Chapter 43: Bread and Steel

Hennet counted his wages upon the pay table, then bent to sign beside his name. Abel waited for him to sand the fresh ink before calling the next man.

Outside, Lew had washed his hair and was trying to flatten it with both palms.

“Leave it,” Murch said. “The wind will mend it.”

They had leave until the evening horn. Hennet was eighteen, Murch and Lew nineteen. Their armour hung upon its pegs. Hennet buttoned his clean black coat—the shoulders had needed letting out—with a letter inside and his purse close beneath the belt. Murch’s father was buying salt before taking his timber wagon north. Hennet meant to catch him.

Beyond the workshops, new shops filled the lane where Hennet had waited for his trials. Murch led them past three spearmen eating sausages from split rolls. At the corner a cloth seller shook out blue wool, striking Lew across the face.

“There,” Murch said. “Your hair is flat.”

Lew ducked beneath the wool, laughing. The cloth seller apologised, then recognised their coats and called her daughter out with the new caps. At twenty-two the daughter did most of the selling. Hennet had seen her refuse men credit, but she came round to straighten Murch’s collar.

“Your friends bought the brown ones,” the older woman told Murch. “These were finished this morning.”

“Does your wife mend this?” her daughter asked him, touching the worn edge of his cuff.

“I have no wife.”

“Nor a sweetheart to sew for you?”

Murch shook his head. Lew studied the ceiling.

“The sewing rooms pay me better than mending my brothers’ shirts,” she said. “But I might find time.”

A man in a faded green coat had been waiting beside the wool. He put down the cap he held and went outside.

Her mother watched him go. “He has asked after my daughter twice. His father keeps his wages.”

“I keep mine,” Murch said.

The daughter smiled. “So I hear.”

Hennet paid for a grey cap, then felt a fold of undyed wool upon the counter. He bargained for enough to make his mother a warm shawl. While the daughter counted his change, Murch bought a belt next door and had it shortened.

They found Murch’s father behind the baker’s, tying a salt sack beneath his wagon tilt. He straightened when his son called. Sawdust lay thick in his beard. Murch took the rope from him and pulled the knot tight while Hennet brought out the wool parcel.

“For your mother?” the man asked.

“And this.” Hennet gave him the small purse he had tied apart from his spending money, with the letter tucked through its cord.

Murch’s father turned the folded sheet. “Who wrote it?”

“I did.”

He had begun it twice. In the finished letter he had asked after the barley and described his new armour. At the foot he had written that he was eating well. She still asked whenever anyone came south.

The man looked at the address again, then put the letter and purse deep inside his own coat. “I shall take them to her door.”

Hennet thanked him and asked him to eat with them. Murch’s father began to refuse, but Murch had already gone beneath the baker’s awning to find a bench.

The baker’s wife brought pork, onions, four ales and a loaf with its crust still cracking. Lew burned his tongue upon the pork. Murch pushed his cup across without sparing him the laugh. Hennet gave the largest piece of bread to the older man. He could pay for this meal and still hear coins in his purse.

When Murch’s father tried to pay, Hennet covered his coins and settled the bill. Murch walked beside the wagon to the turning. His father felt the thickness of the new belt before going to his team.

They went on to the alehouse by the well.

Hennet had eaten beneath its eaves on his first journey, counting the few coppers his mother had given him. This time the keeper moved a stool and called for clean cups. Four black coats hung upon the wall. Their owners made room upon the bench, a veteran from Sixth rubbing the shoulder Brus had worked all morning.

“Shields off, packs on, then back up the slope.”

“Malcolm makes us wear both,” Hennet said.

“And can you still lift your cup?”

Hennet raised it with them. The keeper brought another loaf, and Murch moved his elbows to let it pass.

“Are you putting your names down for the next reading group?” Hennet asked the two men opposite. Both had come in with the latest intake.

One shook his head. “I’ve had enough of being told I’ve done something wrong by supper.”

“Nor me,” the other said. “My brother can read. I’ll send my letters through him.”

“You’ll need it if you want a stripe,” Hennet said. “Or to be made an optio. Lord Jon won’t have a centurion’s deputy who cannot read an order or write out his men’s names.”

The second man lowered his cup. His companion looked towards the stripe on Murch’s shoulder.

“They begin with your name,” Murch said. “Mine took me long enough.”

“Who do we ask?”

“Cadan. He’ll find you a place.”

“Optio,” the first man repeated. “Where did Lord Jon even find that name?”

“One of his books, I expect,” Murch said.

