December 18, 1200
The frost still clung to the earth like a second skin when the courier reached Woodgate. His horse—a pale-coated destrier, now grey with sweat and flecks of frozen foam—stumbled to a halt with a desperate wheeze, steam pouring from its nostrils in heavy clouds. The animal looked as though it had been pushed to the brink of collapse, and perhaps beyond. The rider, swaddled in the black-and-gold livery of Nottingham, bore the lean, wary posture of a man who had ridden all morning in the cold. His cloak was torn at the hem, rimed with ice, and his gloved hands trembled slightly as he dismounted.
He did not bother to announce himself with ceremony. The city had no need for pleasantries at the forest's edge. This was Woodgate—threshold of the wild, last outpost before the trees claimed dominion. Formalities mattered little here.
Halward emerged from the gatehouse as the first light of morning began to unfurl across the sky in muted bands of ash and rose. His gait was steady, purposeful, but his face betrayed nothing—no surprise, no concern, not even curiosity. His boots pressed into the frost-bitten grass with the quiet authority of someone long accustomed to being summoned, but rarely consulted.
"For the Warden of Woodgate," the courier said, voice clipped from cold and exhaustion. He unbuckled a leather pouch from his saddle and extended it without flourish. "By command of Sir Bertram de Gorse, acting in place of the Sheriff of Nottingham."
Halward took the pouch without a word. He broke the seal—a heavy stamp of red wax, bearing the unmistakable hawk of Nottingham—with his thumb. Inside was a single parchment, neatly folded and smudged at the creases, bearing a message penned in the tight, precise hand of the Sheriff’s office:
The Sheriff has been summoned to Winchester to attend His Majesty’s Christmas Court. Effective immediately, Sir Bertram de Gorse assumes command in his absence. The Warden of Woodgate is to appear before the city council in Nottingham before the third bell. Matters of taxation, staffing, and station to be discussed. All ledgers must be presented in full.
There was no personal sign-off, no gesture of courtesy or favor. Only the hawk pressed into the wax, wings outstretched in silent judgment.
Halward read the message twice. Not because it was unclear, but because it demanded to be weighed—not just understood. He folded the parchment again with deliberate care and looked toward the chapel, where a thin trail of smoke curled from the flue, faint against the gray morning. Oswin would be inside by now, preparing the first prayers. A steady hand in an unsteady time. Wilmot, if not still abed, was likely somewhere near the stable, half-dressed and wholly behind in his chores.
Halward did not sigh. He did not frown. But something behind his eyes settled into a colder stillness.
"How long do I have?" he asked, his gaze still fixed on the horizon.
The courier, shifting to warm his gloved hands, replied, "If you leave now, you’ll arrive before the second bell. The city’s slower in winter, but Bertram keeps tight time."
Then, with a note of insolence disguised as humor: "You’ll be taking the donkey cart, I presume?"
Halward turned to face him fully. The silence that followed was sharp enough to shear the air. The courier flinched before the reply ever came, realizing too late the line he had crossed.
He cleared his throat, swung himself back into the saddle with stiff effort, and turned his mount. In another breath, he was gone—hoofbeats fading into the brittle hush of dawn.
Halward lingered in place for several minutes, alone save for the stirring wind. The trees that lined the lane beyond the chapel whispered faintly, their bare limbs creaking like old hinges. He listened—not for guidance, but for affirmation. The gate had stood long before him, and it would stand after. But while he drew breath, he would not see it pass quietly into ruin.
He turned toward the gatehouse. His breath hung briefly in the air, then vanished.
"Wilmot," he called, voice firm but low. "Fetch my travel cloak. I'm leaving for Nottingham."
Wilmot appeared moments later, rubbing sleep from his eyes, boots half-laced. Halward stood at the threshold of the gatehouse, fastening the heavy wool cloak across his shoulders with practiced efficiency. It was old but well-kept, dyed the deep gray of weathered stone.
"Not the cart?" Wil asked, glancing toward the stables.
Halward shook his head. "I’ll walk. Let the beast rest."
He adjusted the clasp beneath his chin and took up the satchel where the ledgers were kept. The frost creaked under his boots as he stepped into the morning.
"Tell Oswin to keep the gate. I’ll be back before dusk—if the council keeps their tongues short."
