The dry earth cracked and shifted beneath the horses’ hooves, the drumbeat of their steady travel. John pulled his wool hood tighter, not against the cold now, but the wind that whipped across the land, chapping his exposed skin.

  The track was no longer choked with mud, but had been baked hard by the relentless wind, the surface now cracked and dry where moisture was drawn away. They rode in single file, Peter leading, then John, then Fletcher and Barryngton bringing up the rear, each man wrapped in his own thoughts, the silence between them now filled with the dry rustle of wind and the creak of saddle leather.

  The landscape stretched out in a gradient of ochre and brown. Old woods, their new leaves still small and tightly furled, were set back from the track. John watched them, heir branches rattling like dry bones. Wide fields rolled away on either side. Here and there John saw patches of early wheat pushing through the soil, but mostly it was a land stripped bare of surface damp, the wind having carried away the recent rains. They rode for what felt like hours, the miles marked only by subtle shifts in the world they pushed through, the copse of skeletal beeches giving way to a stretch of open heathland, the track dipping into a shallow valley then climbing again.

  As they rounded a bend in the track, he caught the first glimpse of a scene he couldn’t immediately place. It wasn’ a traveler, nor an animal, but something overturned against the base of an oak, laying at a unnatural angle. As they drew closer, the shape resolved into a man slumped beside a cart’s wheel.

  John reined in. "Hold," he yelled to Peter over the wind. He dismounted, boots crunching on the gritty track. Wind tore at his cloak, stinging his eyes with dust, blurring the distance. Closer now, the shape began to resolve. Still just a man, hunched and still against the oak’s thick trunk.

  "By the oak!" John shouted, pitching his voice to carry against the wind, still unsure of who or what awaited him. "You there, are you hurt?" The slumped figure stirred, its head picking up, slowly, reluctantly. The man's face turned towards John, it was still too indistinct to place.

  Then, the man yelled back, his voice snatched and twisted by the wind. Still, the sound of it was distantly familiar. “If you’re trying to make off with something, I got nothing for you.”

  John laughed, that voice was truly unmistakable now.

  "Will?" John yelled back, disbelief warring with certainty. He closed the last few steps, finally seeing the face clearly, wind-chapped, dust-streaked, but undeniably, impossibly, Will Wright.

  "Kent," Will shouted, a laugh cracking through the word, part relief, part disbelief. "John Kent, walkin’ into the teeth o’ this wind! By all the saints…"

  “All’s well,” John shouted to Peter. “He's an archer from Brentwood way. Old friend…” He turned back to Will, his gaze going to his twisted leg. “Will—what happened?”

  Will gestured with the branch, his movements stiff, pain evident. "Damn rabbit hole. Twisted it proper, as I’m a clumsy fool." His face tightened, a deeper strain beneath the pain.

  Peter stepped closer, and looked closer at the overturned cart, the scattered goods, the hard lines of Will’s face. "Cart's over," Peter shouted. "Wind shear you off the track?"

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  "Wind certainly started it," he yelled back. "But men finished it.” He jerked his chin towards the track eastward, back towards Brentwood. "Two of 'em came along, of the Gryff sort.”John moved closer still, fighting the wind. "They robbed you, then?" he yelled, cutting to the heart of it.

  Will nodded sharply, a jerky, angry motion. "Robbed me clean as bone! I had a whole load of Ongar wood, the finest you’ll find. Heading to Rayleigh market, Said…" He broke off, swallowed hard. "Said I was lucky they’d be leaving me living. Don’t feel no grace about it, seein' as they left me for dead out here.” He gestured at his broken leg, his empty hands, the desolate roadside.

  He glanced at Peter and Fletcher, a silent communication passing between them. “We’re bound for Rayleigh, Will. Come with us.” Will looked up, squinting against the dust and wind, his expression a mix of disbelief and weary resignation. “Rayleigh?” he repeated, the word snatched away by the gale. “What for? Place like Rayleigh ain’t got nothing for a broken man with empty pockets.”

  “We heard there’s decent enough folk in Rayleigh,” John said, his voice pitched to carry over the wind. “And maybe some who remembers you. Brentwood men stick together, don’t they? We can find you shelter, and maybe somewhere to get that leg seen to.”

  Will’s gaze flickered from John to Peter, then to Fletcher and Barryngton, assessing the sincerity in their faces, the strength in their stances.

  “And the cart?” Will asked, his voice low, barely audible against the wind, gesturing weakly towards the wreckage behind him. “They stripped it of anything worth taking on a couple horses, and the axle likely snapped.”

  “Leave the cart,” John said decisively, dismounting the horse. “We’ll help you with any smaller things you still got.” He gestured to his own now riderless mount. “I’ll walk her alongside. We’ll be slower, mind you, but we’ll get you to Rayleigh.”

  Fletcher nodded, moving forward immediately with Peter, their large hands gentle as they helped Will struggle to his feet, supporting him on either side. Peter took the reins of John's horse.

  As they helped Will to his feet, the archer grimaced, pain twisting his features. He leaned heavily on his crutch, his breath catching in ragged gasps. “Leg’s proper broke, I think.”

  Carefully, they settled Will onto the spare horse, adjusting his weight, ensuring he was as comfortable as possible despite his injury. John watched, a frown of concentration creasing his brow. Once Will was secure, John turned to Peter and Fletcher. “Right then,” John said. “Slow going from here on. Lead reins on Will’s horse, Peter, if you would. Fletcher, keep an eye on our flanks, eh? Barryngton, just uhhh, keep up. ”

  Barryngton smiled a sarcastic smile, and Peter nodded, taking the reins of Will’s horse from Fletcher. “Aye, John,” Peter said. “Horses are tired anyway. No need to rush now. Steady pace is best.”

  John turned to Will, his voice quiet now, the soldier’s briskness softening. “It’s been too long, Will. You settled down in Kelvedon Hatch, I heard tell.” He hesitated. “How’s the family?”

  He looked away, towards the wind-scoured track. “They’re gone, John. All of them.” He paused, then added, the words flat. “Ague took them. Winter before last.”

  “Will,” John murmured, the words inadequate, falling short of the immensity of Will’s loss. “I didn’t know.” Will just straightened slightly in the saddle and nodded. “Alright, to Rayleigh.” He said, smiling through a grimace. “ Thanks for taking me on, ya handsome bastard.”

  After some time, as the sun began its slow descent, and the moved at an elderly pace over the parched land, the track began to rise. After they pushed against the hill to its crest, the sight of the town finally broke in their vision. “Rayleigh,” Peter called back.

  John narrowed his eyes to trace the line of Peter’s outstretched arm, landing on a cluster of dark shapes huddled there, like crows on a battlefield. Buildings, likely. Which meant people. Which meant trouble, probably. But also, maybe, a chair that didn't bite back and a bit of something stronger than water to help his aching back.

  "Rayleigh," he muttered, and if there was a sliver of hope in his voice, it was buried deep under a mountain of weariness. After years on campaigh, he had come to expect that good rest would be followed by a swift kick in the teeth.