Two weeks had passed since the frost-marked road was first patrolled. The men had grown quieter. No longer did they mock the twisted trees or laugh at forest shrines. The woods had not offered violence, but neither had they offered comfort. Each ride ended in silence. Each return felt like permission renewed, not earned.
The tax, doubled through Epiphany, remained in place. No word from the city explained its extension, but the coins kept coming. Fewer travelers passed through Woodgate now, and those who did carried more fear than freight. The poor walked; the rich rode with eyes narrowed and blades close to hand.
Halward stood at the gate as the sky bruised with morning, the light creeping over the frost like a second skin. Oswin tended the fire. Wilmot swept the stones. The silence was clean until it was broken.
Trumpets.
Thin and sharp, they cut through the mist. The sound echoed against the forest wall, too formal, too bright. Wilmot froze, broom mid-sweep. Oswin stood slowly, brushing ash from his palms.
Halward did not move.
They came in procession—red cloaks, steel helms, the Sheriff’s banner snapping above the lead rider. Ten mounted men, bright against the pale morning, and at their center rode the Sheriff of Nottingham, cloaked in fox and trimmed in gold. Beside him, armored and grim, rode Sir Bertram de Gorse.
They entered without asking.
Halward stepped forward as they passed beneath the arch. He said nothing. Neither did they.
The Sheriff dismounted with fluid ease, handing his reins to a guard without glancing. Bertram followed, boots crunching frost. They surveyed the yard like men inspecting a pen.
Oswin offered a shallow bow. Wilmot copied it.
"Warden Halward," the Sheriff said at last. His voice was smooth, but its edge was honed. "You keep the gate well, though these are troubled times."
Halward inclined his head. "You’ll find it standing, my lord."
Bertram snorted.
"Standing isn’t serving," he said.
The Sheriff let the remark hang a moment before turning his gaze on the chapel, the stable, the frost-bound road beyond.
"We have come to review your gate," the Sheriff continued. "The King's Peace must be kept, and every post must bear its share."
Halward offered no reply.
The Sheriff gestured slightly, and Bertram moved off to inspect the stables and barracks. The soldiers began to dismount, some posting guards, others leading horses toward the paddock. Two of Halward's patrolmen—Hob Colling and Simon Braye—had presented themselves when the trumpet sounded, emerging from the barracks with spears in hand and winter cloaks wrapped tight against their shoulders. They stood near the stone wall in quiet attention, uncertain whether to salute or wait. Neither moved until Halward nodded once, and even then, they kept their eyes low. The other two men, Alan Wode and Clement Ferren, were still on patrol—assigned the western trail that skirted the old charcoal kilns and the broken crossroad that once led to Blyth.
Halward did not summon them back. He gave no order for formation. In another time, a royal visit would have demanded a ceremonial lineup, perhaps even a reading of the patrol log or a blessing by a visiting priest. But this was not such a time. King John’s messengers had long since ceased bearing courtesies, and the Sheriff’s presence bore the weight of audit, not alliance.
He made no speeches. No fanfare. He simply let the King's men walk the grounds as they pleased.
The soldiers scattered with practiced instinct, moving through the yard like men who expected to uncover fault. One of them tested the iron of the gate. Another prodded the stacked timber meant for spring repairs. A third stooped to inspect a fresh line of boot tracks near the chapel.
Halward watched without expression. This, too, was a kind of test—not of preparedness, but of patience.
In the time of Richard, inspections came with warnings and with standards. Sheriffs sought fortifications, not faults. But under John, the law had shifted. Strongholds were not weighed by strength but by loyalty, and loyalty was not trusted—it was taxed.
Sheriff Richard de Braose walked the yard slowly, hands clasped behind his back. He moved without hurry, without wasted motion, like a man counting debts.
"Take note of the defenses," he said softly to no one and everyone. "The King's roads must be kept safe for coin and crown."
He paused near the gatehouse wall, his gloved hand brushing the stone as if feeling its age.
