The bonfire was little more than a memory of warmth. Most of the villagers had sought their beds, leaving only a few huddled around the dying fire. John Kent nursed the dregs of his ale. It didn't warm him like it should, but it helped keep his spirits up. He was home, and determined to savor it.

He took a deep breath.

"Feels good to be back," he said, more to himself than the others.

Thomas shifted closer, like he was prepared to receive a secret. "What was it really like, John? Over there in France?"

John looked at him, a shadow passing over his face. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if searching for the right words. Finally he said, "It was… rough. The ale, for one. You wouldn't believe the muck they tried to pass off as drink in the army. Watered down, sour… barely fit for a horse, let alone a man."

He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Still, it was wet, I suppose. And sometimes, that's all you could ask for. Especially after a long march. We marched for days, sometimes weeks, it seemed. Chasing shadows, mostly. The French, they weren't always keen on a straight fight, not after Crécy. They'd raid, then melt away. Like bloody ghosts, they were."

He paused, his gaze drifting towards the flickering flames. A muscle twitched in his jaw, just like Peter's had earlier.

"You were there for a while, weren't you?" Thomas prompted, his voice soft. "Must've seen some things."

John nodded slowly. "A few battles, though mostly we waited around for someone to tell us to move. We did our share of raiding too.Took what we could. War's a dirty business, you should know, no matter who is doing it."

He shifted, the movement making him wince. "That's how I got this," he said, gesturing to his leg with his tankard.

"How'd it happen?" Thomas asked.

"Well, nothing grand," John replied with a wry twist of his lips. "Just a little scrap. We were foraging, trying to find some food that hadn’t been burned or taken already. Ambushed, we were.”

The others leaned in, realising they were hearing something they’d never experience, the whispers of somewhere far away.

“They came out of nowhere. We formed a line, pikes forward, like we were taught. Then I felt it. A sharp pain, like fire in my leg. An arrow, it was. Went right through.”

He took another sip of his ale, his hand trembling slightly. “Felt like my leg had been kicked clean off, nearly. Dropped my pike, of course. After that, it's all a bit of a blur. Woke up in a wagon, jolting along some rutted track. The chirurgeon, he wasn't a gentle sort. Dug around in there, cleaned it out I suppose. Said I was lucky, that I'd keep the leg. Lucky." He gave another mirthless chuckle.

"They sent me home after that. Said I was no use to them anymore. So here I am." He raised his tankard in a mock toast. "Home.” He took a long, slow swallow of his drink. "So," he said, turning to Thomas, a forced lightness in his voice. "How's life treating you? Still wrestling those sheep into submission?"

Thomas Baker snorted, a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "These days, it's the wolves I'm concerned about."

"Wolves?" John said. "Haven't been wolves in these parts for years."

"Not the furry kind," Peter Cook muttered, his gaze fixed on the embers, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"He means the steward, John," Eleanor explained, shifting their sleeping daughter, Mary, on her lap. "And his men." She adjusted the blanket around the girl, her touch gentle, but her eyes were hard.

"Ah, Ardern's lapdogs," John said, with a knowing nod. "Still sniffing around for scraps, are they?"

"Scraps?" Agnes, an older widow, gave a dry laugh. "They take the whole meal these days, and leave us with the bones."

"Come now, Agnes," John said. "We’ve got a good fire to enjoy.”

"Easy for you to say, John," Peter said. "You haven’t been here to see it yourself. Have heard of this latest poll tax?"

John nodded, his smile fading completely. "I heard talk of it, even in France. A bad business, for sure.”

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Peter snorted. " It’s the third one in four years, John. The third! First two were our pence a head, that was bad enough.. Most folk ‘round here are being forced to pay a full shilling. A shilling!"

"But that's..." John's voice trailed off.

"They say it's for the war," Thomas said. " Some say there are some in the King’s company who are putting that coin right into their own pockets.

"Aye," Peter added, nodding grimly. "John of Gaunt, that’s what I’ve heard. Using the taxes to fund his own ambitions." He spat into the dirt. "And that preacher, that… what's his name… He's been going around, stirring folks up. I’d bet anything they’ll be putting him on the block for saying such things.”

Agnes shifted, her gaze sharpening. " My sister listened to one of his sermons being read in Rayleigh.”