***
The streets of Nottingham exhaled smoke and breath as Halward stepped through the East Gate, the city rousing under a shroud of winter fog. It rolled low over the cobbles, hugging the alleys like a second skin of ash and bone. Light filtered through the milky sky, tinging the buildings with a bruised, uncertain hue. The city looked less like a seat of power and more like a creature waking slowly from its dreams of conquest.
Chimneys belched gray columns into the morning air. The smell of soot and offal mixed with the copper tang of iron and damp stone. Carts creaked under the weight of salted meats, rough sacks of barley, and kindling bundled in twine. Horses picked their way through the slush-rutted lanes while vendors shouted into the fog, their calls muffled and sharp. A beggar clanged his cup against the wall of a shuttered inn, while a fishmonger cursed the price of salt.
Halward walked with the resolve of a man who had known colder mornings than this. His cloak, worn but tightly drawn, snapped in the breeze. His breath steamed like incense from a censer. The forest had its own chill, deep and lingering, but city cold struck faster—an eager blade, not a slow grip.
As he passed through the city gate, a small crowd of idling townsfolk paused their murmuring to take note of him. A few chuckled darkly. "Forest ghost," one muttered. "Coinless keeper," another spat with a sneer. One man hawked and spat near his boots but dared not meet his eyes. Yet not all were so dismissive. An older woman at a bread stall lifted two fingers to her brow and nodded in solemn respect. A boy crouched beside a mule cart whispered to his father, who gave Halward the briefest bow.
From a food vendor's cart near the wall came an unexpected offering. A man, wrapped in patchwork wool and smelling of firewood and yeast, extended a crust of fresh bread and a small clay cup. "For the Warden," he said. His voice was rough, but there was no irony in it.
Halward paused, accepting the gifts with a nod. "Your kindness honors the gate."
He ate as he walked, the bread still warm despite the cold, the crust cracking beneath his teeth. The ale was thin, spiced with something vaguely herbal, its bitterness warming the back of his throat. It did not ease the burden of the day ahead, but it anchored him. A small ritual of grace, brief and grounding. For a moment, the sneers and mutterings at the gate faded. He walked as one remembered, if not revered.
The city grew louder as he neared the square. More boots. More shouts. A bell rang distantly, its voice swallowed by rooftops. Nottingham was not a city that welcomed the weary; it tolerated them for as long as they paid. The market buzzed with rising tension—the sort that foreshadowed tax levies, conscriptions, or worse. The air seemed thick not with frost, but with anticipation and unrest.
He reached the council hall just before the third bell. The structure loomed over the square like an old vulture perched on the spine of the city. Frost clung to its heavy stone lintels, and the red hawk of Nottingham hung limp on a banner stiff with frozen dew. Two guards stood beneath the arch, saying nothing as Halward passed. Inside, warmth and authority mingled poorly. Fires smoldered in iron grates, but their heat was thin against the stone walls. The hall smelled faintly of ink, sweat, and soot.
Five wardens sat or stood along the perimeter of the hall, each bearing the badge of their respective city gates—East, West, North, South, and Castle Gate. Their cloaks bore civic colors, their boots were caked in road mud or polished with bureaucratic sheen. Ledgers rested on knees or beneath arms, like shields made of parchment and ink. One drummed his fingers absently on a brass buckle; another whispered to a scribe standing behind him.
Halward, the only warden not of the city, stood apart. No token of civic allegiance marked his cloak, only the quiet austerity of his bearing. The others glanced at him with a mix of curiosity and dismissiveness, as though a woodsman had wandered into a council meant for order and stone. He belonged to another world, one that answered to roots and relics, not tariffs and treaties.
Some gave him a short nod; others offered only silence. No one welcomed him outright. Woodgate was not part of the city—only tolerated, barely remembered until it inconvenienced the crown. His presence served as a reminder of something older, something the others preferred to forget.
They were waiting for Bertram. Though the summons had been issued under the guise of policy and coordination, the purpose was clear to anyone who understood power: this meeting was orchestrated for spectacle. Bertram had called the wardens not to inform, but to assert. More precisely, to remind them—and especially Halward—that with the Sheriff gone to Winchester, authority now had a new face and a sharper edge.