The veteran from Sixth leaned back to let the keeper set down their jug. “A strange lord. Has peasants taught their letters like lordlings.”

“Aye,” Murch said, reaching for it. “But he’s our strange lord.”

The newcomers were asking how long it took to learn. Hennet smiled into his cup. His father had warned him about soldiers coming home with nothing. He wished the man could hear Murch now, who had once needed Malcolm to read his sister’s letter.

Lew got to his feet. “Three cheers for Lord Black!”

The first shout brought the keeper round from his casks. By the third, all seven of them were standing, Murch still holding the bread he had been about to eat. The keeper raised a finger for quiet as they sat down again. Hennet was laughing when he noticed the man in green watching from the next table. Six men sat with him. A red-capped carter at the far end raised his cup in a mocking echo, and the others laughed.

Two women from the sewing rooms stopped at their bench on the way to the yard. One had sewn Hennet’s coat. She was a widow, scarcely older than Murch, with brown hair pinned beneath a yellow kerchief. She sat beside Hennet and asked whether it was true that Woods would make rooms available to married soldiers.

“You would have to ask him,” Hennet said.

“Have you asked him?”

He looked at her, then down at his cup. She had rested her hand beside his upon the table.

Lew hid his mouth in his cup. From the next table a bench scraped back.

The man in faded green stood beside a thickset carpenter. Hennet knew them both: Brus had taken the failed recruit’s practice sword amid much shouting. The carpenter had refused Woods’s first offer, expecting better work for his own shop. His cousin had taken the place and seldom let him forget it. The carter rose beside them. Their other four companions left their cups upon the table and came nearer.

“Rooms as well,” the failed recruit said. “Fine coats, full bellies. Can any of you earn it without a little boy holding your hand?”

Murch lowered his cup. “We are eating. Leave us.”

The carpenter looked at the women. “My cousin thinks himself a master now because he makes the same damned box all day. He has a new roof while I wait for work.”

“He is paid for making it sound,” Hennet said.

“Aye, you would know. A lord’s man now.” The carpenter leaned across the space between the benches. “When the clocks stop, that little bastard will send you back to the peat.”

The woman nearest him stepped away. “Leave them be.”

“Perhaps he pays you too.”

Lew stood so quickly that his cup tipped. “Mind your mouth.”

The man in green shoved him in the chest. Lew struck him across the jaw. Hennet was up before the man hit the bench. The carpenter caught Lew from the side, and Hennet drove his shoulder into him. Cups fell. Murch caught Lew’s sleeve and tried to pull him back.

At the other end of the bench, the red-capped carter swung at the veteran from Sixth. The three newer soldiers scrambled up as the carter’s companions crowded in. A townsman in a leather apron seized Hennet’s coat from behind; another struck Murch full in the mouth. Murch lost his hold on Lew.

Hennet trapped the hand upon his collar, turned beneath the arm and sent the man in the apron over the bench. The carpenter’s fist caught him beneath the ribs as he straightened. For a moment he could not breathe. He stumbled against the table, dragging it sideways, and saw his new cap crushed beneath a boot.

The failed recruit came up with a stool in both hands. Murch struck him before he could swing it. The stool hit the fallen bench, one leg breaking beneath the man’s weight. He rolled clear with blood running from his nose.

The veteran caught the carter’s next swing against his forearm and drove him back against his own table. Beside them a new recruit went down on one knee, holding his assailant’s wrist clear of his throat. One of his comrades hauled the townsman off him while the third fought free of a man clutching his hair. There was scarcely room to turn between the tables.

“Stop!” the keeper shouted. “Get back, all of you!”

The veteran pushed the carter away and opened his hands. “Back to the wall. Leave them.” He caught the sleeve of the soldier who had gone down and brought him with him. The other two followed, one with a swelling cheek, the other wiping blood from his ear. Their opponents stayed beside the overturned table.

Hennet heard the keeper. Then the carpenter caught his belt and tried to drag him down. Hennet drove him against the bench and struck him. The grip came loose. He struck again, with the ache beneath his ribs sharpening each breath.

“Leave him!” the keeper called. “He’s had enough!”

“Enough!” Murch shouted. The man in green rose with the broken stool leg in his hand. Murch drove a fist into him. The wood fell. Murch hit him once more.

Lew had followed the carter towards the door. He caught the man by the collar and drove him against the post, then struck him across the mouth. The keeper shouted for a third time. Someone outside screamed for the guards.

Harwin came through the door with four wolf-badged guards.

“Lord Stark’s peace! Stand away from him. All of you.”

