Brentwood stank. A proper stink, too, not just your usual pigs and waste. Though there was plenty of that also, running free in the gutters alongside the street, but layered on top was the cloying sweetness of fruit rotting in the sun, the greasy reek of a butcher's offal, and the sharp, almost painful tang of a tanner's yard.
The ground was a treacherous mess of mud, straw meant to keep things tidy but now mostly churned into muck, and the occasional broken flagstone waiting to twist an ankle. The gutters, running along the street edges, were choked with the usual refuse, but Martha noted attempts at cleanliness – swept patches in front of doorways, even a few sprigs of rosemary strewn near a shop entrance, their scent a valiant attempt to combat the prevailing odors. Brentwood reeked, yes, but it reeked of effort, too.
Alice, stuck to Martha's side like a burr, whispered. "So strange." Her voice was swallowed by the street's racket. Martha squeezed her sister's hand, hard enough to make her wince. "Feels good to me," Martha said.
The whole area was an anthill. The High Street, wider than anything back in Horndon, was choked with bodies, carts, and the odd skittish horse.Martha, used to the homogenous poverty of Horndon, was struck by the variety. There were peasants in rags, yes, their clothes patched and threadbare. But there were others, too: sturdy yeomen in tunics of decent wool, their hands calloused but their bearing confident; craftspeople with leather aprons, smudged with dye or flour, but their clothes whole and well-maintained; even a few women in kirtles that, while not luxurious, showed signs carried beautiful faded embroidery.
And what was more striking was the way these different levels were mingling. Normally, there'd be a clear deference shown by the poorer to the slightly-less-poor. Now, though, a rough-handed laborer might brush shoulders with a man who looked like he owned a decent plot of land, their conversation urgent, their expressions equally grim. A woman with a neatly-plaited headdress, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a woman whose head was covered in an old kerchief, both staring intently at the men-at-arms. The usual sharp edges of social order seemed blurred, sanded down by the shared anxiety and the sense of an impending something.
Now and then, some puffed-up lordling, all fancy cloth and sour looks, tried to push through, only to get a faceful of resentment – and not just glares, but muttered curses, even a deliberate shove or two. The usual respects were gone.
The sheer number of people was unsettling. Brentwood had always been busy, but today it felt like the whole damn county had crammed itself into the town square, all waiting for a spark. Near the cross, a squad of men-at-arms stood stiff and shiny in their dented armor. They kept their hands on their swords, but they looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. Probably wondering what they'd gotten themselves into, Martha thought.
"Close," she muttered to Alice, the words more habit than anything. "Keep your eyes down. And try to look like we belong." Alice, predictably, obeyed.
The guildhall, when they reached it, was just another building. The crowd here was thicker, a buzzing hive of nervous energy that set Martha's teeth on edge. Men, mostly, stood around, some muttering, some spitting, some just staring, all radiating a tension that was almost visible. Martha pushed through, pulling Alice behind her. Two big brutes, arms crossed, guarded the door. The with a massive facial scar and ridiculous braided beard – he looked like he'd lost a fight with a badger – looked them up and down.
"Purpose?" he grunted.
Martha straightened, trying to project a confidence she didn't feel. "Jack Straw. Peter Cook sent us." She tried to keep her words firm, but they still felt thin, inadequate.
The guard's face didn't change, but he flicked a glance at his mate. "Wait," he ordered, and disappeared inside.
The wait was long enough to make Martha's stomach clench. She was in the midst of something big, she could feel it. The way these men were acting; this was something that could change things. Or get them all killed.
Finally, the guard returned, another man behind him. This one was different. Lean, almost scrawny, but with eyes that could burn through iron. Plain clothes, but he moved with a coiled intensity.
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"You seek me?" Straw asked the question a challenge. He looked at them both, taking his time, assessing.
Martha nodded, trying to stop her hands from trembling. "Peter Cook. He said I might be of some manner of service to you.”
