The bells rang slow and heavy through the brittle morning air, their solemn peal rolling over the frost-laden fields and the sleeping woods beyond. Halward stirred from sleep, pulling his cloak tighter against the cold as he sat up on the rough cot within the gatehouse. The air inside was no warmer than the air without; his breath misted before him as he exhaled. Frost coated the small window, feathering outward in intricate patterns like the delicate work of a glazier with frozen hands. The faintest gray light leaked around the edges of the shutters, promising little warmth with the coming day.
The world beyond remained locked in winter’s iron grasp, and yet within these walls, the deep toll of the chapel bell spoke of more than the changing of seasons. It spoke of memory, of sacrifice, and of a justice that could neither be bought nor silenced. It was the Feast of Saint Thomas Becket, martyr and mirror to any who served crown and conscience alike.
Halward swung his feet to the floor, wincing as his boots, stiffened by the night's chill, resisted his movements. He listened as the bell tolled again—a slow, solemn peal marking the morning prayer hour, Lauds, made heavier today in memory of Saint Thomas Becket's martyrdom. Each strike carried with it a weight far beyond mere passage of time, a call to remembrance and conscience.
As he dressed, fastening his belt and pulling his heavy cloak about him, he heard the familiar creak of the stair. Oswin descended from the loft above, his own cloak drawn close, a small stick in his hand which he idly whittled with a pocket knife—an old habit for cold mornings.
"Morning," Oswin said simply, crossing to the hearth and stirring the banked embers with a practiced hand.
"Morning," Halward replied, his voice still rough with sleep. He pulled a bench closer to the fire, the two men settling into the familiar silence of hard winters and harder memories.
For a time, they said nothing, each man lost in his own thoughts. The bells continued their slow vigil outside, tolling across the frozen hills and the snow-draped forest, reaching places and memories long buried.
At last, Oswin spoke, his voice low and thoughtful. "It was Becket's courage they feared."
Halward nodded, staring into the dull glow of the coals. "A king cannot bear to be reminded that law is not his alone to command," he said. "Not then. Not now."
Oswin poked at the embers, coaxing a reluctant flame. "Henry thought himself master of all—men, law, even God. But even kings must kneel to a greater justice."
"Aye," Halward agreed, his voice roughened not just by the morning but by old, lingering bitterness. "Though John learned little enough from his father."
Oswin gave a humorless snort. "John learned how to grasp at crowns and coin, but not how to hold the hearts of men."
Halward allowed himself a grim smile, one that did not touch his eyes. "That he did. And he’ll squeeze us all dry before he’s done."
Outside, the bells tolled once more, the long, mournful sound weaving between the stone walls of the gatehouse and the ancient trees beyond. The sound filled the spaces between their words, a solemn hymn for the fallen and a warning to the living.
Halward shifted, drawing his cloak tighter as he rose. "It would seem," he said quietly, "that peace is always a thin blanket, never meant to last the winter."
They sat for a while longer, the fire growing steadier between them, the light catching the worn lines on their faces. In the hush of the morning, amidst the weight of remembrance, both men knew—though neither said it aloud—that the troubles of the past were not yet laid to rest. In this world, the old battles were never truly over. They simply slept awhile, waiting for the hour to strike again.
Then came a knock at the gate—a sharp, urgent sound that cut through the cold and the silence like a blade. From the narrow window above, Halward caught the first glimpse of a small retinue gathered at the threshold: a coach bearing the golden crest of Lady Aveline, flanked by two mounted guards and a team of sturdy horses, their breath rising in clouds against the frigid morning air. One of her guards, cloaked and armored against the cold, dismounted and approached the heavy wooden door with measured steps, raising a gloved fist to knock once more, formally announcing their arrival.
Halward rose fully, his heart already heavy with the knowledge that the peace of Christmas was over, and the old struggles had returned anew.
***
The door groaned open against the cold, and Halward stepped into the narrow storeroom, the heavy air thick with the scent of damp wood and old stone. A single brazier burned low in the corner, casting a thin pool of warmth and light that barely pushed back the gloom. Crates and old barrels were stacked against the walls, casting long, twisted shadows. It was a place for quiet dealings, for truths too delicate to be spoken in the open.
Halward pulled the door closed behind him and waited.