"A narrow road invites narrow minds," he said to Bertram as the knight returned, voice low but clear enough for Halward to hear. "We will need broader roads soon."
Halward's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The Sheriff turned back to face him. His eyes, pale and cold, swept over Wilmot lingering by the stable door.
"You keep an apprentice, Warden. It would serve better to keep more spears."
Halward met his gaze without flinching.
The Sheriff smiled then—a thin, humorless thing.
"We are sent to guard His Majesty's peace," he said, voice rising slightly so all could hear. "Those who aid unrest—even from kindness—will be judged as surely as those who raise the sword."
The words hung in the cold air, heavy as stone.
Halward bowed his head slightly, an acknowledgment without submission.
The Sheriff moved on, and with him, the weight of the King.
***
The morning wore on beneath a pale, pitiless sun. The frost had begun to retreat in muddy pools around the stones, and the courtyard smelled of wet iron and smoke. Halward stood near the brazier, feeling the old ache in his knees from too many winters. His hand rested lightly on the worn hilt of his sword, not in threat, but in readiness. This was not the sort of morning that passed without consequence.
The trumpet that had sounded earlier now brought its fruit: a city guard appeared at the gate, leading a boy on a rope leash. He was a pitiful shape, hunched from cold and hunger. No older than fifteen, though hardship had aged his face. His cloak was a ragged length of wool draped over one shoulder. One of his boots had been cut to fit; the other was barely more than a shoe bound in twine. His hands, bound in rough cord, were raw and cracked from the winter air. A smear of dried blood marked his lip, likely from a soldier's blow rather than a fall.
The guard dismounted with stiff formality, bowing briefly to the Sheriff before turning to Halward. Others gathered now—patrolmen, soldiers, the curious. Silence gripped the gate.
"The prisoner, Warden," the guard said. "Caught at the East Gate attempting passage with forged token."
He produced a cloth bundle from his satchel, unfolding it with a kind of care that mocked the weight of what it held. A wooden disc—badly blackened, unevenly carved—sat at its center. A crude imitation of Halward’s own token. The flame-over-water mark was gouged rather than branded, and the wood was pale and too light. No cedar. No scent of smoke. Halward took it and turned it over in his palm. A lie, and not even a clever one.
Forgery. Plain. Undeniable.
Halward exhaled, slow and long, and for a moment stared past the boy to the trees. The forest was still, the kind of stillness that deepens when something sacred is about to be violated.
The Sheriff’s voice cut the air like a drawn blade.
"The King's Law demands judgment."
A circle had formed around them—soldiers, patrolmen, travelers who had crept close at the sound of the trumpets. Breath hung visibly between them. No one moved. They all waited.
Halward stepped forward. He knelt slowly before the boy, lowering himself so their eyes met evenly. The boy’s face was drawn and sunken, lips cracked, his eyes wide but defiant. His jaw trembled, but not from fear alone.
"Your name?" Halward asked.
"Tomas," the boy whispered. "Tomas Evingale."
The name struck Halward with the weight of memory. Alric Evingale had once served at Woodgate. A woodsman. Honest. Quiet. He brought game and cut timber for the chapel hearth. During the great freeze of '98, he’d come with a sled full of firewood when no one else would. Alric had died in the river camps, taken by a fever while ministering to the sick. A good man.
"Your father… was Alric?"
Tomas nodded, a single sharp movement. "He died," the boy said. "My mother’s sick. We’ve no coin. I… I only wanted to bring bread home."
Behind Halward, Bertram shifted with audible irritation. The steel of his armor whispered as he stepped forward. The Sheriff raised one hand, palm forward, and silence returned like fog.
Then came the judgment.
"By John, King of England, Duke of Normandy, Lord of Ireland, we do bear witness. Let the lying hand be marked, and the King's peace restored."
It was not just a sentence. It was a performance, made for the ears of witnesses and the edge of memory.
