The frost still lay upon the ground when they came.
Three riders, cloaked in Ashbourne's colours, trotted into the village square with the chill assurance of men who carry authority upon their shoulders. Behind them tramped a handful of labourers pressed into service—rough men armed with cudgels and ropes. The villagers, who had been bent over their morning tasks, looked up in dread as the small procession halted by the well.
The leader, a tall man with a hawk's nose and a sneer fixed upon his lips, unfurled a parchment and began to read aloud, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.
"By order of Lady Ashbourne, Mistress of the Manor and rightful holder of these lands, all tenants in arrears are to be dispossessed forthwith. Goods may be seized to satisfy debt. Those found aiding or sheltering fugitives of her household are subject to binding and removal to the gaol at Derby."
The words fell upon the villagers like blows. Women clutched their children close, men tightened their fists, but none spoke. The silence was broken only when Thomas the smith strode forward, his great frame filling the space between the riders and the crowd.
"This is no justice," he growled, his voice low but dangerous. "You would strip honest folk of hearth and home because a lady wills it so?"
The hawk-nosed steward regarded him coolly. "I obey my mistress's commands. Resist, and you invite the law's full measure."
---
From the back of the gathering, the beloved felt the girl's hand tremble in his own. He released it gently and stepped forward, his heart pounding as though it would burst from his chest.
"If punishment is to be dealt," he said, his voice steady despite his fear, "then let it fall upon me, for it is I who have brought her anger, not these good people."
A ripple of murmurs ran through the villagers. The steward's eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction. "So the fugitive speaks. Indeed, my lady has named you both as thieves of her peace. Bind him," he ordered, motioning to the men with cudgels.
The labourers hesitated. Though rough, they were of the same stock as those they were meant to oppress—farmers, woodsmen, poor wretches hired with coin to do another's will. Their eyes slid uneasily over the villagers, who now pressed closer, murmuring darkly.
Before the cudgel-bearers could move, the girl sprang forward, her cheeks flushed, her voice ringing out with startling clarity.
"You call yourselves men of law, yet you come to rob children of bread and mothers of shelter! If you would seize him, then seize me also, for I will not be parted from him again."
Her courage struck the assembly like fire on dry straw. Murmurs rose into shouts; women cried out in her defence, men brandished hoes and staves. The steward's face paled beneath its sneer as the villagers, no longer cowed, pressed closer in a living wall.
---
The clergyman lifted his staff high, his voice carrying with surprising strength. "Hold fast, my friends! These men bear no true law, only the will of tyranny. Do not strike unless struck first, but stand together, for together you are stronger than their cruelty."
The steward barked an order, and his men stepped forward uncertainly. Yet they found themselves faced not with a scattering of frightened peasants, but with a crowd united, shoulder to shoulder. Thomas raised his hammer; another man hefted a pitchfork. The cudgel-bearers faltered, muttering under their breath.
"Enough," snarled the steward, though unease flickered in his eyes. "We shall return with more men, with soldiers if need be. And when we do, none shall be spared. Remember this day, fools—you defy not me, but Lady Ashbourne herself."
With that, he wheeled his horse sharply. The riders turned, their cloaks snapping in the wind, and the unwilling labourers followed, relieved to depart without blows exchanged. Soon the clatter of hooves faded into the frost-bound distance, leaving silence behind.
---
For a long moment no one moved. Then a ragged cheer broke out, swelling into a roar that echoed off the cottages. The villagers had stood, unbroken. For once, they had driven away the instruments of their oppressor.
The beloved turned to the girl, his chest aching with mingled relief and terror. She met his gaze with eyes alight, though tears trembled on her lashes. "We are not powerless," she whispered, scarcely able to believe it. "We have each other—and them."
He clasped her hands tightly, but the joy of victory was tempered by dread. Lady Ashbourne's steward had spoken truth: he would return, and next time with greater force. What then could courage avail against soldiers and steel?
---
That night, the clergyman's cottage was crowded with villagers, their faces still flushed with the day's defiance. Plans were laid, watchmen chosen, signals agreed upon should danger come by night.
The beloved listened, his heart swelling with pride at their resolve. Yet when all had gone and the fire burned low, he confessed his fear.
"They will return, and stronger. I dread the day when courage may not suffice."
The clergyman placed a hand upon his shoulder. "True strength is not the absence of fear, but the resolve to act despite it. Today you gave these people hope, and hope is a weapon more dangerous than any sword."
The girl leaned against him then, her voice soft but unwavering. "Whatever comes, we shall face it together. If she would strip us of peace, then we shall forge our own. Let her send her men—we are no longer alone."
And in that moment, though the shadow of Lady Ashbourne loomed larger than ever, the lovers felt a flame kindle within them—a flame of unity, of resistance, of love stronger than fear.