Hennet let go of the carpenter. Lew released the carter, who sagged against the bloodied doorpost. Murch stood over the man in green, breathing through his split lip, until Harwin laid a staff across his chest and made him step back.

Nobody reached for steel. Hennet put out his hands when the guard took his belt. Across the room the veteran kept the other three soldiers beside him. The keeper pointed them out as the men who had obeyed him, then showed Harwin the broken bench, the stool and the blood upon his doorpost. The carpenter tried to speak over him.

“You will have your turn,” Harwin said.

The guards took the seven townsmen’s belts and bound their hands. Two guards marched them to the reeve. Harwin left the four soldiers who had stopped with orders to wait where they were. The keeper came with him and the three black coats up the road to the Old Watch. Hennet’s wrists were bound before him. People who had made room for his coat earlier came into their doorways to watch it pass.

Lord Jon heard them in the lower hall. A drawing lay rolled beside his chair. Arthur stood behind it; Hewyn waited near the pay table.

“Kneel,” Hewyn said. A guard pressed Hennet’s shoulder down.

His knees struck the boards. He could see the dusty toes of Lord Jon’s boots and the keeper’s hand trembling against his own cap.

Harwin gave his account: seven townsmen and seven soldiers, with the three kneeling before Jon still fighting when he arrived.

“The man in green shoved this one,” the keeper said, pointing at Lew. “He answered with his fist. Then they were all at it. But those four stood back when I called. These three went on.”

A guard had fetched the veteran from Sixth. He admitted striking the carter and pulling his own men clear. Questioned by Jon, he described Murch calling a halt, then striking the man in green after the stool leg fell from his hand.

Jon had listened without touching the drawing. Now he leaned forward, forearms upon his knees, and fixed his eyes upon Murch.

“Murch. You are a decanus.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You called the halt and struck again.”

Murch bowed his head. “He had the stool leg.”

“And when he dropped it?”

“I struck him again, my lord.”

Jon looked along the three kneeling men. “You took my coats into Lord Stark’s town and made his guards drag you home. An honest man has lost his furniture and his evening’s trade.”

“They insulted your honour!” Lew burst out. “Called you a little boy bastard, my lord. We could not sit there and hear it.”

The hall grew quiet. Lew’s voice had risen on the insult; he looked almost hopeful that saying it aloud would settle the matter. Jon rose and came close enough that Lew had to lift his face. When he answered, his voice was lower than Harwin’s had been.

“Your loyalty pleases me. But you knew my rules,” Jon said. “You heard the keeper call for peace and went on.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Six strokes each at morning muster. Murch, ten. You held rank and knew better. Then a sennight upon the latrines. No leave.”

Hennet swallowed. Beside him Lew’s shoulders sank.

“Abel will have the damage valued,” Jon told the keeper. “You will be paid tomorrow. The cost of what these three broke will be taken from their wages.”

The keeper bowed so low that his cap brushed the floor.

Jon turned to Harwin. “Tell Lord Stark I have heard them and given sentence. His reeve shall have whatever testimony he requires.”

Harwin inclined his head. Hewyn called for the bindings to be removed and sent for Lorren to examine the bruises.

Jon took the rolled drawing from beside his chair and went towards the stairs. At the first step he stopped and looked back.

“At least you won.”

He went upstairs before any of them could answer. Arthur followed him.

Hewyn took them to the guardroom. Lew leaned towards Hennet. “Did you hear?”

“I heard ten strokes,” Murch said.

At the door the decanus turned sideways to let the other two pass, his split lip dark beneath the dried blood.

At dawn the cohort formed around the square. Hennet took off his coat when his name was called and went to the block. He counted the first strokes in spite of himself, lost the count and waited for Hewyn’s voice to finish it. When he was released, Lorren put a hand beneath his arm and led him aside.

Lew followed; Murch went last, standing straight until Hewyn told him to bend. They began their sennight on the latrines with brooms, clean ash and scrubbing brushes. Others emptied the tubs until Lorren allowed them to lift. Lew barely answered men who asked how they had enjoyed their leave. At the far bench Murch worked with his sleeves above his elbows.

Abel showed them the keeper’s paid account before taking the first deductions. Hennet read his share twice, then folded the page into his chest beside the next letter for home. The money already upon the northern road was safe.

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At the end of the sennight, Lorren examined their backs again. Hennet stood still under his hands and asked when he might wear his harness. He wanted to be among his ten when they went out, instead of watching them march past with a brush in his own hand.

“Another few days,” Lorren said. “You will not hurry it by rubbing the skin open.”

