The hallmoot is not a battle. It is benches, a table, a roll, a jug of weak ale for throats, and the smell of wool-grease and river.

Whoever holds the table today is the manor listening. Steward Aldith does, if the landholder is still in the mud of shire business. Lady Greyfen does, if she is back. Either way, you may speak because you witnessed. That is the rule that likes children who pay attention.

You tell what you actually have. The millstone’s wrong note is in Hew’s letter, which is enough to start. Anything else your feet met—land, river, a name, a loaf—you say once, honestly. You do not invent a complete Greyfen to sound important.

The clerk writes. Names become ink. Ink becomes orders if the day is kind.

A hand taps the table. “We can turn what was proved into work on the roll. Or we can write what we can write, and leave river and stone to those whose feet are still willing.”

Someone’s pig is also on the docket. The pig will wait. Michaelmas will not.