And Tom Perrill had not just been threatened, he had almost been killed. The gray-fledged arrow had missed him by a hand’s breadth and that arrow now lay on the table in the manor hall. Lord Slayton pointed at the arrow and nodded to his steward who crossed to the table. “It’s not one of ours, my lord,” William Snoball said after examining the arrow.

“The gray feathers, you mean?” Lord Slayton asked.

“No one near here uses gray-goose,” Snoball said reluctantly, with a churlish glance at Nick Hook, “not for fledging. Not for anything!”

Lord Slayton gazed at Nick Hook. He knew the truth. Everyone in the hall knew the truth, except perhaps Michael who was a trusting soul. “Whip him,” Sir Martin suggested.

Hook stared at the tapestry hanging beneath the hall’s gallery. It showed a hunter thrusting a spear into a boar’s guts. A woman, wearing nothing but a wisp of translucent cloth, was watching the hunter, who was dressed in a loincloth and a helmet. The oak beams supporting the gallery had been turned black by a hundred years of smoke.

“Whip him,” the priest said again, “or cut off his ears.”

Hook lowered his eyes to look at Lord Slayton and wondered, for the thousandth time, whether he was looking at his own father. Hook had the strong-boned Slayton face, the same heavy forehead, the same wide mouth, the same black hair, and the same dark eyes. He had the same height, the same bodily strength that had been his lordship’s before the rebel sword had twisted in his back and forced him to use the leather-padded crutches leaning on his chair. His lordship returned the gaze, betraying nothing. “This feud will end,” he finally said, still staring at Hook. “You understand me? There will be no more killing.” He pointed at Hook. “If any of the Perrill family dies, Hook, then I will kill you and your brother. Do you understand me?”