Hennet nodded. He had already tried his coat that morning and put it away again.

* * *

On the following market day, Beth came home from the cobbler’s without her shoes.

Eda was hanging candles in the coolest corner of the shop. She looked down from the stool at her daughter’s grey stockings, then at the empty hands tucked behind her back.

“Where is the basket?”

“With the shoes.”

“And the candles?”

“He took them out. He said to come back when the soles were on.” Beth put one foot behind the other. “He wanted both shoes.”

Eda climbed down and examined the stockings. “You might have waited.”

“There were men sitting everywhere. I kept to the edges.”

Eda sent her to the stool with a damp cloth. Three men waited beneath the cobbler’s eaves with boots in their hands. She would fetch the shoes when she took the candles to the Black Yard.

The candle-master came down from the loft with an armful of wicks. His newest boy had left to carry boards for Woods a fortnight ago, though the master still spoke of him as if he had stepped out to piss.

“We ought to have had these away,” he said. “The lane will be full.”

“They are nearly cool.”

“They were nearly cool when I went up.”

Eda nodded at the shutter he had closed against the glare. He opened it, and a little air moved through the shop. Beth bent over her stockings before he could see her face.

He had bought another mould and rented the salt-fish woman’s old room. A second woman helped fill orders now—from the castle, the inn, the shops and the Black Yard, where lamps burned long after supper. Eda no longer waited for a visiting lord’s household to bring extra work.

She let Beth cut the candles apart. Her elder girls were still washing wool and sewing for Mairi. Since the turn of the year they had lived above the back of the shop, in two rooms with their own hearth. The girls could dress without stepping over bedding. Eda had bought a chest with a lid that fitted; for the first few nights she woke thinking someone might take it. William still sent money. Some of it stayed in the chest now.

A woman with a baby stopped outside. She had a bundle upon her back as well as the child, and the hem of her gown had worn through in two places.

“Do you know where they take women for the sewing?”

“Ask for Mairi at the Black Yard.”

“My husband said there was a house with a broken red shutter. I cannot find it.”

“The draper bought it and the one beside it.” Eda stepped into the doorway and pointed. “The tall front, there. You go past it.”

The husband had come from near Last Hearth the year before. At last he had sent for her and the children. Eda watched two older ones emerge from behind the waiting cart, each with a bundle. Before they were ten paces away a sawyer asked the way to Woods, his blade wrapped in sacking. She sent him uphill.

William came while they were tying the second basket. He carried the money in a little purse and wore a clean apron rolled beneath his arm. There was a black smear upon one cheek.

“Your face,” Eda told him.

He rubbed the other cheek. Beth pointed with a candle, then made him bend so she could wipe it away.

The candle-master counted the payment. William had once needed Eda to tell him when to speak to a master. Now he asked for the receipt, checked the change and put both away without looking to her.

“You can take the barrow,” she said. “I will help you round the corner.”

The brewer’s dray forced them into the passage behind the baker’s. A fresh foundation narrowed it further. Beyond the trench, a woman shook a quilt from a new window. Eda had watched that frame go up; the house had become somebody’s home while she was busy in the candle shop.

The passage smelled of bread, wet mortar and the privy behind the alehouse. More people had not made that part of the town sweeter. A man was digging another pit beyond the fence, with two waiting barrels beside him. William tilted the barrow to keep a wheel clear of the filth along the wall, and Eda held the upper basket steady.

They came out beside Woods’s rooms near the store. A little girl watched two men carry a bedframe upstairs, shouting that they were scratching it. Eda knew her mother, who had left a damp lodging across the market for the room above. The former landlord had come to the candle shop looking for someone to take it, speaking more pleasantly than Eda had thought possible.

At the Black Yard the porter came for the first basket. Men were fitting lids to three felt-cushioned clock crates. One bore a merman.

“Another for Lord Manderly?” Eda asked.

“For two brothers in White Harbor. Their first stands between their warehouses. This one is for their hall.” William turned the hanging label so the porter could check it. “They have paid for an oak door this time.”

Her nephew’s work would travel farther than anybody in her family had ever been. From inside, a bell struck twice, paused, then began again. An apprentice counted aloud until a man told him he could hear perfectly well without the help.

“Was that yours?” Eda asked.

“One of ours. A cloth merchant in Gulltown has bought it. The lad cut his first wheel for it. Now he wants everyone to hear.”

“Will you show me one before they pack it away?”

“Come on your rest day. I will have a lid left off.”

