Once the Earl had seated himself in the great chair, he nodded to a red-faced man in a long black tunic. Red-face stepped forward and loudly cleared his throat, silencing the low hum of conversation.
Sheriff’s Tourns visited a Hundred only twice a year, so there was always a backlog of cases. Dionisia had warned Marion that Laffite would appear last, so she prepared herself for a long and tedious afternoon.
“Darren of Elmedon,” called the red-faced man. A scrawny old fellow in worn rough spun detached himself from the audience at the end of the hall. He walked up the aisle to stand in front of the Earl. Taking off his cap he bowed as low as he probably could.
The red-faced man then spoke in French. All court pleas were in that language, so it came as no surprise. Marion only knew a few
