Chapter 9
The bench outside the tavern was hard and worn smooth from years of use and provided a perfect view of the watchtower. Thomas and his friends had spent the better part of an hour sitting there, waiting. The sun had gone down, and the last of its light had left the sky. The grey cylinder of the watchtower had faded to a vague black shape against the darkness of the night sky. Only the orange and yellow fire-light spilling out the inn door lit the night for them. Inside, the fiddler was playing a fast-paced reel that was nearly drowned out by clomping feet as the villagers whirled and danced. Thomas paid it scant attention. The bench provided a perfect view of the watchtower, and Thomas wasn’t taking his eyes off it.
“What if he comes for a pint before he goes home?” asked Eileen