She touched his sleeve before taking the barrow. He was already turning towards a man calling from the bench, but looked back to ask whether Beth wanted to come too.

On the way home Eda bought a brown wool remnant, enough for a cap for Beth and something left for the elder girls. The cobbler’s wife asked whether either girl wanted work binding leather edges. Eda promised to ask. They had work now; they could decide.

Beth put her shoes on beside the candle-shop stool and stamped twice to hear the sound. When Eda showed her the wool, she held it against her cheek, then carried it upstairs with both hands.

* * *

Colm stopped where the road came out of the alders.

The candle-shop woman and a charcoal carter had both pointed him this way. There was no mistaking the grey tower with its steep new roof and black banner. He had been told to look for a ruin.

Below it stood a fort, a deep ditch and grassy bank enclosing timber walls. Barley moved beside the road. Farther downhill the river turned a broad wheel, and from the roof beside it came the steady striking of a hammer. Colm had heard a forge before. He had never heard one keep that pace.

At Torrhen’s Square, the wool carrier had promised a broken tower and a young lord spending coin upon it. Colm had hoped for a season’s roofing, perhaps a place in a carpenter’s shed after. He shifted the saw upon his shoulder and went up to the gate.

“What do you want?” the soldier asked.

Colm took off his cap. “Work. I’m a sawyer. They told me to ask for Master Woods.”

“Straight up, then left at the crossing. Stay clear of the wagons.”

Stone gutters flanked a street wide enough for two laden wagons. Men oiled armour beneath the whitewashed barrack eaves. A fellow with one bare foot and a hole in his stocking was polishing a breastplate better than Colm’s brother had in Lord Tallhart’s service.

At the carpenter’s shelter Branoc laid down his plane to inspect the saw.

“You brought a partner?”

“My brother held the other end at home. I am to buy his half if I stay.”

“Sensible of him.” Branoc held the teeth towards the light. “Who set these?”

“I did.”

“Tell Woods that. He may like you better.”

Woods listened to the places where Colm had worked, sighted along his blade and handed it back. Beyond the shelter men were fastening lifting ropes to a roof frame.

“Take a rope for now. You will try the sawpit after.”

A soldier passed him the end. His black coat lay upon the new wall.

“You build as well?” Colm asked.

“Aye. This end will be ours when it is roofed. I dug half the damned ditch before Woods found out I could use an axe.”

“Half?” said a red-haired man beside him.

“My half was harder than yours.”

They were laughing when a black horse came from the upper yard. Woods took off his cap. Colm turned with the others and saw a boy dismount beside an older swordsman. The boy’s coat was black, well cut across the shoulders, with a plain black collar. A white lock had escaped his tied hair and lay against his cheek.

“My lord,” Woods said.

Lord Black studied the drawing, then the wall. “This is the second?”

“Aye, my lord. The first is braced. We can have the other four ready when you return from the exercise.”

Jon gave his coat to the swordsman and joined the men at the windlass. Colm had seen barn timbers lifted with every spare shoulder in his village upon the ropes. Here two men turned the handles while the iron teeth clicked steadily beside the drum. He could hear Woods’s orders. When the frame’s feet settled upon the wall, Jon climbed the ladder to hold a brace while Branoc pegged it.

Colm eased his rope. The lord came down and stood beside Woods while the master examined the second brace. Colm could see the young lord’s eyes clearly now. They were purple. He had believed that tale less than the one about the roofless tower.

“The new sawyer, my lord. From Torrhen’s Square.”

“You have worked roofs before?” Jon asked.

“Barns and a storehouse. Never with a wheel like that.”

“You will learn it here.” Jon touched the brace. “Woods will show you what must be left for the joiner. We need the next building ready before the new men arrive.”

At the pit Harl asked only whether Colm could follow a line. It was cool below, with a close smell of pine. Fine dust sifted over his head at the first stroke. When the length came free, Woods crouched to examine it.

“A little close here. There is room to dress it. Keep the next one true.” He straightened. “With Harl at dawn, then.”

Colm smoothed the cap he had twisted between his hands. “Thank you, master.”

At the clerk’s table he listened closely to the wage and the charge for meals, and made the man repeat the second. What remained would let him send something home while buying out his brother’s saw. His work that afternoon would be paid at the sennight’s end. He accepted the trial.

The work loft had shutters that closed, a straw bed and places for his boots. At supper he found pork in the barley broth without stirring the whole bowl to look for it. Branoc asked whether anybody would follow him.

“My sister might. Her husband died a year ago. She does mending.”

“Ask at the sewing rooms. Take her word of a place before you fetch her.”

