A Head for Poisoning

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The early morning mist lay thick and white across the river, and there was a chill in the air. The young priest shivered in his threadbare habit as he waited for the lord of the manor and his retinue to make their way through the long grass of the graveyard to the church. He glanced up, and saw that the sky was a pale, cloudless blue, heralding the beginning of yet another fine spring day. From behind him came an impatient sigh, followed by some furious muttering.

“Just a few more moments,” he called softly to the waiting villagers. “They are almost here.”

“We have the crops to finish planting,” came the aggravated tones of Tom Ingram, a surly man given to complaining. “It is all very well for them up at the castle to roll out of their beds when they please, but while we wait here for them to deign to appear for mass, the day is trickling away.”

“It is true, Father!” grumbled the parish ditcher. “We cannot stand here all day waiting for them. We have work to do in the fields while the weather holds.”

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