Chapter 6: The Reckoning of the Reeve

Tom’s eyes snapped open in the grey pre-dawn. The battery light had died sometime in the night, and the warehouse stood in a cavernous gloom, its aisles like the nave of some vast, godless cathedral. His breath plumed in the cold. He had fallen asleep against the steel, and his back screamed a protest as he rose.

He found Joan and Baldric where he had left them, huddled in the lee of a stack of feed sacks. Baldric was awake, his good eye fixed on the slit of the loading door. He did not turn when Tom approached.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Baldric said. “Names. A woman’s name. Sarah.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “A dream.”

“The devil’s workshop, then,” Baldric said, and there was no mockery in it. “Or a guilty conscience. Either way, you’d best keep your mouth shut when the villagers come. They’ll hear the word ‘Sarah’ and think you’re calling a demon.”

Joan stirred, pulling her woolen cloak tighter. Her face was pale in the gloom, but her eyes were sharp. “He’s not a warlock, Baldric. You know that. A warlock doesn’t mend a child’s broken leg with splints and a poultice that actually works.”

“I know what I know,” Baldric said. “And I know what the bishop’s men will hear. They’ll string him up from the nearest oak and call it justice.”

Tom ignored them both. He walked to the shelf where he kept the willow-bark tincture. Three bottles remained. He had used the last of the good steel ploughshares to barter for a cartload of rye seed from a neighboring village, and the turnip seed was nearly gone. The warehouse was a treasure house, but it was finite. Every miracle he dispensed was a withdrawal from a bank that would never be refilled.

“The pestilence is spreading,” Joan said, as if reading his thoughts. “Three more houses in Wykeham. The priest has stopped giving last rites—he’s afraid of catching it. The people are asking why you haven’t cured them.”

Tom turned. “I can’t cure the plague. I told you that. I can treat the fevers, the swellings, but I don’t have the medicine for it. Not enough.”

“Then you must choose who lives,” Baldric said flatly. “That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? You’ve got your bottles and your powders, and you can’t save everyone. So who do you save?”

The question hung in the cold air. Tom thought of his warehouse manager’s spreadsheets, the just-in-time inventories, the cold calculus of supply and demand. This was different. This was flesh and blood.

“I save the ones who can work,” Tom said. “The ones who can plant, harvest, birth the next generation. I save the future.”

Joan’s eyes flashed. “And the old? The sickly? The ones who can’t work?”

“They die,” Tom said. “Unless you have a better plan.”

She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly. “I will help you decide. I know who is strong and who is not. But you will not play God alone, Tom Ashwick. I will be there with you.”

Baldric grunted. “God plays His own games. But the bishop’s spy was seen in the village yesterday. A man called Fulke, who collects tithes for the see of Winchester. He’s asking questions about the ‘miracle barn.’ He’ll be here by noon.”

Tom’s heart seized. He had known this day would come. But he had hoped for more time.

“Then we move the sick into the barn,” Tom said. “All of them. We tell the village that the barn is a place of healing, that the Lord has sent me as His steward. We give them hope.”

“And Fulke?” Joan asked.

Tom looked at the dying lights above him. “Fulke sees what we want him to see. A charitable lord’s steward, tending the sick. Nothing more.”

Baldric shook his head. “He’ll want to see inside the barn. He’ll want to touch the ‘miracle’ for himself.”

“Then we hide what he must not see,” Tom said. “We bury the strange things, the books, the medicines. We keep only what looks like a simple herb store. And we pray.”

Joan rose, brushing straw from her kirtle. “I’ll ready the sick. Baldric, you’ll stand guard. If Fulke comes with armed men, you whistle.”

“I don’t whistle,” Baldric said.

“Then learn,” Joan snapped. And she was gone, slipping out the door into the grey morning.

Tom watched her go. He had underestimated her, this widow with her sharp tongue and her knowledge of plants. She was not just an ally. She was a mirror, reflecting back the choices he was too afraid to make himself.

He turned to Baldric. “You fought at Crécy. You saw men die.”

Baldric’s scarred face tightened. “I saw thousands die. I saw the French knights drown in their own blood. I saw the Prince of Wales stand over his father’s body and refuse to yield. And I saw the king, in his golden crown, survey the carnage and call it glorious.”

“And you survived.”

“I survived because I learned to count. Arrows, shields, horses, men. I counted everything. And I learned that the side that counts best, wins.”

Tom nodded. “Then help me count. How many able-bodied men are left in the village?”

Baldric was quiet for a moment. “Twelve. Maybe thirteen. The rest are dead, fled, or too sick to stand.”

“And women?”

“More. Twenty, perhaps. Joan’s the strongest of them.”

“And children?”

“Too many, and too few. Half will be dead by winter.”

Tom felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders. He had a warehouse full of modern tools, a lifetime of logistics training, and the knowledge of seven centuries of progress. And he could not save a single village from the grinding indifference of the fourteenth century.

But he could try.

“We’ll plant the winter wheat this week,” Tom said. “We’ll use the steel ploughshares, the seed we bartered for. We’ll dig irrigation ditches, build better shelters. We’ll make this manor survive.”

Baldric smiled, a rare and unsettling expression. “And then what? King Edward will come for his taxes. Sir Hugh will come for his rents. The Church will come for its tithes. And they will take everything we build and leave us with nothing.”

Tom met his gaze. “Then we build it faster than they can take it.”

Baldric laughed, a dry, bitter sound. “You talk like a madman. A glorious, stubborn madman. I’ll follow you, Ashwick. But I’ll keep my hand on my knife.”

They heard it then—the sound of hoofbeats, coming down the manor road. Baldric’s hand went to his belt. Tom stepped to the slit of the door and peered out.

A lone rider, cloaked in black. Fulke the tithe-collector. And behind him, a cart, carrying a limp, bundled shape.

Tom’s blood went cold. The rider reined in before the barn, and Fulke’s voice cut through the morning air.

“Steward! I’ve brought your first patient. A woman from the next village, fevered and swelling. The priest says she’s cursed. I told him you’d cure her.”

He smiled, and there was nothing of mercy in it.

“Or I’ll burn your barn and watch you hang.”