At the edge of the village was a small orchard where a gray-haired man was picking fruit. Edgar approached with some trepidation, fearing he might be told he was far from his destination. “Good day, friend,” he said. “Is this Outhenham?”

“It is,” the man said amiably. He was a bright-eyed fifty-year-old with a friendly smile and an intelligent look.

“Thank heaven,” said Edgar.

“Where have you come from?”

“Dreng’s Ferry.”

“A godless place, I’ve heard.”

Edgar was surprised that Degbert’s laxity was known about so far away. He was not sure how to respond to that, so he said: “My name is Edgar.”

“And I’m Seric.”

“I’ve come here to buy stone.”

“If you go east to the edge of the village, you’ll see a well-worn track. The quarry is about half a mile inland. There you’ll find Gaberht, called Gab, and his family. He’s the quarrymaster.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

Seric gave him a handful of small pears. Edgar thanked him and went on. He ate the pears, cores and all, right away.

The village was relatively prosperous, with well-built houses and outbuildings. At its center, a stone church faced an alehouse across a green where cows grazed.

A big man in his thirties came out of the alehouse, spotted Edgar, and took up a confrontational stance in the middle of the pathway. “Who the hell are you?” he said as Edgar approached him. He was heavy and red-eyed, and his speech was slurred.

Edgar stopped and said: “Good day to you, friend. I’m Edgar, from Dreng’s Ferry.”

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“To the quarry,” Edgar said mildly. He did not want a quarrel.

But the man was belligerent. “Who said you could go there?”

Edgar’s patience began to wear thin. “I don’t believe I need permission.”

“You need my permission to do anything in Outhenham, because I’m Dudda, the headman of the village. Why are you going to the quarry?”

“To buy fish.”

Dudda looked mystified, then it dawned on him that he was being mocked, and he reddened. Edgar realized he had been too clever for his own good—again—and regretted his wit. Dudda said: “You cheeky dog.” Then he swung a big fist at Edgar’s head.

Edgar stepped back nimbly.

Dudda’s swing failed to connect, and he overbalanced, stumbled, and fell to the ground.

Edgar wondered what the hell to do next. He had no doubt he could beat Dudda in a fight, but what good would that do him? If he antagonized people here, they might refuse to sell stone to him, and his building project would be in trouble when it had barely got started.

He was relieved to hear the calm voice of Seric behind him. “Now, Dudda, let me help you home. You might want to lie down for an hour.” He took Dudda’s arm and helped him to his feet.

Dudda said: “That boy hit me!”

“No, he didn’t, you fell down, because you drank too much ale with your dinner again.” Seric jerked his head at Edgar, indicating that he should make himself scarce, and walked Dudda away. Edgar took the hint.