TWO DAYS LATER, other visitors came through our town.

There was a ground-shaking rumble from the west, followed by a cloud of gravel and dust. Horsemen were coming in at a full gallop! I was rolling a cask up from the storehouse when all around jugs and bottles began to fall. Panic clutched at my heart. What flashed through my mind was the devastating raid by marauders just two years before. Every house in the village had been burned or sacked.

There was a shriek, and then a shout. Children playing ball in the square dived out of the way. Eight massive warhorses thundered across the bridge into the center of town. On their huge mounts, I saw knights wearing the purple-and-white colors of Baldwin of Treille, our liege lord.

The party of horsemen pulled to a stop in the square. I recognized the knight in charge as Norcross, our liege lord’s chatelain, his military chief. He scanned our village from atop his mount and remarked loudly, “This is Veille du Père?”

“It must be, my lord,” a companion knight replied with an exaggerated sniff. “We were told to ride east until the smell of shit, then head directly for it.”

Their presence here could only signal harm. I began to make my way slowly toward the square with my heart pounding. Anything might happen. Where was Sophie?

[15] Norcross dismounted and the others did the same, their chargers snorting heavily. The chatelain had dark, hooded eyes that flashed only a sliver of light, like an eighth-moon. A trace of a thin, dark beard.