Free Shadow of the Raven by Tessa Harris

signs of spring were evident. For the people of Brandwick, he knew it would mean only one thing—continued hardship. With an undoubtedly late harvest, the price of food would be forced up, heaping more suffering onto an already hard-pressed population.
    It was midafternoon by the time Thomas reached the outskirts of Brandwick. Passing St. Swithin’s, he noticed a sizable huddle of villagers on the church steps. He urged his horse nearer. He could glean that the few men who knew their letters were reading excerpts of some bill or notice out loud. He dismounted and walked up the church path to see what was going on. After a moment or two he understood. The Act of Enclosure, the infamous measure allowing landowners to enclose land and charge rents for what used to be free to all men, had been posted on the church door. It also quickly became clear to him that not everyone understood what they were reading.
    â€œDr. Silkstone, sir!” came an anxious voice. He turned to see Susannah Kidd, the young widow of Boughton’s former head gardener. Grief had furrowed her brow and dulled her complexion.
    â€œWhat does it mean?” She pointed to the notice. “There’s talk of a hanging.”
    The huddle suddenly parted to allow Thomas up the steps so he could read the document for himself. A quick glance told him that phrases like “the execution of such act” were to blame for causing consternation among some of the womenfolk. He turned to Mistress Kidd. “No hanging,” he reassured her, “but changes to how the land is used. The Boughton Estate wishes to fence off the common and woods.”
    Thomas observed the reaction of those around him to the news. Some of those he knew to be cottagers and commoners muttered among themselves and shook their heads. Thomas knew they were the ones who would lose out to Boughton’s grand scheme, but he was confident they were fighters, too. They all knew their rights—handed down by the famous lady who entrusted them with her flaming brand—and those rights over the land were in perpetuity.
    As he watched the stragglers disperse down the church steps, Thomas remembered Nicholas Lupton’s diatribe. He would have it that these villagers, these downtrodden men and women, were so angry and vicious that they had already killed a man to protect these land rights. Yet all Thomas could see that afternoon was the quiet despair and the dignified anxiety that was etched on their faces as they drifted away from St. Swithin’s. He read the act once more, this time for his own interest.
    He studied the details, written large in black and white, and as he read, it occurred to him that this piece of parchment bore all the heinous marks of Sir Montagu Malthus himself. Everything had fitted so neatly into place. Gabriel Lawson’s death had been most fortuitous in enabling Nicholas Lupton to slide effortlessly into the steward’s shoes. While learning the intimate workings of the Boughton Estate and pretending to labor for the benefits of its tenants, as well as Lydia, the snake in the grass had, all the while, been plotting and scheming. And now Sir Montagu’s intentions had been made public, exposing him for the tyrant he was.
    With a heavy heart Thomas turned and headed toward the Three Tuns. Before he returned to London on the morrow, he still needed to investigate further into Jeffrey Turgoose’s murder. He suspected there was much more to it than Lupton would have him believe. With or without the steward’s cooperation, he planned to pursue his inquiries.
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    Thomas rode through the narrow arch and into the courtyard of the inn. Hearing the clatter of hooves on cobbles, the stable lad, his hair greasy and limp, loped forward with an odd gait to greet him. The anatomist quickly noted that he had an artificial leg, a shaft fashioned, it seemed, from metal, and held fast below the knee. It did not appear to hamper the youth,