John squinted, sun biting at his eyes. "Brentwood," he grunted. "Bet it's pissing rain over there already." Thomas, riding flank, shifted in his saddle, adjusting the reins of the horse he’d provided, a good solid grey mare. “Hope it washes the mud off these tracks, least,” he muttered, more to himself than John.
Their path was quiet save for the clop of hooves chewing at the sodden track. Then, from a distance he says something like a hare fleeing a fox's jaw.Two figures were legging it back towards them like beasts from hell.
"Rider!" one cried. "Up ahead!" John’s hand clenched on the reins of his new horse.
Damn scouts and their damn news.
As the scouts careened to either side of him, John tried to stay still and unphased. “One rider? Is that all?” He said.
The second scout shook his head, still panting from the ride. “Just the one. But he’s planted there. Road, bend ahead.” He hesitated, his eyes baring some amount of the worry he must have felt. “And he’s… fancy. Fine clothes, good bloody horse. Like he’s waiting for a bleedin’ invite.”
“Waiting?” John said. “A rich man waiting out here?”
A cold stone fell in John's gut. A well-off man stationed on the road likely meant teeth, and not the smiling kind.
“Seems like he might be expecting company.” Will said.
Expecting company, eh? John thought of the rider he’d seen in Rayleigh, and the chance they would meet again so soon was terrifying.
“That’s just bleedin’ great.” Another complication, another decision to wrestle with when all he wanted was to reach Brentwood and be done with it. He twisted in the saddle, glancing at his small band strung out behind.
“Right,” he said, slowly. “Rest of you, go to the woods. Hide your arses and stay quiet.” He jerked his head towards the scouts, still catching their breath. “Scouts, come with me. We’ll see what the hell this bloke’s playing at.” He nudged his horse forward. “Let’s see who he’s expecting. And what he wants.”
John had a taste like copper in his mouth. He wasn't a general, and yet here he was riding ahead of his "men" to an unseen enemy. If only he had known a few days ago it would be like this, he wondered if he would have come to Rayleigh at all. Still, he spurred his horse on, the scouts falling in behind, towards the rider, towards whatever the hell awaited them.
John raised a hand, slowing them. They were close to the bend, the bare trees looming about him like long-fingered wraiths. “Thomas, stay put with the others. And keep your eyes open, for god’s sake.”
Thomas reined in, a curt nod was his only reply. The scouts scrambled to dismount, leading their horses towards the woods. John stayed mounted, eyes locked on the empty stretch of road ahead. Wind whipped colder now, carrying the stink of wet earth and the threat of a proper downpour.
Just what we needed.
Rounding the bend, there he was. Exactly as the scouts had described. Lone rider, smack-bang in the middle of the track, like he’d grown out of the mud. Finer wool than any of them were used to, though practical enough for riding, and sat a horse that looked like it could pull a plough and still outrun a rabbit. Not running. Waiting. John kicked his horse forward, confusion tightening in his gut, a knot of something nasty and dangerous.
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“Hold it right there!” John barked, voice cracking the midday air. “Who are you, and what’s your game on this road?” The rider didn’t flinch, didn’t twitch. Just turned his horse slow, deliberate, facing John and his sorry excuse for men. Older than John had guessed up close, sunlight etching lines deep as scars around his eyes and mouth. Fine clothes, alright, but a weariness in his bones that even the good wool couldn't hide. “I am John Geoffrey,” the rider replied, voice clear, surprisingly strong, like it had bellowed orders for years.
“Bailiff of Chelmsford.” He paused, gaze raking over John’s lot, pausing a beat too long on the scouts flanking John. “And I am waiting.”
John frowned, dropping his hand a fraction, but it hovered near his sword hilt, itching to feel the leather grip. “Waiting for what, Bailiff Geoffrey?” he pressed.
Geoffrey’s eyes held a bleak intensity that didn’t match his fine clothes. “For anyone with ears to hear.” He gestured a hand towards the side of the road, a sweep that encompassed the whole miserable landscape, as if the land itself was speaking. “I carry words across Essex.”
One of the scouts shifted, the younger one, face still pale under the mud, voice hesitant. “Words, Baliff? Words of what?”
Geoffrey straightened in his saddle, something hardening in his face. “Of a sickness in Brentwood. And why it festers.”
“Brentwood,” John echoed, his gaze locking onto Geoffrey’s, suddenly sharper, colder. “We heard tell,” John admitted, cautious, “of trouble in Brentwood.”
“Trouble?” Geoffrey scoffed, a harsh, humourless bark of laughter that held no joy. “It was more than trouble. People of Brentwood, they’ve had a gutful. Couldn’t stomach it anymore.” The other scout shifted his weight, brow furrowed deeper, confusion etched on his young face.
“Speak plain, Bailiff!” John said.
Geoffrey's gaze sharpened, but his voice remained level, almost conversational, though edged with a dry weariness. “Plain as I can make it, for a road like this and ears I’ve only just met. Let's just say Belknap went to Brentwood expecting compliance. He found the people there yielding less than he anticipated.” He paused, a subtle emphasis on "less yielding." “The King’s hand, it seems, is not quite as long as he believes.”
Brentwood had actually done it?
“And you, Bailiff Geoffrey? Your part in this? Why are you here, on this lonely road, waiting for us, or whoever the hell else?” John demanded. Geoffrey’s gaze met John’s square on.
“My part? Too long, I’ve been a dog for a rotten thing.” He said. “And I can’t stomach it any more.” He gestured around again, to the pale sunlight, the mud, the bleakness of it all. “I’m done with the King’s service. I ride for the people now. I carry the word of Brentwood, the word of defiance, a spark to set Essex ablaze. Lords think they can keep us cowering with fear? Let them try to douse a fire that starts in every hearth, every field.”
Geoffrey reached inside his cloak, fumbling for a moment, then drew out a rolled parchment tied with rough twine. He held it out, but didn’t offer it, kept it just out of reach. “Simple message. Calls for others to rise.”
He looked at John, eyes like flint, searching, questioning. “You ride toward Brentwood. Are you sick of the yoke too?” John glanced back towards the woods, a silent signal passing to his scouts , then slowly, deliberately, dropped his hand clean away from his blade. He nudged his horse closer to Geoffrey’s, the beasts almost nose to nose. “We are,” John said, voice low, steady as a heartbeat. “We are sick of the yoke, Bailiff Geoffrey.”
He paused, then the question clawed its way out, raw and urgent. “What the hell happened in Brentwood?”
Geoffrey’s face tightened, grim. “They burned the courthouse to the ground. Drove out Belknap and his dogs. Took back what was theirs. And they’re waiting. Waiting to see if they’re alone in this mess. Waiting to see if anyone else has the guts to stand with them.”
A slow smile, grim as death but edged with something like triumph, spread across John’s face. “Then they won’t be waiting long, Bailiff Geoffrey.” He reached out, hand steady now, and took the parchment from Geoffrey’s grasp, a silent pledge. “We’ll carry your message further. And we ride to Brentwood. To stand with them.”
“Then we ride together,” he said, voice gaining strength, the weight of the world seemed to lift a fraction from his shoulders. “For Brentwood. For Essex.” And as the first rags of cloud drifted across the weak midday sun, they drew together, no longer strangers circling each other like wolves. The road to Brentwood wasn’t just uncertain anymore. It was charged. Charged with purpose. And bloody dangerous purpose at that.