The manor clerk sits under an eave with a roll and a face like a closed purse. You ask what an outlaw is, because the version you heard involved a forest king and a stolen legend.

“An outlaw,” the clerk says, pleased to be asked a real question, “is a person outside the law’s protection. Often they missed court. Often they owe. They are not automatically interesting. Piers the bargeman’s cousin missed hallmoot over a debt of grain and a ditch he swore he did not block. If he hides in willows, he is damp and still in debt. If he comes to court, he can be fined, scheduled, and bored in the ordinary way, which is how peace is made.”

No trial by combat. No cheering. A roll of names.

“River can show you where a tired man and a rope went. Court can put him back inside the law. You are a child with a letter. Do not play sheriff. Do play witness.”

If anyone followed you from the mud, they look slightly robbed of a sword and slightly relieved.