The wailing of Hamnet Sadler’s mongrel bitch pierced the stillness of the midsummer night, increasing the terror of the exhausted rider who had just returned home.
William Shaxper slid from his horse and looked furtively over his shoulder as he clutched a leather portfolio to his chest. He fancied the full moon glowering down at him with a prosecutor’s scowl. He ran to the front door and pressed his cheek against it. He heard nothing except the incessant howling of his friend’s dog. His hands trembled as he rummaged for his key, found it and turned it in the lock.
Luckily, the King’s men hadn’t pursued him - or perhaps they had yet to arrive.
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