I: The Fox Among Ashes
November 8, 1200
The courier arrived in the blue half-light before dawn, his horse slick with sweat and foam, breath steaming into the frost-bitten air like incense at matins. His cloak was stiff with grime, streaked with old mud and travel grease, and bore the faint stench of spent tallow and sleepless nights. He did not speak as he dismounted, nor did he linger with formality. Wordless and expressionless, he handed over a single folded parchment sealed in thick black wax. The seal bore the unmistakable crest of Rouen, though the edges were smudged, as if handled too many times on the road.
To the city, such tidings were stale—old as last season’s snow. But at Woodgate, the threshold between the world of the city and the forest, official news moved as slowly as shadows at midwinter.
Halward took the letter in bare hands, the cold sinking into his knuckles as he turned the parchment over twice, as though weight alone might foretell the message’s truth. The courier hesitated—just long enough to add, "It should’ve come sooner. A knight carried it out of Poitiers—old friend of yours, I think—but the message was lost when he fell ill at Rouen. Picked up again two months past." The seal crackled as it split, and though he read without a word, the silence that followed told all.
King Richard was dead.
Halward stood motionless. There was no gasp, no visible flinch. But the air seemed to shift. The woods, always listening, stilled. Even the wind paused, as though the name—Richard—still held sway over the natural order.
The rumors had come and gone all year: whispered by pilgrims, grumbled by merchants, muttered by monks. Everyone at Woodgate had known, deep down. The silence around the name was a courtesy, not a doubt. But rumor was a shadow, and shadows could lie. Now, held in his hand and inked in the old script of military orders, the truth became unbearable in its finality. Richard was truly dead. And now that truth, confirmed, dragged with it all the other rumors once doubted—John’s ascension, his scandalous marriage. One lie dead, all others became real.
Richard of the Lionheart had died, and his brother John—crowned in haste at Winchester—had taken the throne. Worse still, John had married Isabella of Angoulême, a girl not yet sixteen and already promised to another lord. The act was more than political—it was a violation. The crown had not cooled before it was desecrated.
Halward did not speak. The courier, still silent, turned his horse and rode westward, the sound of hooves fading like the tail end of a psalm.
Halward stood unmoving until the noise vanished. Then, quietly, he entered the gatehouse, lit no lamp, and did not break bread. He skipped the midday meal, the evening blessing, and by nightfall had vanished into the woods.
***
The forest knew him, though it gave no sign. He walked not with purpose but with memory—feet finding old paths long overgrown, guided by instinct more than direction. The trees arched above like the ribs of a cathedral, light filtering through the canopy in long golden bars. The ground was soft, thick with pine needles and the damp breath of autumn rot.
He held his prayer cord—a relic from a life long past, worn smooth by sand, sea, and time. Each bead, polished by years of calloused devotion, passed through his fingers with deliberate rhythm. The words he whispered were ancient ones, drawn not from habit but from a discipline that once kept him steady amid chaos. They offered no warmth, no epiphany, but they did temper the storm within. In recitation, his thoughts grew still; in pacing, he carved a path not through the forest, but through his grief.
He passed a ring of weathered stones, ancient and moss-choked, where Oswin once found a stillborn fawn curled beside its mother. A crow watched him from the branch of a lightning-blasted elm. He bowed his head in passing, as though before an altar.
Eventually, his wandering brought him to the old cedar—the leaning one with roots that clasped the earth like a hand gripping secrets. Here, in this grove, time grew thin. Beneath the tree’s shadow, where windfall gathered in muted drifts, something caught his eye.
A coin. No— but something.
It was a token, carved from dark wood and shaped like those Halward himself issued to travelers and traders—round, fit for the palm. But this was not cedar, nor pine. The scent was heavier, more resinous. Juniper.
Where his own tokens bore the flame-over-water—the sigil of balance and passage—this one bore a fox, rendered with surprising grace: tail lifted, ears alert, eyes cut into narrow slits of cunning.
He turned it over. The carving was fine, deliberate. Whoever made it understood both tool and meaning. And yet, the grain of the wood, the style of etching—it did not come from Woodgate.
He pocketed the token without a word.
***
He returned to Woodgate after nightfall. The chapel lanterns burned low. A pale glow spilled from the hearth. Oswin stood at the steps in silence, his old mantle drawn tight against the chill.
He did not speak as Halward approached, but his gaze drifted downward—to the pouch at Halward’s side, where the token now rested.
“Wilmot,” Halward said, voice low and flat. “You leave for the city at first light.”
The boy sat near the hearth, absently dragging a whetstone down the edge of his small belt knife. The rhythm faltered as he looked up.
“To the garrison?” he asked.
“Yes,” Halward replied. “There are supplies we need. And names I want you to watch for. You’ll be my eyes.”
Wilmot shifted upright, the embers casting flickers across his face. He rose slowly to his feet, brushing ash from his knees. "Is there a list?" he asked. "What am I meant to bring back?"
Halward pulled a folded parchment from beneath his cloak and handed it to him. It was worn and creased, but the ink was clear. "Tools, dried meat, a length of new rope, oil for the hinges, and salt for winter storage. See the quartermaster at the garrison. Speak only what’s needed."
Wilmot scanned the list, then looked up, biting the inside of his cheek. "Might I... ask for something? Just one thing? For myself."
Halward arched a brow. "What would you ask for?"
The boy hesitated, then spoke in a quieter voice. "A book. Just a small one. With riddles or stories, maybe. Something to read before sleep."
Oswin chuckled softly from the shadows. "He longs to be a scholar and a scamp both."
Halward gave a small, thoughtful nod. "If there is coin left and the merchant is fair, you may choose one. But do not lose focus."
Wilmot brightened, then hesitated again. "And something for Arrow? He’s healing, but I thought he might like— I don’t know— a bit of ribbon, or colored thread. Something bright."
Halward’s gaze softened for the first time that evening. He glanced toward the shadowy perch where the raven rested. "Arrow is not yet ready to travel. He’ll remain with me. The city would press on him. But soon enough, he’ll fly again."
Oswin nodded solemnly. "The wings that heal slowest often carry the furthest."
Wilmot looked from one man to the other and then down at the list again. He clutched it carefully, as if it were a writ of passage to a world half-known and half-dreamt.
Halward shook his head. “Take my name,” he said. “Speak it plainly, and let no one hear yours.”
The boy hesitated, then nodded. “What am I to say if they ask?”
“Say the Warden sent you. That will be enough.”
Wilmot ran to gatehouse full of anticipation for the day to come.
Oswin stepped forward from the chapel threshold, his voice low but deliberate. “You believe he’s ready, then?”
Halward didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the dying embers, their glow casting long shadows across the stone floor. “I know he’s young. But with Richard dead, the days ahead will not leave much room for boys. He’ll need to grow quickly, as we all did.”
He turned slightly, his face unreadable in the flickering light. “This isn’t about trust. It’s about time. And the time we had for ease is gone.”
Outside, in the distant dark beyond the trees, a fox gave a single, sharp cry—like a question with no answer.
Then silence returned.