them, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.

  "Don't worry," he said, voice breaking but firm. "I'll not be long."