Halward stood. He drew his belt knife from its sheath, the blade dull from years of field use but still sharp at the edge. He looked down once more at the boy.
"Hold out your left hand," he said.
Tomas hesitated, eyes flicking from Halward to the Sheriff to the gathered crowd. Then, with a breath that sounded more like surrender than resolve, he obeyed. The hand he offered shook. Halward guided it gently to the stone ledge near the brazier.
The heat from the coals kissed his knuckles as he positioned the boy’s fingers. He could feel Tomas shivering—not from cold now, but from anticipation. The knife hovered.
One stroke. Clean and fast.
The blade bit. Bone gave. The small finger came away in Halward’s hand. Tomas screamed, not long, but loud, the sound breaking through the yard like a bell at midnight.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his wounded hand, blood spurting between his fingers. The red pooled on the stone, then soaked into the thawing mud. A soldier turned away. One of the patrolmen crossed himself.
"Wilmot!" Halward barked.
Wilmot was already running, a length of linen in his hand. He knelt beside Tomas, pressing cloth to the wound. His eyes were wide with something deeper than fear.
Oswin followed, slower, his face ashen. He murmured words in Latin, the old prayer for pain without vengeance.
The Sheriff remained still, his expression unreadable. Bertram smiled faintly, satisfied.
"He cannot walk," Wilmot said, voice sharp, near angry.
Halward did not hesitate.
"He will be taken to the chapel first. By the Warden’s order."
The Sheriff did not reply. Whether in agreement or scorn, none could say. He turned instead, his boots leaving shallow marks in the half-thawed yard. Bertram followed, his shadow long behind him.
The soldiers dispersed slowly, the onlookers quieter now, as if speech had grown too expensive.
The King's coin had bought its justice. And Woodgate had paid in blood, as it always did.
***
The blood had scarcely cooled on the stones before the Sheriff made his move.
Halward led them into the gatehouse without ceremony. The room was low-ceilinged and spare, warmed only by a thin-bellied brazier and the dust of old seasons. Shelves lined the walls, bowed under the weight of ledgers, lists, toll chits, and supply manifests. A battered desk stood near the hearth, its surface ink-stained and worn smooth by years of record keeping.
Sir Bertram de Gorse followed close behind, the scrape of his boots harsh against the stone floor. Two of the Sheriff's guards posted themselves at the door without being told, closing the space like a cage.
Sheriff Richard de Braose moved slowly, surveying the room with a narrowed gaze. His gloved hand drifted along the nearest shelf, stirring dust motes in the cold light slanting through the narrow windows.
"You keep an orderly house, Warden," he said at last, voice smooth as polished iron. "But even stone crumbles when left unexamined."
Halward said nothing. He moved to the desk, drawing a ring of iron keys from his belt. He unlocked the ledger chest and laid its contents bare without flourish—the toll registers, the patrol logs, the accounts of timber and grain stores, the old muster rolls.
The Sheriff approached and opened the top ledger, running his finger down the page with a slowness that mocked urgency. He flipped through the records without comment, pausing now and then to trace a name or a date.
Bertram leaned lazily against the far wall, arms crossed, his eyes flicking between Halward and the open books.
"Few travelers since Epiphany," the Sheriff murmured.
"The tax keeps them cautious," Halward said, his voice even.
"Or the road does," Bertram added, smirking.
The Sheriff closed the first ledger and opened another—the patrol log. His finger tapped once against an entry: a patrol delayed by snow, two days unaccounted between posts.
"Delay breeds disorder," he said. "And disorder invites treason."
Halward met his gaze steadily. "The forest cares little for timetables, my lord."
"And yet," the Sheriff said, "it cares very much for weakness."
Bertram chuckled softly.
The Sheriff turned another page.
"No sightings of the Hooded Bandit," he said. "No seizures of forest coin. Few records of confiscated goods."
Halward kept his face unreadable. "There has been peace."
