The inn in Reading is busy with farmers, merchants and others, all swilling ale or small beer. The rushes on the floor, newly laid earlier, are already soiled and browned with mud trodden in by many feet that have walked through constant rain this morning. I wait by the fire on this cold day, tankard in hand. My nephew shares not just my name but my fair hair and light-blue eyes. He is tall, too, as I am. He arrives within 10 minutes of my own arrival, acquires his tankard of ale and approaches me with a winning smile on his chubby face.
“You haven’t changed, Uncle,” he assures me.
“Nor you,” I tell him cheerfully, although it is some years since we last met.
We click out tankards together and take a long drink of ale. The crowds are noisy and I suggest finding a quieter spot in the inn