Moments later, Lady Aveline entered, her heavy cloak dusted with snow, her face half-shadowed by her hood. Her step was sure, unhurried, though the cold bit hard at her cheeks. She dismissed her guard with a quiet nod, the man retreating to stand sentry beyond the storeroom door.
Halward inclined his head in greeting, and she returned it with a small, curt nod.
"My thanks, Warden," she said, her voice low but steady, carrying the controlled tension of a woman well-versed in political games. "For granting this meeting, and on such a solemn day."
"Lady Aveline," Halward replied, his tone equally formal. "It seemed fitting, given the times."
The faint tolling of the chapel bell still lingered in the air, marking the memory of Saint Thomas Becket’s martyrdom. It was a reminder neither of them needed, but one neither could forget.
They stood in silence for a breath longer, the weight of the day pressing down, until the cold and the unspoken matters between them pushed them forward.
"There is to be a royal inspection," Aveline said without preamble. Her words were sharp, almost brittle. "Orders have come. King John wishes to test the loyalty of his barons and the sheriffs who serve him."
Halward folded his arms, feeling the familiar weight settle on his shoulders like an old, unwelcome cloak. "Testing loyalty," he said, "usually means measuring how much silver a man has left to give."
"And how much blood," Aveline added, her voice quiet and sure. "They will come to Nottingham first. The city must be shown loyal—outwardly, at least. Those who falter, even by a hair's breadth, will be made an example."
"And Woodgate?"
"An afterthought to most," she said. "But not to all. There are those who see in this gate more than stone and timber."
She moved closer to the brazier, warming her hands over the weak fire, though it offered little comfort.
"Patrols will be sent out," she continued. "The roads must be secured. The forest..." She hesitated, her breath misting in the frigid air. "The forest is restless."
Halward watched her, reading the tension behind her carefully chosen words. "Restless," he repeated, "or stirring?"
She met his gaze, something unspoken flickering behind her eyes. "Both."
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the muted crackle of the coals.
Halward's eyes narrowed slightly, and the edge of suspicion crept into his voice. "And what would Sir Bertram say of all this?" he asked. "You share his counsel. And, if the talk in Nottingham is true, more besides."
Aveline’s hands stilled over the brazier. She straightened slowly, her eyes steady and unflinching.
"Sir Bertram seeks many things," she said evenly. "My counsel among them. My heart, less so."
There was a pause, heavy with all that was unspoken.
"You would do well," she added, a sharpness threading through her words, "not to believe everything that passes for talk among men whose tongues are quicker than their swords."
Halward inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgment without apology.
"Forgive me, my lady," he said, his voice quieter now. "These are dangerous times. Trust is a thinner coin than it once was."
Aveline gave a small, sad smile. "It is rarer than gold."
She moved away from the brazier, pacing slowly, her gloved fingers trailing lightly over a battered crate.
"My husband would have understood," she said at last, her voice softer, touched with memory. "When he rode with Richard—when we all did—loyalty was a thing you carried like a sword. Sharp, shining, meant for defense as much as for blood."
Halward’s face darkened with old grief. He had ridden beside her husband once, across the sands of Acre, through the broken gates of distant cities. He remembered his laughter, his fierce prayers, his loyalty unshaken even unto death.
"He was a good man," Halward said simply.
"The best," she replied, her voice firm despite the ache behind it. "And Bertram is not his equal. Not in spirit, not in courage. He seeks my hand because he covets my lands, not my heart."
The brazier’s glow flickered between them, throwing long shadows across the stone walls.
"The forest road is no longer safe," Aveline said, pulling herself back to the present. "The patrols will ride out soon. And they will not find what they expect."
Halward gave a low grunt, grim but unsurprised. "I have already met the man who wears the green crown of Sherwood."
Aveline's eyes sharpened with interest. "And what did you make of him?"
"No common thief," Halward said, his voice flat. "But I've been ordered to deliver the King’s justice."
"Justice under John is a thin and bitter thing," Aveline said. "And the man you met is no ordinary outlaw."
There was a pause, as if she weighed her next words.
"I know him," she said finally, her voice dropping lower. "Not as a lady knows a rogue, but as one soul sees another. He stands for something older than John's gold and Bertram's pride. He stands for those left behind."
Halward's mouth tightened. "That may be. But standing and surviving are two different things."
"Indeed," Aveline said, with a glimmer of sadness. "And yet both are needed."
The brazier crackled between them, its light beginning to falter.
