With continued solemnity, a short speech of grati-tude would be made to the generosity of the absent monarch and then a portion of the tithe would be distributed to those whose crops had fared least well and those who could not properly fend for themselves from whatever cause. That done, the solemnity faded rapidly and the barn would become a market place filled with loud haggling and bartering over the remaining produce. This would be followed by a large and usually raucous banquet.

During the fourth day of Dalmastide the village – indeed the whole valley – was invariably unusually quiet.

It was the approach of Dalmas, rather than any concern about sheep worrying, that had prompted Garren Yarrance to send his son out to check on the sheep, and he was leaning on a gate pondering the extent of his contribution to the tithe this year when Farnor came into sight over the top of a nearby hill.

Garren clicked his tongue reproachfully as he watched his son running and jumping down the steep hillside.

How many times had he told the lad not to run? ‘You stumble and fall, break a leg, then where are we, your mother and me? Tending you and doing your work, that’s where. Or getting into debt paying someone else to do it.’ He would pause. ‘That’s always minding we find you, or that old Gryss can put you together again if we do.’

It was a litany that he himself had learned, from his own father, as doubtless he in his turn had from his. And Farnor ignored it similarly.

Garren changed the emphasis somewhat as Farnor reached him, sweating and breathless. ‘Very good, son,’ he said. ‘You save ten minutes by risking life and limb to bring me an urgent tale, then I have to wait for ten minutes before you can speak.’

But the reproach faded from his voice even while he was speaking as Farnor’s agitation became apparent. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, as much man to man as father to son.

Farnor told his tale.