The next morning, Arden’s men arrived.

They didn't ride in with trumpets or fanfare, just crept in quiet as a disease during the hushed pre-dawn hours. First they were heard, then seen riding up the long road to Hordon. At once, they were there, appearing from the mist-wreathed edges of the village, their silhouettes standing against the grey light. They were not the familiar taxmen, demanding their due with a wink and a nod. These were different, flint-eyed and lean, their movements economical and purposeful. Their leader, a thin-lipped bastard with a sneer that could curdle milk, rode at their head, his gaze sweeping over the village with a predatory intensity.

Hordon, normally a place of simple routines and familiar faces, now felt alien, transformed by an undercurrent of fear. Chickens had been locked away in their coops, and the well stood desolate, the rope hanging limp. "The villagers began to gather in the square, which looked more like an arena than the familiar marketplace.

Master Rigby, Arden's representative, perched upon an overturned water trough, his thin frame radiating a cold authority that belied his frail appearance. Two guards, their faces impassive and armor gleaming dully in the weak light, stood beside him, their hands never far from the hilts of their swords. They looked like ravens in their dark armor..

"Now, then," Rigby's voice sliced through the uneasy quiet. "Let's have you. Name, and the number of souls in your dwelling. And be swift. We've no time for dawdling."

The first to be summoned was a middle-aged woman. She gave her name in a voice barely above a whisper, adding that she lived alone, her only son lost to a fever the previous year.

Rigby made a notation, his quill scratching across the parchment like the skittering of a beetle. "Next!"

One by one, the villagers were called forward, their lives reduced to entries on a tax roll. Each name was met with the same cold scrutiny, the same probing questions. Then came the turn of two young women, sisters by the look of them, their hands clasped tightly together. They were pretty girls, too thin, but with lovely round faces.

They gave their names, their voices barely audible.

"And you live with…?"

"Our parents," the elder sister replied. “And our young brother, Robin.”

“And are your parents current on their taxes owed to the Crown?" Rigby's voice was sharp, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

The girls hesitated, their eyes darting nervously towards the ground.

"They are… not, sir," the elder finally admitted.. "They've both been unwell for a great while. We tried our best to work in their stead but the harvest was weak on our plot.”

Rigby leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the two girls. "Indeed," he said, aloof. He consulted his parchment, running a bony finger down the list of names. "According to my records, they owe one shilling, sixpence from the last collection. A considerable sum." He looked up, fixing them with a hard stare. "And do they have any money at all to give today to settle this debt, now that they have sent their daughters?"

The elder sister shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. "No, sir," she whispered. "We have nothing.”

"Convenient, isn't it?" Rigby said after a moment. "Parents fall ill, leaving their daughters to plead their case. A touching story, to be sure. Perhaps they hoped it would play on my sympathies." He leaned back, his gaze sweeping over the two girls. "But I'm not so easily fooled. It has come to my attention that some young women have been… concealing coins. Hiding them in their… garments to avoid paying their due." He let his gaze linger on their figures, a blatant and unsettling assessment.

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The sisters exchanged a terrified glance. The younger one whimpered, clutching her sister's hand even tighter.

"Surely," Rigby continued, his gaze fixed on their chests. "You wouldn't be so foolish as to try and cheat the King?"

Before anyone could react, he snapped his fingers. "Search them," he ordered the guards.

The guards grinned, a predatory gleam in their eyes. They stepped forward, their hands outstretched.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd. This was beyond the pale, beyond any decency, an outrage.

"No!" John found himself shouting, pushing his way to the front. "You have no right!"

But his protest was lost in the rising tide of anger. The guards reached for the girls, their rough hands pawing at their clothes, searching for hidden coins. The girls cried out, struggling against their grasp, their faces contorted with fear and shame.

"Touch any one of the King’s men and you'll be hanged for treason!" Rigby bellowed. The villagers paused in their tracks, but continued to shout. The guards looked nervously at each other.

A youth, all elbows and knees, darted in front of the guards, brandishing a hayfork like a makeshift weapon. It was Robin, the girls’ younger brother.

"Leave them be!" he shrieked, his voice high and piercing.

THe guard snickered at the boy, and that sent him over the edge, He charged at the nearest guard, like a toy soldier facing down a giant. He brandished the pitchfork like a spear, a pathetically inadequate weapon against a soldier's steel. The crowd watched, frozen in a collective gasp of horror.

The guard, startled by the sudden attack, barely had time to react before Robin lunged forward with his pitchfork. The small tines grazed the guard's leg. He roared, more in surprise than pain. He swatted at the boy as if he were a fly, and with his other hand, brought up his sword. With a swift, brutal motion, he thrust the blade forward.

The point of the blade found its mark, piercing Robin's small body. The boy crumpled, his eyes wide with shock, the pitchfork clattering on the hard-packed earth beside him.

John knelt beside the boy, his gaze fixed on the spreading stain of red. Robin was gurgling blood, his small chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged gasps. A wave of nausea washed over John, the coppery scent of blood thick in the air.

No...no...

The image blurred, superimposed with another boy, another field. A French boy, no older than Robin, lying lifeless amidst the churned mud of a battlefield, his eyes staring blankly at the sky.

He reached for Robin, his hand hovering over the boy's chest, and felt his heart slow and saw his eyes finally close. As he shifted the boy's slight weight, a small, smooth object tumbled from Robin's pocket, landing with a soft thud on the dusty ground.

It was the wooden horse John had given him.

He recoiled, his hand jerking back as if burned. The carved mane, the smooth, worn flanks –now seemed heavy, like an omen of what may yet come.

The square, moments before a cauldron of simmering anger, fell deathly silent. The only sound was the elder sister's sobs, raw and ragged, as she cradled her brother's lifeless body. The other villagers stood frozen. They had been on the verge of action, but now stood paralyzed by the chilling scene before them, their fear battling with their outrage.

Rigby’s face finally betrayed a flicker of something that might have been unease, surveyed the scene. The violence had gone too far, even for him. He had lost control of the situation and, what's worse, he had lost the high ground.

"That's enough for today," he declared, his voice regaining some of its former authority, but lacking its previous conviction. He gestured to his men, his face now pale and drawn. "We're done here."

The guards, their faces grim, sheathed their swords and retreated, forming a tight knot around Rigby as they pushed their way through the stunned crowd. No one moved to stop them.

"We'll be back," Rigby added. "After you've had time to... bury the boy. And to reconsider your defiance. You owe the King. And the King will collect."

With that, they were gone, leaving behind a scene of utter despair. The two sisters remained on the ground, their bodies wracked with sobs, clutching their brother's lifeless form.