The Port Reeve appeared lost in thought. He drew a quill from his girdle, and meditated while he picked his teeth. And very much at his leisure, he chose to notice the young man with the viol.
“Where have you come from, my friend?”
“France, sir. My sister and I are poor players, makers of music.”
The Port Reeve scanned the pair with intelligent brown eyes.
“Queer that such a Jack and Jill should come out of France.”
“We were in the service of my Lord of Dunster.”
“And he sent you packing? How are you called?”
The young man answered in a low voice:
“Lambert Lovel.”
The Port Reeve’s eyelids flickered curiously.