"Peace," the Sheriff said, as if tasting the word. "A curious thing to find near Sherwood."
He closed the patrol log with a sharp snap and stepped back.
"Nottingham is to become a royal stronghold," he said. "King John's will demands it. Roads must be safe. Taxes must flow. No hand must raise against the Crown—in the woods, or in the hearts of those sworn to guard it."
Bertram straightened from the wall, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
"We will send more men in the spring," the Sheriff continued. "Woodgate must grow. Strong walls. Strong garrison. Strong hearts."
He let the words hang, then turned his gaze fully on Halward for the first time since entering.
"Are you such a heart, Warden? Still strong, after so many winters?"
Halward inclined his head, neither proud nor humbled.
"I serve."
The Sheriff did not smile this time. Instead, he stepped closer, lowering his voice to something near intimate.
"I believe that. I've read your records, heard the old names. Acre. Jaffa. And before that, with House Wexley. Under the banner of Lord Arin, if the reports are true. You served their cause well—cut your teeth in the siege lines before ever raising steel for the crown. Loyalty forged in blood and prayer."
Halward said nothing.
"Richard valued strength. Discipline. Order. King John values loyalty. And not the kind bought with silver."
He stepped past the ledgers and closer to the brazier, warming his hands. "There is a difference between men who can be bought and men who must be bound to something greater."
He turned back to face Halward. "You're not a man I would insult with coin. But loyalty, true loyalty, is rare. And in these times, dangerous."
Bertram shifted, uncomfortable with the softness in the Sheriff's tone.
The Sheriff watched Halward closely, gauging the depth of his silence.
"I see in your reports," the Sheriff said, his tone sharpening, "that you know many of the forest folk. Old families. Names that no longer appear on the King's rolls."
Halward said nothing.
The Sheriff pressed forward, his voice lower, almost conspiratorial. "What do you know of the one they call the Hood?"
Halward's jaw tightened imperceptibly. After a moment, he said, "Little enough. But I've seen him. Once. South of the Weeping Hollow, beyond Dead Man's Ditch. Too deep for patrol, too far for reach."
Bertram’s expression darkened. The Sheriff’s gaze sharpened.
"He wasn't alone," Halward continued. "He moves with others. David of Doncaster, fleet of foot and sharper of eye—though I was told years ago he died in a fire north of Worksop. Gilbert of the White Hand, a ghost with a bow, a man the old roadmen still speak of in mutters. They move through the hollows and fens where no map dares mark."
The Sheriff’s eyes narrowed. "You saw them, and did nothing?"
"They made no threat," Halward said. "Not to the gate. Not to the road."
"Steel is not the only threat," the Sheriff answered coldly. "Some men wound with whispers. And some shadows wear crowns of their own."
He turned to the ledgers, fingers resting on the patrol log.
"The Hood. David. Gilbert. These are not phantoms. They are embers. Left to burn, they will raise a blaze."
Halward did not blink. "The forest hides many things, my lord. Not all of them obey the Warden’s watch."
The Sheriff stepped closer. "Perhaps not. But the Warden answers to the King. And the King does not suffer fire to rise near his house."
He paused a beat longer, gaze unreadable. "I expected resistance. What I hear is recognition."
Halward’s reply was quiet steel. "I know my duty."
The Sheriff studied him, then nodded. A mark. Not of approval. Of record.
"The King would reward those who bring such men to light. And he would remember those who chose to look the other way."
Halward met the Sheriff's gaze, steady and cold. "I know my duty."
The Sheriff studied him a moment longer, then nodded slowly.
"See that you do. The King’s peace is not held by walls alone, Warden. It is held by hearts that remember their oaths—and the cost of breaking them."
Without waiting for dismissal, he turned on his heel and strode from the gatehouse, Bertram following. The guards fell in behind them, leaving Halward alone among the ledgers and the fading smell of cold iron and old parchment.
Outside, the wind stirred the trees, whispering secrets the King’s men could not yet hear.