A novice monk's brutal life - and his role in worsening his own sufferings

Brother Thomas turns the wax-sealed placard among the chapel papers. The monastery signet, pressed beside the banqueting hall instructions, makes his face tighten with recognition.

Outside, the mounted men shift uneasily beneath the chapel windows. Bren keeps Seamus low behind the altar rail, while Alexandre guards the barred door.

Brother Thomas turns the placard beneath the candle. Wax flakes fall onto the chapel table, exposing the faint impression of a bishop’s crozier beneath the monastery seal.

The Northmere official folds the warrant beside the placard and signals through the shutter. Outside, harness rings and boots retreat several paces, but the horses remain.

Brother Thomas warms the placard’s wax above the candle. The scraped crozier resolves into a hooked staff circled by three small stars, the mark of the bishop’s visitation office.

The official presses her thumb against the faint crozier impression, then folds the warrant away from the placard. Outside, the armed men grow quieter.

A mutter rises beyond the shutters. One of the armed men urges the official to surrender Timothy for immediate discipline, proposing their belts as instruments of correction. The demand carries through the quiet chapel.

The official steps nearer the door and raises her voice. Behind her, Alexandre’s hand closes around his sword hilt, while Bren keeps Seamus crouched beneath the altar rail.

The men retreat several paces, but one belt buckle strikes a mounting stone with a sharp clatter. The noise carries into the chapel, and the official adds attempted intimidation to her written record.

Timothy steps from behind the altar rail and approaches the barred door, presenting himself as the warrant’s named subject. Bren catches his breath, but does not seize him.

The official opens the shutter wide enough to be heard clearly, placing herself between Timothy’s offered surrender and the armed men beyond the threshold.

A long silence follows. Then a mounted man, a stocky middle-aged man with a scarred cheek beneath a mud-dark hood curses and blurts that Cerdic promised the reeve’s men payment for Timothy’s capture, exposing a second chain of authority.

Timothy lifts the bar and walks outside with empty hands raised. The chapel door remains open behind him, framing Bren, Seamus, and Brother Thomas as witnesses.

The stocky older pursuer with the scarred cheek steps forward, joined by another gray-haired man, a middle-aged human man with a lean build, weathered brown skin, and a narrow face, wearing a dark green reeve’s coat in a reeve’s badge. They loop rope around Timothy’s wrists and secure his arms without striking him.

Iron chains are fastened loosely around Timothy’s wrists and linked to a belt at his waist. The Northmere official watches each clasp, while Alexandre stands in the doorway with his sword drawn.

The official studies Timothy’s lowered hands and measured silence. Her expression hardens, not with contempt, but with the wary attention of someone who suspects every calm word may conceal a snare.

Her gaze flicks to Brother Thomas, then the placard. She has heard enough testimony to fear Timothy’s influence, and enough contradiction to recognize him as a dangerous witness rather than a helpless fugitive.

The scarred pursuer pales as a clerk’s satchel is brought from the official’s saddle. She orders his confession copied beside the warrant, giving Timothy’s testimony a written place before dawn.

While the official dictates the confession, Timothy lowers his bound hands and works the loosened rope against the iron clasp. His fingers find the slack hidden beneath the knot.

The chain slips free without a clatter. Timothy darts through the chapel doorway, crosses the wet yard, and vanishes between the dark hedges before the guards understand.

Timothy runs beneath dripping branches, following no road. Mud takes his footprints, bracken tears at his clothing, and the chapel’s voices fade behind the rising wind.

Timothy slips beneath the dripping canopy and settles into a hollow between roots. Ferns curtain his small frame, while rain and wind erase the marks of his passage.

He lies still and listens. From the chapel yard come shouted orders, the creak of saddles, and the official demanding that every man remain available for questioning.

Another pursuer answers that the forest road is watched by reeve’s men. Their words reveal a safer route: the old charcoal track eastward remains unguarded.

Timothy remains concealed as the search turns toward the hedges. He now knows the eastern charcoal track offers an open escape, while the official’s order keeps the pursuers divided.

The eastern charcoal track lies beyond the hedges, but each shift of Timothy’s legs draws the ankle shackles tight. Their muted clink carries through the rain.

The rope at Timothy’s wrists has no useful slack. A second loop circles his neck, tugging whenever he tests the binding, while wet roots leave no purchase for escape.

The searchers turn back from the mill path. Their boots press through the fern beds, and one carries a lantern low, searching for the glint of metal.

The order protects Timothy from immediate violence but narrows his escape. The charcoal track remains open in name only, while the search closes around the hollow.

The lantern reaches the hollow, but the Northmere official raises one gloved hand. She studies Timothy’s soaked clothes, the raw bindings, and the iron fixed at his ankles.

The pursuer hesitates beneath the rain. At the official’s command, the reeve’s man cuts the rope from Timothy’s wrists and neck, then unlocks the ankle shackles.

The discarded iron sinks into the mud. Behind the official’s sternness, a reluctant kindness has prevailed, and the divided pursuers no longer possess lawful claim over Timothy.

The Northmere official’s stern expression does not sharpen at Timothy’s address. Her attention remains fixed on the cut bonds, the warrant, and the men who enforced it.

The scarred pursuer lowers his knife and glances toward the reeve’s man. Neither finds accusation in her correction, only a measured refusal to be diverted.

The official gives no reply to the pursuer. Rain darkens the discarded rope, and the chapel’s witnesses remain visible beyond the open doorway.

Timothy turns back through the rain, retrieves the iron shackles from the mud, and carries them openly toward the scarred pursuer.

He extends the shackles without resistance. The scarred pursuer stares at the offered iron, then looks to the Northmere official for permission.

The scarred pursuer secures Timothy’s wrists, then fastens the shackles around his ankles. A third chain settles around his neck, held short enough to control without choking.

Rain ticks against the iron. Timothy stands restrained before the chapel, while the official watches every clasp and the witnesses remain gathered beyond the open door.

The scarred pursuer mounts and leads Timothy by the short chain. Timothy runs obediently behind the horse, iron striking softly as rain washes the road.

Mud splashes his legs, and the chain keeps his pace measured beneath the rider’s watch. Willowford’s chapel disappears behind hedges and dripping alder trees.

The road bends east through sodden fields and abandoned charcoal clearings. Timothy follows every tug without resistance, while the scarred pursuer’s men trail behind at a cautious distance.

By dusk, a timber palisade rises beyond the rain-dark fields. Armed sentries open its gate after seeing the scarred pursuer’s signal, revealing Cerdic’s fortified domain within.

The horse passes beneath the gate, drawing Timothy into the muddy courtyard of Cerdic’s domain. The gate closes behind him, and the chain remains in the scarred pursuer’s hand.