The presence of Halward, lone Warden of the forest threshold, served as both contrast and target. He was not one of them—not molded by ledgers or trained in the court’s etiquette. His presence among the civic wardens was an old tradition allowed to linger, and Bertram had come to shame it.
He made them wait longer.
When Bertram entered, it was not with the pomp of the Sheriff, but with something colder—efficient, unbothered, and sharpened. He moved without haste, flanked by no heralds, his boots hard against the flagstones. The black leather of his gloves creaked as he placed a ledger on the table in front of him. He did not acknowledge the others immediately, instead opening the volume and running a gloved finger down its spine.
"Sheriff de Braose rides to Winchester," he said, eyes fixed on the page. "The King expects tribute. Nottingham will meet that expectation."
He did not raise his voice, but the hall quieted further, as if the stones themselves were listening.
"Tolls shall be doubled through Epiphany. Weekly reports are now required. Every gate shall maintain a rotating patrol by the first full moon of the new year. Forest routes will be monitored, tokens verified, and all irregularities recorded."
A low murmur rippled through the men. One of the western wardens muttered something under his breath. Bertram looked up sharply, and the room fell silent once more.
Then, with the precision of a drawn blade: "All gates outside the city are to be garrisoned. Patrols will enforce forest law within the bounds of the King's Wood. Each Warden shall submit regular reports—accurate, complete, and timely."
He let the pause stretch, then added, "Tolls will be doubled. No exceptions."
Bertram's eyes settled squarely on Halward. "And at Woodgate," he said, his tone firm and deliberate, "only the King's coin shall be accepted. Tokens, barter, forest scrip—they hold no weight here. Not anymore."
The statement landed like a hammer in the hall. A quiet rumble of unease stirred again, quickly quelled. A few wardens exchanged glances, but no one spoke.
"Woodgate will remain a gate—for now. But let no one mistake it for sacred. It is an asset, and its records shall reflect that. Warden Halward, you will oversee a standing rotation of four men. Provisions will be accounted through the quartermaster. Failures of discipline—yours or theirs—will reflect poorly."
Halward stood without shifting his weight. He gave a shallow nod—neither agreement nor deference, but acknowledgment. He would not play the game, but he would show he understood the stakes.
Bertram paused, his gaze lingering on Halward longer than on any other. There was something measured in it—not malice, but calculation. Respect threaded through it, if only faintly.
"You’ve walked long enough between the trees, Warden," he said, voice quieter but no less sharp. "This hooded bandit who troubles our roads—he mocks the crown and disrupts the King’s Wood. You will find him. And you will deliver him the King's justice."
It was not a request. It was trust, weaponized. A soldier’s task, handed from one veteran to another.
Bertram closed the ledger with a clean snap of vellum and wood.
"This council is dismissed. May your gates remain shut to trouble, and open to coin."
The men began to disperse, boots echoing across stone and slush. Halward lingered a moment longer, casting one final glance at Bertram. The acting Sheriff did not look up.
Halward turned, cloak swaying behind him, and walked back into the cold.
***
Halward remained in the city longer than intended. Before departing, he entered a small shop nestled in the shadows of the cathedral quarter, where he exchanged Bertram's silver ring for a modest Book of Hours—its pages faded, but lovingly preserved. A gift for Wilmot.
As he emerged from the shop, snow beginning to feather the stones, a courier approached. The man bore the livery of Wexley and handed Halward a sealed envelope—gold wax impressed with the sigil of a wexleaf and lark.
"The Lady requests an audience," the courier said.
Halward turned the letter over in his hands. It was heavier than it looked.
"When?"
"She names the Feast of St. Thomas Becket—four days hence—as the time. Before the twenty-ninth."
Without another word, the man turned back into the fog and disappeared into the pressing white.
Halward did not open the letter. He tucked it into his coat and began the long walk back to Woodgate, the book secured beneath his arm, the weight of the seal heavier than coin.
***
The wind had shifted by the time Halward returned to Woodgate. It blew hard from the north now, sharp as a whetted blade, carrying the scent of snow and distant smoke. His boots crunched across frost-laced ground as he passed beneath the stone arch, his cloak stiff with cold and travel. Oswin was tending to the chapel steps, a broom in one hand, his hood drawn up against the gusts.
Halward gave a short nod as he passed. "The orders are given."