"Choose wisely the oaths you keep," Aveline said, stepping closer. "And more wisely still the ones you break."
Before she turned fully away, she hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder. Her expression softened slightly.
"And the boy?" she asked. "Wilmot."
Halward’s stern features eased at the mention of the boy. "He fares well enough. He's grown taller since summer. Stronger, too. The winters are not easy on him, but he bears them better than most grown men."
Aveline smiled faintly, a rare and genuine thing. She reached into the folds of her cloak and drew out a small pouch, the sound of coin faint but unmistakable.
"For his keeping," she said, offering it to Halward. "See that he has what he needs."
Halward accepted it without protest, feeling the weight of it settle into his palm.
"You sent him to me," he said, his voice softer. "I have not forgotten."
"Nor have I," Aveline replied. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer, something unspoken passing between them—gratitude, trust, perhaps even regret for burdens yet to come.
"I fear," she said as she pulled the hood over her hair, "that winter will not be the cruelest season we shall see."
With that, she slipped into the cold, leaving Halward alone with the dying fire and the certainty that the world he had known was crumbling faster than any man could mend.
***
Halward remained a moment longer by the dying brazier, letting the silence of the storeroom wrap around him like a shroud. Then, drawing his cloak tighter against the creeping cold, he stepped out into the winter air. The cold bit into him immediately, sharp and bracing, chasing away the heavy musings stirred by his meeting with Lady Aveline. His breath rose in thick clouds, dissolving into the pale morning sky.
Across the snowy yard, he caught a flicker of movement through the narrow window of the chapel. A faint glow of firelight spilled into the gloom, inviting and warm. With measured steps, Halward crossed the yard, his boots crunching through the fresh layer of snow, each step muffled by the thick drifts that clung to the earth like a heavy cloak.
Inside the chapel, he found a scene of quiet domesticity that stilled his heart for a moment. Oswin and Wilmot sat by the hearth, a small board of Draughts spread between them. The fire crackled low but bright, casting a pool of golden light that pushed back the darkness lurking in the corners. Shadows danced along the rough stone walls, lending the small chapel a dreamlike air. Arrow perched nearby on a low stool, his sleek black feathers gleaming in the firelight, his keen eyes fixed intently on the wooden pieces as they shifted across the board.
Halward leaned against the doorframe, unseen for a moment, and watched. Wilmot's brow was furrowed in deep concentration, his lips pursed in a serious frown, while Oswin wore a patient, indulgent smile, content to let the boy puzzle out his next move without interference.
Wilmot looked up and caught sight of him, his face lighting up with a boyish eagerness that momentarily banished the weight of winter and politics from the room.
"Will you play me, Hal?" he asked, his voice bright and hopeful.
For a moment, Halward hesitated, feeling the invisible burden of duty settle more heavily across his shoulders. The memory of Aveline's warnings, the specter of royal inspections, and the shadow of broken oaths weighed heavily upon him. Yet something in the boy's open expression, in the simple hopefulness of the invitation, pulled him forward.
He crossed to the table and sat heavily, brushing snow from his cloak and gloves. His joints ached with the cold, but he found a measure of warmth in the moment.
"Set the board," he said.
Wilmot grinned and eagerly reset the pieces, his fingers quick and sure. Oswin leaned back with a knowing look, content to let the two settle into the simple rhythm of the game.
As they played, Halward found his mind wandering. Each move, each careful placement of a piece, seemed less a contest of skill and more a grim reflection of the world beyond the chapel walls. A world where kings and lords moved their pawns across fields and forests, men and lives weighed and discarded with a flick of the hand, ambition and betrayal hiding behind the guise of loyalty.
Halward moved a piece forward and watched as Wilmot countered. He thought of Lady Aveline, of Sir Bertram, of the Sheriff and the green-clad outlaw in Sherwood. Each had their roles to play, their moves dictated by forces larger than themselves. And he, Halward, was but one piece among many, pushed inexorably forward by unseen forces, trapped between loyalty and conscience, between survival and honor.
As the fire crackled and the boy grinned with innocent triumph at a clever capture, Halward allowed himself a rare, fleeting smile. For a moment, he could almost forget the gathering storm.
But even here, in the quiet heart of winter, he felt it—the steady, relentless hand of fate reaching for them all, moving each soul across a board vast and unseen, toward ends none could yet foresee.