"Dangerous talk," Thomas muttered, glancing nervously around. "Bold, very bold.”

"He quotes scripture, too," Eleanor added, her voice low, almost a whisper.

" I keep with Thomas on this. The whole business sounds like trouble to me," said John, frowning.

"Trouble's already here, John," Peter said, " There’s a lot of quiet evils that men are starting to speak.” With that, John fell quiet. Peter took the silence to continue.

"Ardern's collectors are ruthless.They're demanding the full shilling from everyone, even those who are supposed to pay less, according to the law. They took Widow Martha's hen, John. Her last one. Said she owed more, though she showed 'em her tally."

"The weather's been no help," Thomas said. “We’ve lost so many between illness and hunger. Something’s gonna snap, and I don’t know what it’ll be, truth be told."

"I think we best be getting in," Eleanor murmured, rising with Mary in her arms.

Agnes rose to leave as well, her movements stiff but purposeful. "Watch yourselves," she said, smiling. “Get too serious and you’ll wear yourselves out.”

The three men watched them go, the silence stretching out, punctuated only by the crackling of the dying embers.

"She's right, you know," Peter said, finally breaking the quiet. "Things can't go on like this." He reached into the folds of his tunic and, with a flourish, produced a wine skin. "And they won't have to, not for tonight at least.”

John raised an eyebrow. "Where did you get that, Peter?"

Peter grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Let's just say Lord Ardern won't be missing it. Or not for a while, anyway. Found it in the pantry, during my last 'visit'. Figured we deserved a little something for our troubles. A bit of his own back, eh?"

Thomas shifted uncomfortably. "Peter, that's not wise. Stealing from Ardern..."

"Stealing?" Peter scoffed. "I'm just taking a bit back. Besides, he has cellars full of the stuff. More than he could drink in a lifetime." He pulled the stopper and took a long swig, then offered it to John.

John hesitated. He could see Thomas shaking his head slightly in the flickering firelight. It was good wine, that much was clear. Far too good for the likes of them.

He took a small sip, the rich, fruity liquid warming him from the inside. He passed it to Thomas, who took a perfunctory sip before handing it back to Peter.

"You're playing a dangerous game.” Thomas said, his voice low. "You know what they do to thieves."

"They have to catch me first," Peter said, taking another large gulp.

"You've got a wife, Peter," John said quietly. "You need to think about her."

"Sarah understands," Peter said, a little too quickly. "She's as fed up as I am. Besides," he added, waving the bottle dismissively, "this isn't about me. It's about all of us. We need to stand up for ourselves.”

"How do you propose we do that?" said Thomas, taking on the voice of a lecturing father.

"I don’t rightly know," said Peter. "We need to do something. I’m just not sure I know what."

John and Thomas exchanged a worried look. They had to make sure this didn't go beyond a single bottle of plundered wine.

"Peter," John said, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable. "We all understand you're upset. We all are. But this isn't the way. Stealing from Ardern, no matter how much he deserves it, will only bring trouble down on all of us. And on Sarah."

Peter glared at him, his eyes narrowed. "I'm going home. I thought you would understand the need for a bit of dignity." He thrust the half-empty wineskin at John. "You two enjoy the rest. If you can stomach it, knowing it was meant for our 'betters'."

And with that, he stumbled off into the darkness, leaving John and Thomas alone by the dying fire.They watched him go, a heavy silence descending upon them.

"He's going to get himself killed," Thomas said finally, his voice filled with a weary resignation.

"Or worse," John added grimly. He looked at the wineskin in his hand, then at the dying embers of the fire. He suddenly felt very tired. "We need to talk to him. Before he does something truly foolish."

"Aye," Thomas agreed. "But not tonight. He's too far gone tonight. And with Sarah expecting...We need to tread carefully, John. For everyone's sake."

John nodded, his gaze fixed on the darkness where Peter had disappeared.

“The worst thing, John is…part of me understands. I’m angry too. I don’t know how we’ll make it through this year, unless we have an excellent harvest.”

John nodded. He was less angry himself, though perhaps more anxious."Let's get some rest," John said, rising to his feet. "We'll talk to Peter in the morning. Try to make him see sense."

The night had grown colder, and as they walked towards their respective homes, the silence was broken only by the distant hoot of an owl. It sounded an awful lot like a warning.