At dawn on Friday, the great iron gates of St. Jude’s Churchyard swung open to reveal a sight that Crown-Reach had never witnessed in its three hundred years of history. Drawn up before the church porch stood four heavy cart wagons. Their oak sides were heavy with iron boiler-plate, each wagon guarded by eight mounted court guards of the High Sheriff and twenty journeymen blacksmiths armed with heavy timber bats. Inside the wagons sat ninety-six sealed canvas bags, each bag containing one hundred and twenty-five heavy gold sovereigns. Twelve thousand sovereigns in pure royal coin, liquidated directly from Chancellor Malvern’s seized accounts by order of the King’s Bench.
Tomas Reed stood upon the stone mounting block at the center of the churchyard, his dark wool tunic damp from the morning mist, his ash-wood pack frame resting against the church wall. His left wrist brace was freshly buckled, the stiff calfskin holding his scarred forearm steady as he addressed the two thousand working men and women who packed the churchyard from the lychgate to the rectory wall.
“Citizens of St. Jude’s,” Tomas’s clear, ringing voice carried through the quiet autumn air, reaching every ear in the crowd. “For sixty winters, you have lived in the charred ruins of the Great Fire. You have paid rent to absentee aldermen for rotting cellars. You have buried your children in common lime pits. That was because the judges told you there was no relief fund. Today, the King’s Bench returns what your grandfathers earned…