Colm nodded, and later wrapped the saw’s teeth before laying it beneath his bed. He would ask the clerk what it cost to send a letter. His brother thought a lord’s work might last a moon. With the timber he had seen waiting below, Colm meant to stay and find out.

* * *

The western oven smoked whenever the wind came across the yard.

Jon found Nesta outside the bakehouse, eyes streaming above a cloth held to her nose. Ormund stood beneath the open hood, glaring at a hearth which drew perfectly well now that the gust had passed. They had dried the masonry with small fires, raised the heat by degrees and tried both chambers. Nesta had been ready to put in the first bread when the smoke rolled back into her face.

“Put it out,” Jon said. “We shall try the outlet higher.”

He had drawn the bakehouse between ballista trials and helped Ormund lay its hearths. Four hundred and eighty men had outgrown the cookhouse. Elspeth had made him move the doors so that women carrying dough would not meet barrows of wood; Wylla had asked for covered bins and a place to cool the loaves. Now the roof was sending wind back across one flue. All his care over the work below would not make a baker willing to stand in smoke.

Ormund went up the ladder first. Jon followed with the cord and a strip of cloth, holding it above the roof while they watched the next gust. The mason measured the height they needed. Nesta stood below with her hands on her hips.

“Will that be today, my lord?”

“The eastern oven draws. Use that while we work. Keep the other dough cool.”

By the next full baking day, the raised outlet cleared the eddy. Nesta’s face stayed free of smoke as Jon helped load the broad, low chamber. In the other oven a fresh fire snapped beneath the brick vault. Her new helper, hired through Elspeth, brought the loaves from their covered boards while the first crusts began to colour.

Gerren had brought flour from the last harvest’s rye. Some belonged to Jon as rent. The rest had been bought from the families after they kept their seed and their own food. Beneath the store awning, Perrin weighed the sacks and gave Gerren the last of the agreed silver.

Merra brought onions and a tied bag of turnip seed. “That is our rye going in?”

“With some bought wheat,” Elspeth said. “You shall taste it.”

In the kitchen, Wylla and Merra stripped greens while Elspeth stirred barley into broth. Hesta brought fresh curds; with the cows fed through the lean weather, the kitchen could buy milk and cheese below the gate. Jon fitted the oven door, then stood back from the heat. He still missed turning a tap for hot water. Here every pail had to be lifted by somebody, and he had carried enough that morning to feel it in his shoulders.

Nesta cut a loaf while steam rose from its grey-brown crumb. She pressed it with one floury finger before sharing it out. Jon tasted rye, a little sourness and the crisp edge of the crust. Gerren took his piece outside to watch the second oven fill.

At dinner the men had barley broth with onions and greens, and curds at every bench. Jon sat beside a spearman who had helped clear the lower drain. The man tasted the bread and called to Gerren’s son.

“Your field?”

“The rye beyond the byre.”

The soldier tore off another piece. “Better carrying it this way.”

His neighbour had been in the same digging gang. He laughed with his mouth full, and Elspeth set the kettle between them before their bowls were empty.

Abel brought the grain account after the meal. Two market loads had come off the week’s order; the local purchases cost silver but little carriage. He showed Jon the baker’s wage, her helper’s, and the wood.

“The building is still against us.”

“Keep it there until it has earned it back. I want the true saving.”

Beyond the gate another merchant’s wagon climbed towards the granary. Four hundred and eighty soldiers ate every day. The twelve families must eat too, and much of the holding was wood, pasture and fodder ground. Jon watched the wagon through.

“Pay the carter. We shall need him again.”

When Nesta called that the second bread was out, he lifted the oven door for Elspeth’s covered pots. The beans could cook in the remaining heat. She had made him put shelves beside both ovens for that, and would not have the fuel wasted.

* * *

In the charter’s third year, the last foot century received its full issue of new steel. Two sennights had passed since Hennet’s leave. Parallel benches had let one line make helms and breastplates while another fitted lames, collars and limbs; every line still sent its work through the same proof yard.

Lorren had returned Hennet, Lew and Murch to full duty. Hennet eased his harness into place, waited for his neighbour to pull the last strap, then joined his ten. At the gate Murch counted them twice. He would not be missing anyone today.

Three hundred and twenty spearmen stood in four centuries. Every man had a quilted black jack, mail collar, dark steel helm, breast and back, skirt plates, long shield, spear, short sword, and two pila. The front files received the fullest arm defence first. One hundred and sixty sword-and-shield men stood in two centuries with round shields, swords, mail at throat and shoulder, breast and back plates, steel at elbow, forearm, knee, and shin. Centurions and optiones wore fuller mail beneath the plates.

