The hobbled caravan crested a final hill, Rayleigh unfurled itself before them. It was no London, but after spending time in Horndon, it felt a grand place indeed. The imposing shape of Rayleigh Castle rose above the other buildings, casting a shadow of authority over every stone. They entered Rayleigh along a narrow lane flanked by houses whose jettied upper stories, with clothes hung out to dry in the wind.They turned onto the High Street, the town’s main artery, beginning to seek their haven.

  They followed Peter through the narrow, winding streets. The houses pressed close, revealing details lost from a distance: roughly plastered walls, shutters hanging askew on leather hinges and small, leaded windows reflecting the grey sky. The unpaved roads still managed to be worn smooth and compacted by countless feet and cartwheels.

  Turning down a quieter side street, Peter stopped before a house almost identical to its neighbours, unremarkable save for a discreetly placed sign above the door; it displayed a carved weaver’s shuttle, darkened with age and grime. Peter gave a sharp nod, then rapped twice on the door in rhythm, paused, then rapped once more.

  The door swung inward, latch lifted from within before Peter’s knuckles even left the wood. A man filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and stout, his face flushed and cheerful under a receding hairline.

  “Well, well, well! More scarecrows for Rayleigh!” He clapped Peter on the shoulder. “Welcome, friends, welcome! Come in, come in before you let all the warmth out! Wood’s not cheap, but I am!”

  Behind him, a woman stepped forward, wiping her hands on a sturdy linen apron. She was leaner, quicker in her movements than the man, taking in the newcomers with a swift, comfortable hustle.

  “Don’t mind Walter’s roaring, newcomers. He greets stray dogs the same way.” She said, sending Waler a scrunch-faced look. “I’m Beatrice. And you look like you’ve swallowed half of Essex’s dust on the way here. Come in and sit. Before you fall down.” She gestured into the house with a wave of her hand.

  The room they entered was surprisingly spacious, considering the house’s modest exterior. A large trestle table dominated the center; sturdy stools were scattered around, and a long wooden settle stood against one wall, piled with woven cushions. The walls were hung with simple, functional items: weaving tools, bundles of dried herbs, a rack of cooking pots.

  “Dust-blown and weary, aye, that you are!” Walter chuckled again, waving them further into the room. He gestured towards the brazier with a sweep of his arm. “But bringers of news, Peter says! And news is worth more than gold these days, wouldn’t you say, Beatrice?”

  Beatrice snorted, her gaze remaining fixed on the newcomers. “News and holes in their boots, by the look of it.” She circled Peter, inspecting him with a critical eye. “Peter Cook! Back again. Bringing more mouths to feed!”

  Walter, as if accustomed to being ignored, clapped Peter on the back again and turned his booming welcome to the others. “Don’t listen to her, Peter! Always glad to see a friendly face! Especially when they bring more faces with them!” He noticed Will more fully then, his expansive smile softening slightly, replaced by a moment's concern. “But welcome nonetheless! Especially you, friend with the… uh… distinguished posture! You absolutely must put some life back in those limbs before you stiffen up entirely!”

  Beatrice called out. “More cups. And the ale. The usual swill you brew, Walter.” To Will, she spoke with a sudden shift in tone, her efficiency softening to something approaching gentleness. She knelt beside his chair, her gaze direct and focused on his leg. “Land sakes, friend. Let’s have a look at this leg of yours. What happened?”

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  Walter, leaning in to peer at Will’s leg turned his grimace into a placating smile. “Beatrice here knows more about patching up broken things than any chirurgeon in ten miles of Rayleigh. Though she’ll grumble about it the whole time.”

  Beatrice, already kneeling, ignored Walter’s theatrics. Her fingers, surprisingly delicate, probed the rough splint. “Hmph. Amateur’s handiwork at best.” She began to unwrap the bandage with practiced movements. “Who did this, a blacksmith?”

  “I fashioned that splint, mistress,” John admitted. “Best I could manage on the road, with what we had.”

  “Well, you’ve got more heart than skill, friend. Splint’s shifted, bandage too tight by half. No wonder he’s looking green.” She glanced up at Walter as he returned with the water, her instructions concise. “Walter, willow bark. Shelf above the fireplace. Now.”

  Walter, now moving with surprising speed and quietness, fetched the bark. Beatrice, her attention wholly on Will’s leg, began preparing a salve for the scraps on the surface of the skin. After she had applied it, she tightened the final knot on the bandage with a brisk tug. “There you go, Will Wright. Not going to win any races with it yet, but it’ll hold. Just promise me you won’t be hobbling about like a one-legged bird.”

  Walter chuckled, hefting a heavy wooden chair closer to the fire for Will to lean back against. “One-legged crow, she calls you! Don’t take that lying down, Will! Though lying down is what Beatrice ordered, eh?”

  “Much obliged, mistress Beatrice.”

  Beatrice snorted, the sort of sound meant to diffuse any stray earnestness. “Alright, time to get food laid out!” She scurried over to the heavy pot off the hearth hook, and with surprising strength, set it down with a resounding thud on a trivet near the table. “Walter, bread! Cheese!”

  Walter bustled to obey, pulling a large, crusty loaf of dark rye bread from a woven basket and hacked off thick slices. He wrestled a heavy wheel of cheese from the pantry, grunting with the effort. “Cheese it is then, Beatrice.”

  Barryngton’s sharp eyes watched Beatrice with admiration. “You run a tight ship here, mistress Weaver,” he commented, his tone almost respectful, a rare thing for the intense man.

  Beatrice paused in ladling pottage.“Years of wrangling Walter, Master Barryngton. You learn efficiency quick enough, or you’ll be swallowed whole by chaos.” She tossed a wink at Walter, who responded with a theatrical groan.

  Fletcher, settling his bulk onto a stool, chuckled. “It’s because he’s weak-wristed, mistress. You’d be hard-pressed to shape me.” He patted his ample stomach. “Too much Fletcher to fit into any mold!” Walter, returning with tankards and a slightly less watery pitcher of ale, added. “Too much Fletcher to fit into any house in Rayleigh.”

  Beatrice rolled her eyes good-naturedly, but a faint smile lingered. She placed the bowls of steaming pottage carefully around the table, then, with a thought, scooped a portion into a smaller bowl. “Walter, fetch a trencher and a spoon for Master Wright,” she instructed, nodding towards Will by the fire. “No need for him to fuss about getting up with that leg.”

  He did as asked, and then kneeling, placed it on a low table. "Here, Master Wright. Pottage. Eat it before it cools." She gestured to the trencher as Walter set it down. "Bread to soak it up."

  Will smiled genuinely, accepting the bowl. "Mistress Beatrice, an angel.”

  Beatrice snorted, returning to the table. "Eat your pottage, Master Wright. Blathering can wait.” She nodded to Will, "Comfort for the night, hopefully."

  John loved the sounds of eating, the gentle clinking of spoons against wood, the soft sighs of contentment, the almost silent tearing of bread. It was a comfort, and it happened less and less in recent years. But even as a small smile touched his lips, a sharp pang of guilt pierced the fragile peace. He knew that his own wife and daughter were likely shivering in their cold cottage, growling with hunger.

  The warmth of the weaver’s house suddenly felt like a stolen comfort, a luxury he had no right to enjoy while his own family might be cold and wanting. Peter looked over from his own food, and John wondered if Peter might know his mind. It was in that precise moment, as the guilt tightened its grip around his heart, that a sudden, loud knock echoed through the house, a jarring intrusion into their hard-won peace.