Chapter 2: The Reeve’s Oak

The track wound through a stand of alders, their leaves hissing in the rain, and Tom kept his eyes fixed on the lantern’s swaying glow ahead. The man—a ploughman by the look of his matted tunic and cracked nails—said nothing more, only grunted when Tom stumbled over a hidden root. The smell of woodsmoke and wet thatch reached him before he saw the village: a scatter of low houses huddled around a church tower that rose like a blackened tooth against the storm.

They stopped before a hall built of timber and daub, longer than the cottages but no prouder. A horn lantern burned beside the door, and within, Tom heard the low murmur of voices. The ploughman hammered twice on the oak.

“Baldric. There’s a man here. Claims he’s a steward, come from the road.”

A pause. Then the door swung inward, and a figure filled the frame—broad-shouldered, gray-bearded, with a scar that dragged the left corner of his mouth into a permanent sneer. His eyes, the color of wet slate, moved over Tom’s oilskin coat and rubber boots with slow, deliberate suspicion.

“A steward,” Baldric repeated. “Of what manor?”

“None you’ve heard of,” Tom said. His voice came out steadier than he felt. “I’ve brought goods. Ploughshares, seed, medicines. A wagon’s worth, if you’ll have them.”

The reeve’s gaze flicked past Tom to the dark track, as if expecting a wagon to appear. “Where’s your cart, then? Your oxen?”

“I have a storehouse. A quarter-mile back, on the manor road. You’ll see it when the rain lifts.”

Baldric’s scarred mouth twisted. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t walk out in this muck to marvel at a stranger’s barn.” He stepped aside, jerking his head toward the interior. “Come in. You’ll not steal my fire, and I’ll not have you drowned on my watch. There’s enough dying this year without adding a madman to the tally.”

The hall was low-ceilinged and smoky, lit by a central hearth where a cauldron steamed. A dozen men and women sat on benches or crouched by the fire, their faces hollowed by the flickering light. They turned to look at Tom with the flat, exhausted wariness of people who had learned that strangers meant trouble. A woman rose from beside the hearth—young, dark-haired, with a sharp chin and a linen kirtle stained at the hem with herbs. She held a mortar and pestle in her hands, and she did not set them down.

“This is Joan,” Baldric said, not bothering with ceremony. “She knows every plant within five miles and most of their poisons. If you’re a poisoner, she’ll smell it on you.”

Joan’s eyes met Tom’s. “You’re not from these parts,” she said. It was not a question.

“No.”

“Your speech—it’s odd. Like a man who’s learned English from a book, but not the one we speak.”

Tom felt the heat rise to his neck. “I’m from the north. A long way north.”

“North of what?” she pressed, and Baldric gave a low laugh.

“Leave him, Joan. He’ll tell us his lies when he’s warm.” The reeve gestured to a stool near the fire. Tom sat, and the warmth seeped through his wet coat, making him suddenly aware of how cold he had been. The rain drummed on the roof, and someone in the corner coughed—a deep, wet cough that made Joan’s head turn sharply.

“That’s the third this week,” she said, low.

Baldric’s jaw tightened. “Aye. And the miller’s boy died this morning. The priest says it’s God’s scourge, sent to punish our sins.” He looked at Tom. “You come at a bad time, stranger. The pestilence is moving north from the ports. They say it’s in Winchester already.”

Tom’s mind raced. 1348. The Black Death was sweeping through the south of England, and he had walked into its path. He thought of the willow-bark tinctures, the sulfur powder, the books on quarantine and sanitation. He had not come here to save a generation—he had come here by accident, torn from his own time by a force he could not name. But the cough in the corner was real, and the fear in these people’s eyes was real.

“I have medicines,” he said. “Willow bark for fever. Herbs that can cleanse wounds. And I know ways to keep the sickness from spreading—burning the clothes of the dead, keeping the sick apart from the healthy.”

Joan set down her mortar with a sharp click. “That’s against the Church’s teaching. The priest says the sickness is God’s will, and to flee it is to flee His judgment.”

“Then the priest will bury a lot of people,” Tom said quietly. “I’ve seen this sickness before. It spreads through touch, through breath. If you can slow it, you can survive it.”

A silence fell. The man in the corner coughed again, and the sound seemed to echo off the rafters. Baldric stared at Tom with an expression that was no longer suspicion but something sharper—calculation.

“You speak like a man who has seen armies,” the reeve said slowly. “I was at Crécy. I know the look of a man who has watched others die and learned the cost of it.” He leaned forward, his scarred face catching the firelight. “If you can save my people from the pestilence, I will call you a gift from God and burn anyone who says otherwise. If you cannot—” He let the sentence hang.

“I can,” Tom said. “But I need your help. I need to move the stores from my warehouse into a dry barn. And I need you to trust me, even when what I do looks like sorcery.”

Joan’s eyes narrowed. “Sorcery is a dangerous word in these times. The Church hangs witches, and they burn their books.”

“I know,” Tom said. “That’s why I need you to believe in me first.”

The cough in the corner became a spasm, and Joan turned without another word, crossing to the man with a cloth and a cup of water. Tom watched her work—her hands sure, her voice low and soothing—and he felt a strange pang of recognition. She was a logistics manager in her own way, managing scarce resources in the face of catastrophe.

Baldric rose, his knees creaking. “The church is at the far end of the village. You’ll have your chance to convince the priest, and the lord’s steward, when he returns from court. But tonight—” He gestured to a pile of straw in the corner. “You’ll sleep there, and you’ll not leave this hall until I say so. If you’re a spy, or a thief, or a warlock, I’ll know by morning.”

Tom nodded. “Fair enough.”

He lay down on the straw, his coat still damp, and stared at the smoke-blackened rafters. The rain had softened to a drizzle, and somewhere beyond the village, the warehouse waited, glowing with modern light that no one here had seen. He thought of his wife, of the empty apartment in a city that no longer existed for him, and of the cough that was already spreading through the village like a slow tide.

He did not sleep.

Near dawn, Joan shook him awake. Her face was pale, and her voice was tight. “The miller’s widow is dead,” she said. “And her daughter is burning with fever. You said you had medicines.”

Tom rose, his body aching. “Take me to her.”

But as he followed her into the gray morning, he saw it—a horseman riding hard up the track, mud flecking his cloak, a banner bearing the de Lacy arms. Sir Hugh’s steward, come early.

“Baldric!” the rider shouted, reining in before the hall. “The lord returns from France. He demands a full accounting of the harvest, and every man of fighting age is to be mustered by Michaelmas.”

Tom looked at the rider, then at Joan. Her face had gone still, and she whispered, “He’s early. He was not meant to come for a month.”

The warehouse’s glow was fading in the dawn, and Tom felt the noose tightening already.