Fifty household riders formed behind them in the darkest steel the Blackworks made. Their articulated harness held close upon horse or foot, mail closing every moving gap. Round shields, swords, and lances carried no sigil. A short sable mantle marked the body more clearly than any painted beast.

Six century flags stood before the tower, plain black squares hanging from their crossbars. Their white numerals ran from I to VI above the spear and shield badges. Men who had needed the meaning explained at their first muster now found their places with scarcely a glance. Above and behind them Finnan raised the great sable standard of House Black, uncharged and unmistakable.

Their boots struck the yard together. The sound echoed beneath the gatehouse.

A Cerwyn guard called the name of a cousin in Second Century. The spearman’s jaw tightened, but his eyes stayed upon his centurion. Along the gate, Winterfell guards stopped comparing armour and began watching the ranks.

“First Cohort,” Hewyn called.

Six centurions answered in order.

“Armour.”

The optiones passed along the rear rank, checking straps and weapons as the six centuries formed. Hewyn brought Jon the strength of the cohort.

“Four hundred and eighty present, my lord.”

Jon looked down the waiting line. “Bring them through the gate.”

Hewyn turned, and the first century moved.

Eddard waited on horseback beside the gate, grey cloak over white velvet, Jory and the Stark guards behind him. Catelyn had stayed away. Robb and Theon had brought half the Winterfell yard, and more smallfolk lined the road than anyone had invited. Arya watched from the wall with Wylla.

“All four hundred and eighty in your own steel,” Eddard said.

“And fifty household.”

“And you have drilled them together in this weight?”

“By paired centuries so far. Tomorrow the whole cohort goes across the ridge.”

“In all that steel?” Theon asked.

“With its baggage,” Jon said. “All six leave the road, build a camp, answer a night alarm, and fight the return. You may watch from the ridge, if you can bear to stay on it.”

Theon glanced towards the ridge. “I shall require a comfortable rock.”

Robb scarcely heard him. “May I come?”

“If Father agrees. You may watch; you do not borrow a century.”

“I would lead it better than Theon.”

“A turnip would lead men better than Theon,” Arya called from the wall.

Theon bowed. “Then give the turnip a horse.”

Eddard’s mouth moved before he mastered it. “I shall bring Rodrik. Cerwyn wants to see the camp with his master-at-arms. Bolton’s master-at-arms has come to ask about harness; he wishes to watch as well.”

“Bring both,” Jon said. “Otho has the ground measured. Lorren takes the physic, and the centuries provide their own cooks and carrying parties.”

The centurions turned back to their men. Eddard watched four hundred and eighty shields come square without Hewyn raising his staff.

“Tomorrow, then,” Eddard said. “Theon may join Rodrik’s men for the night attack. Robb stays with me.”

At the gate, Finnan lowered the sable standard. Six century flags turned towards the barracks. Cooks weighed grain while the muleteers divided thirty pack beasts among the centuries and laid out their harness.

When Eddard’s party had gone, Jon watched the last long shields pass into the armoury. Hewyn waited beside him with the morning’s roll.

“We shall need archers alongside them,” Jon said. “Pila will serve when the lines close. They cannot answer bowmen on a hillside.”

“Are you calling for more men, my lord?”

“Not yet. These six centuries must be ready for Dragonstone. We will come to the bows later.” Jon returned the roll and let Hewyn go to the waiting centurions. Heward remained with Tomas to settle the household’s place in the column.

Jon stopped at the Blackworks to speak with Noll, then rode to Winterfell. Wylla had kept his place at supper. Bran wanted to know whether the men slept inside their armour, and Robb had questions enough about the camp to keep Jon at the table after the dishes were cleared.

* * *

Arthur rode back to the Watch with him. The keep windows were still lit behind them; ahead, the century cooks were banking their fires for an early start. Jon gave Bucephalus to the groom and went upstairs with the camp drawing beneath his arm. His shoulders ached from the harness. Below the window, men carried the last food sacks beneath the wagon tilts; a driver called for someone to hold his lantern steady.

He was loosening his sword belt when Arthur said, “You will need more than these centuries.”

“For the exercise?”

“For what you mean to do afterwards.”

Jon looked towards the door. It was shut, and Aries was at Winterfell with Wylla for the night. He laid the belt beside the lamp.

“I know.”

“Do you mean to raise every man yourself?”

