Page 49 of No Place in Time

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The boy was hanged at dawn for slipping away to forage bread. Finn watched with the other soldiers, his face blank, but his hands shook inside his sleeves. He was not much older than the boy himself, and the boy had only wanted food.

The days bled into one another, each marked by the same gnawing in his belly and an ache that sank deep into his bones. They marched to nowhere and back again. Pay was more of a rumor than a reality, but the discipline for men whose hunger made them reckless was real and swift.

Later, dragging sacks of grain across the frozen yard, he found himself thinking about the boy who’d been hanged. About how the boy had run alone, in daylight, with no plan. If a man were to leave this camp and survive, he would need more than desperation. He would need timing.

Finn kept his head down and did what he was told. He hauled sacks of grain that smelled of rot. He stood watch while snow sifted down and turned to sleet against his cloak. He kept close to the men from Kent when he could because their voices sounded familiar, like home. They spoke of things he understood, the fields, rivers, churches, and markets of home.

The camp settled early this night. Fires burned low, and the wind pulled at the edges of the tents. Finn crouched near a small fire with a handful of others, palms turned toward the heat that never warmed him fully. He watched the flames and listened.

A man named Harrow, broad-shouldered, red-faced, always complaining, pulled something from inside his tunic with a look of triumph.

“A letter,” he said, holding it up as if he’d won a prize.

“Who from?” another asked.

“Looks like my brother,” Harrow said. “Or the priest, more like. My brother can’t scratch his name to save his life.”

There were grumbles and jealous looks. Letters were rare in camp. A man with news was a man with power, for a moment, at least.

“Read it then,” someone said. “But don’t ye bother if it’s just the priest’s prayers fer yer sorry soul.”

Harrow held the paper close to the firelight and squinted. His lips moved as he found the words. Then he began, slow and loud, stumbling over the longer lines.

“To Thomas Harrow, with the king’s host…” He paused and laughed. “Aye, that’s me. Listen.”

The letter began with ordinary things—the winter rains, a sick cow, the price of grain—and men around the fire muttered at the familiar miseries of home.

Finn listened closely. The letter turned to gossip and scandal.

“There is talk in the shire,” Harrow read, “talk of Lord Veyron’s house bein’ much altered.”

Finn’s fingers tightened on his knees.

Harrow read on. “The favorite has risen higher than ever.”

A man across the fire snorted. “That peacock.”

Another man spat into the snow. “Peacock now,” he said, “but born a rooster.”

That got a short laugh.

Harrow continued. “The favorite Benedict has taken a bride.”

“They’re all the same,” someone said. “They marry fer land and then steal the rest.”

Finn’s throat went dry. Taken a bride? Who is this favorite?

“Who?” Finn spoke up. “Who is the bride?”

Harrow read again, slower. “The lady Isabel is wed, sister to the baron. Says here she wept at the altar, poor lass.”

A low murmur ran around the fire. Harrow licked his thumb and turned the paper.

“There is talk of placin’ the fair-haired girl at last.”

Finn went very still.