“You used to live here?” a little girl from the gathering crowd asked, and Hadrian nodded. This touched off a wave of conversations among those gathering in the street. More people rushed over and Hadrian was enveloped in their midst. Eventually he was able to get a word in and motioned toward Royce and Arista.

“Everyone, this is my friend Mr. Everton and his wife, Erma.”

Arista and Royce exchanged glances.

“Vince, Erma, this is the village brew mistress, Armigil, and Dunstan here is the baker’s son.”

“Just the baker, Haddy. Dad’s been dead five years now.”

“Oh—sorry to hear that, Dun. I’ve nothing but fond memories of trying to steal bread from his ovens.”

Dunstan looked at Royce. “Haddy and I were best friends when he lived here—until he disappeared,” he said with a note of bitterness.

“Will I have to endure a swing from you too?” Hadrian feigned fear.

“You should, but I remember all too well the last time I fought you.”

Hadrian grinned wickedly as Dunstan scowled back.

“If my foot hadn’t slipped …” Dunstan began, and then the two broke into spontaneous laughter at a joke no one else appeared to understand.

“It’s good to have you back, Haddy,” he said sincerely. He watched Hadrian take a swallow of beer, and then to Armigil he said, “I don’t think it fair that Haddy gets a free pint and I don’t.”

“Let me give ya a bloody lip and ya can have one too.” She smiled at him.

“Break it up! Break it up!” bellowed a large muscular man making his way through the crowd. He had a bull neck, a full dark beard, and a balding head. “Back to work, all of ya!”

The crowd groaned in displeasure but quickly quieted down as two horsemen approached. They rode down the hill, coming from the manor at a trot.

“What’s going on here?” the lead rider asked, reining his horse. He was a middle-aged man with weary eyes and a strong chin. He dressed in light tailored linens common to a favored servant and on his chest was an embroidered crest of crossed daggers in gold threading.

“Strangers, sir,” the loud bull-necked man replied.

“They ain’t strangers, sir.” Armigil spoke up. “This here’s Haddy Blackwater, son of the old village smith—come fer a visit.”

“Thank you, Armigil,” he said. “But I wasn’t speaking to you. I was addressing the reeve.” He looked down at the bearded man. “Well, Osgar, out with it.”

The burly man shrugged his shoulders and stroked his beard, looking uncomfortable. “She might be right, sir. I haven’t had a chance to ask, what with getting the villeins back to work and all.”

“Very well, Osgar, see to it that they return to work, or I’ll have you in stocks by nightfall.”