Oswin looked up, eyes narrowing beneath the hood. "Well, then? What did the city want this time?"
Halward exhaled through his nose, breath ghosting in the cold. "A doubling of the tolls. A patrol of four men stationed here by the new year. Ledgers to be submitted weekly. And no more forest tokens—only the King's coin."
Oswin leaned on the broom like a staff. "They mean to make you a clerk. Or a jailer."
"Both, perhaps," Halward said. "Or neither. They mean to make this place theirs."
"Did you speak against it?"
"What would it matter if I had? Bertram calls it obedience. I call it erosion."
Oswin grunted. "And mercy?"
Halward’s eyes turned toward the chapel. "Not among the orders."
In the yard, Wilmot and Arrow were mending the canvas cover of the cart. The boy looked up, blinking against the light, and jogged over.
"Did they say anything about—"
"Yes," Halward interrupted gently. "We’ll host a patrol come the new year. Four men. Maybe five. You and Oswin need to clear the stables. Prepare bunks in the barracks."
Wilmot opened his mouth, hesitated, then nodded. "Will they stay through winter?"
"Long enough to make themselves known."
Halward brushed past him and made his way toward the storeroom, the Book of Hours still tucked under his cloak and the sealed letter pressing like a stone against his ribs.
***
The wind clawed against the gatehouse shutters like an animal shut out in the dark. Inside, the fire had burned low. A single candle flickered atop the desk, its wax pooling against a chipped ceramic plate. Halward sat with his back to the room, the coat still drawn around his shoulders, the sealed letter resting on the table before him.
He had placed it there almost an hour ago, the wax untouched. The golden seal caught the candlelight with a soft gleam—the lark and wexleaf of Lady Aveline, unmistakable and unbroken.
Nearby, the Book of Hours sat atop a folded cloth. He had opened it once earlier in the evening, if only to read the first line aloud. The Latin still rested uneasily on his tongue, familiar but distant, like the echo of a prayer he no longer believed would be answered.
He reached for the envelope now and broke the seal.
The letter within was penned in a practiced, graceful hand:
Warden Halward,
I write not as a noblewoman, but as one who has known loss, loyalty, and duty. I have heard rumor of a summons to Nottingham, and though the details remain unclear, I fear what may be set in motion. If Bertram has taken the reins, then I suspect the meeting was not for coordination—but for command.
I believe you understand what is being shaped—and who stands to be caught beneath it.
There are murmurs from the wood. Of movement. Of signs not seen in years. Of a token found with markings long thought buried. I will not name it, but I know you have seen it. You understand what it means—or will soon enough.
I have requested this audience not to warn, but to remind. We are stewards of thresholds. The weight of that title has not diminished, even if the world pretends otherwise.
I will come to you on the Feast of Saint Thomas Becket. I wish to see the boy, and to speak with you plainly. I suspect you have seen signs—tokens of a past neither of us buried deeply enough. If what I fear is true, then our roles are not yet finished. I need your eyes on what mine cannot reach.
—Lady Aveline of Wexley
Halward read the letter twice. Then he set it down, staring at the curling edge of the parchment as if it might unfurl further, reveal some hidden postscript.
He thought of Bertram’s words, of the patrol soon to arrive. He thought of the boy asleep beside a dying fire and the book bought with a ring forged in mockery. He thought of the token buried beneath the cedar roots, and how the forest had not returned it by accident.
He did not want this. Not the politics, not the danger, not the weight of old symbols stirring in the dark. But wanting was irrelevant.
He was the Warden.
And the gate did not choose its watcher.
Halward rose, folded the letter, and placed it inside the drawer beneath his desk.
Then he stirred the fire, added one more log, and returned to his chair. The candle flickered. The wind howled.
And Halward kept his watch.
After a long moment, he reached again for the Book of Hours. The leather binding creaked softly as he opened to the night prayers—Compline. He found the familiar lines, the ones that had once steadied his breath in the far deserts beyond Acre.
His voice was low, reverent, but unwavering:
"In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum: redemisti me, Domine, Deus veritatis."
Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit: thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, God of truth.
The Latin was coarse on his tongue, but the cadence returned with memory. He closed the book gently, let his hand rest on the cover.
Outside, the trees groaned softly in the wind.
Within, the Warden prayed in silence.