Straw's mouth twitched, a fleeting expression – perhaps amusement, perhaps something else – that vanished almost instantly. "Peter Cook, eh? From Horndon?” He studied Martha for a moment. "And what, may I ask, brings you to Brentwood, seeking out someone like me?"
Martha swallowed, the dryness in her throat a constant reminder of her nerves. "My brother is dead, murdered by taxmen.” She forced the words out, each one like a small, sharp stone. "My parents are dead too. There's nothing left for us in Horndon. Nothing at all." She looked the man dead in his eyes. “But Peter thought there might be something for me to do out here, and I like that idea very much.”
Straw's eyes flickered towards Alice, who remained a trembling, silent presence beside Martha.
"And she? What's her part in this?"
"She… she comes with me," Martha said, her hand moving to rest on Alice's arm.
Straw considered them for a long, silent moment, his face betraying nothing. Then, he nodded, a single, barely perceptible movement. "Come inside, then. We need every hand.”
He turned and led them into the guildhall. The door closed behind them, muffling the street noise. Straw gestured towards a bench set against the wall, a little removed from the main activity. Alice practically sank onto it.
Straw stood before them, his words softer now, almost conversational. "Horndon," he said, the name a statement rather than a question. "We've heard about your brother from Peter, now that I think of it. I’m very sorry, young lady.” He said, perching for a moment on a stool. "These are hard times. Cruel times."
Straw continued, his gaze shifting between Martha and the still-huddled form of Alice. "Grief can consume a person. Or it can make them new. He looked directly at Martha. "What is it you're hoping to find here, in Brentwood?"
“I am willing to do whatever others feel like needs to be done, or that will help an effort in whatever way. I won’t speak for my sister, but anything that anyone is doing, I want to do too.”
He paused."Belknap is coming. The King's appointed justice. He's coming to Brentwood to enforce the King's will and to collect what he believes is owed. To punish anyone who dares to resist. He thinks he's coming to a town of cowering sheep. He's riding into a firestorm, and he has no idea."
Straw tapped a point on the map with a calloused finger, drawing Martha's attention to the parchment. "The records. The tax rolls. The land deeds. All the documents that give them their power. They're all kept in the courthouse, near the market.We mean to burn them."
He looked at Martha, his gaze unwavering. "That's something that needs doing. Something for you. And your sister, if she wants it."
Alice made a small, whimpering sound, shrinking further into herself. Martha, however, felt a strange sense of clarity, a cold resolve, begin to form within her.
"What would you have us do, exactly?" she asked.
"The main body of our forces will be attacking the courthouse directly," Straw explained. "Creating a… disturbance. Drawing the attention of the guards. You two," he continued, "you'll slip in through a side entrance. It's less conspicuous. You'll find the records. And you'll get them out of there."
"And then what?" Martha asked.
Straw's mouth tightened into a grim line. "There will be a cart waiting nearby. You'll get the records to the cart. That's all you need to concern yourselves with. But if anything happens in the chaos and you see a way to destroy them and can’t get to the cart, please my dear, do that.”
He looked at them both, his gaze assessing. "It's dangerous, make no mistake. There will be guards. There will be chaos. There will be risk involved." He paused.
"By the way, we use different names, to protect ourselves, and to make a point. Some people call me Jack Straw. So you both might choose to adopt this if it makes you more comfortable.”
Before Martha could respond, before she could even fully process the weight of the question, a sudden eruption of noise from outside shattered the tense quiet of the guildhall. It wasn't just the usual street sounds; this was a roar.
The men around the table, who had been silent observers until now, sprang to life. Some reached for weapons – a cudgel, a knife, a sharpened farming tool.
Straw's eyes narrowed. "Seems like Belknap's arrived. Or at least, his welcoming party has." He looked at Martha."The plan's accelerated. Noon bells are irrelevant now. You go now. Rear lane, near baker's. Get those records." He turned towards the door, already moving. "The rest of you, with me!”
Straw shoved past him, drawing a surprisingly long, wicked-looking knife from beneath his tunic. "Go!" he roared at Martha and Alice, his gaze fierce. "Go now! And may God be with you.”