[Arry]

Jack stood up on his chair once again as the man across the room began to sing. It was the fellow he’d spied earlier in the green cloak and yellow boots. Jack’s eyes went wide as the song slurred off at the end and the man crumpled to the floor. ‘He’s sick, Sir!’ he said in a breathless rush as he jumped from his chair to the floor. Grabbing Alwin’s sleeve, he urged the old fellow to bring his pouch of healing herbs to help the stricken singer.

Alwin turned round in his chair, and was about to rise, when Ruby laid a hand on his forearm and bade him sit again. ‘Not sick, little Jack,’ she snorted, hands on hips. ‘The man’s had one too many ales if you ask me.’ Hmmmph! she muttered under her breath. ‘Maybe the fall will knock some sense into him.’ She started toward the place where the man lay. Iardarion – that’s what he had called himself.

‘Here!’ called the old man, motioning her back for a moment. Jack had brought him his little packet of herbs, and Alwin had fished out a few dried strands of willow-bark from one of the pockets. He crushed them over a half mug of steaming tea, and thrust the infusion into her hands. ‘This will help with the achey head he’s bound to have.’