“As many as I can pay and train properly. Men who know their officers. Officers who have spent more than a morning learning to give orders.” He spread the drawing upon the table. “This is not the whole army I intend to have.”

Arthur drew off his gloves. “Mace Tyrell has a daughter.”

Jon stopped smoothing the parchment. Arthur had offered the name evenly, but his eyes stayed on Jon’s face.

“I know the bargain.”

“Then consider what it brings. Harvests your island cannot match, horses, knights, towns enough to arm them. Men speak of a hundred thousand swords if the great houses of the Reach unite. I would not swear to that number or pretend they all belong to Mace. A smaller host could still decide your war.”

“And afterwards? Could I dismiss him without wondering whether my army would go home?” Jon pulled out a stool for Arthur. “My father had their banners. He died while Mace sat outside Storm’s End. I will not ask the same man how much of a king he will allow me to be.”

Arthur sat. “You will not have a choice free of risk. Your enemies have marriages as well as swords. Robert has the Lannisters at his back, Arryn beside him, and your uncle’s friendship. You may despise the Tyrell bargain and still find yourself needing to break that strength apart.”

“I mean to break it apart. I do not mean to put Highgarden in its place.”

“Refusing to consider her will not make Highgarden harmless.”

“No. Nor does it require me to insult her. She has done nothing to me.” Jon leaned his forearms upon the table. “I can deal with her father without marrying his ambition. He can sell grain, offer ships or swear when he judges it wise. He will not choose my officers or buy a right to rule in my name.”

“The great houses still hold their people’s oaths,” Arthur said.

“And Robert holds theirs. I need men of my own when I ask them to change sides.”

Jon pushed the camp drawing aside and fetched Ethan’s harbour plan from the chest. A curl of parchment sprang up at one corner. He set his cup upon it.

“Dragonstone must be ready to withstand a siege. I need the stores filled and the ships sound. The clocks bring coin now; other work will bring more as we enlarge the port. I will bring in craftsmen and train more men. The workshops must keep earning while I am away finding new markets.”

“You speak of going east.”

“For trade, ships and craftsmen. I cannot let one bad harvest empty my purse.” He paused. “And there are two people I should have found already.”

Arthur looked towards the lamp. “I know.”

“Viserys may call himself king. What happens when he learns about me?”

“I cannot tell you what a boy I last knew before the war will say as a man. Nor what the men feeding him will put into his ear.”

“Then we find where he is and whose bread he eats. We do not send him a letter announcing a rival.”

Arthur nodded reluctantly. At the mention of the children his mouth had drawn tight; now he rubbed his thumb across a crease in his glove. “I would sooner go myself than send a stranger to them.”

“And leave Dawn’s place at my shoulder empty just as a rumour reaches court? We need someone who can ask after Ser Willem’s household without the whole harbour noticing.”

“Ethan has men in the ports. I can give him the names of people Darry knew.”

“Privately, when we reach the island. Nothing of my birth on the same page as a price for wool.”

Arthur put a finger upon the harbour mouth.

“You must consider what happens if Robert summons you before all this is ready. He has only to send a letter. Refuse it, and every friendship you have made becomes a question for the king.”

“I shall need a reason to be useful to him until I am strong enough not to be at his mercy. A prosperous port is not a declaration of war. Neither is a lord keeping a paid guard.”

“An army may look different.”

“Then I will not pretend an army is a guard. I will grow it as my lands and voyages require, with the cost in my own accounts. I have time to make lawful strength before anyone knows what claim stands behind it.”

Arthur rubbed at the old scar beside his thumb. “Ned will not march against Robert merely because you ask.”

“I will not ask now.”

“And later?”

Jon looked back towards Winterfell. Its highest light showed through the narrow window. Bran had fought sleep through the last of supper, determined to hear how the horses would get inside the camp.

“I would rather he never had to choose with a sword at his throat. I will give him time and a position he can defend. But he will not decide the rest of my life because he loves Robert.”

The knight sat quietly after that. Jon returned the harbour plan to the chest. He had studied enough of Rome to know what happened when soldiers could no longer look to their commander for their pay.

“I will hear bargains and take advice,” he said. “But I will not win a throne only to be kept upon it.”

Arthur stood and picked up his gloves. “Then you must build well enough to bear the price of saying no. It will be dearer than this.” He tapped the chest lid.

“I expect it will.”

“Good. Tomorrow you still have to get six centuries through a gate without the baggage blocking it.”

Jon returned to the camp drawing. Arthur drew his stool alongside him, and together they moved the wagons back from the entrance.