The Distant Clue
The toll is three pence, or the coat, Constable. I stood in the mud of Oakhaven, the year being 1342, and watched the farmer’s hand tighten on the strap of his empty cart. He was thin, a man of bones wrapped in a wool that had been washed so many times it had turned the color of wet ash. I reached for the collar of his coat, the standard procedure for those who could not pay the king’s tax, but...
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