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death of having things stolen from him, especially by arrogant warriors who wielded their status as an excuse to abuse decent, honest, hardworking folk.
    He jabbed the offending warrior on the shoulder. With a grunt, the man swung his head around to fix narrow eyes upon him.
    “What d’ye want?”
    “My seat. I want it back.” Dwras lowered his eyebrows. “Now!”
    “You—what?” The Lothian warrior’s laughter nearly made him choke. A grinning companion slapped his back.
    “Oho, Farmer Dwras thinks he’s one of us, lads,” chortled another warrior, making a shooing motion. “Be off with you! Back to your pigs, farmer boy.”
    They burst into cackles, hoots, and hog calls. Dwras felt his cheeks flush.
    The warrior in Dwras’s seat found himself buried under sops and ale.
    “My mistake, sir.” He grinned devilishly. “I thought this was the sty.”
    Bellowing, the warrior shot to his feet. Soggy bread flew everywhere. Dwras ducked the blow. Upon connecting with a bony chin, he sent the man sprawling across the cluttered table. The warrior’s humiliation more than balanced the pain lancing Dwras’s healing shoulder. The audience’s jeers redoubled with vicious glee.
    The warrior stood, ale-streaked face darkened with rage and fist cocked. “You filthy whore’s son, I’ll—”
    “Halt! Everyone!”
    Trailed by a detachment of guards, Chieftain Loth strode across the hall, toppling benches and shoving servants from his path. Fists lowering, the adversaries stepped apart.
    Dwras bowed his head to accept the chieftain’s harsh judgment. From the corner of his eye, he saw the warrior reacting in much the same manner, and it gave him a perverse surge of satisfaction.
    “You.” Loth thrust a finger close to Dwras’s face. “Your doing?”
    The truth died in his throat. Surely Chieftain Loth would believe his own warrior over a mere farmer.
    He sighed. “Aye, my lord.” Perchance the end would come quick and painless. On the other hand, he’d never been that lucky.
    “Hmph.” The chieftain turned to address someone behind him. “This is the farmer who brought me word of the raid. I told you he’s too much trouble to keep here.”
    Here it comes, Dwras mused, banishment. Mayhap the chance to join his wife and son sooner, a fate for which he dared not hope. He certainly had nothing left on this side of eternity.
    The man Chieftain Loth had addressed stepped to the forefront of the gathering. Dwras felt his jaw go slack.
    If any woman’s son had ever claimed divine descent, this one ought. To call him fair of face would be a gross injustice when his countenance radiated strength, confidence, and intelligence in equally great measures. His face seemed both young and old at once, accustomed to receiving instant respect and obedience: the face of a god.
    “I think he has more to tell.” Even the man’s voice resounded godlike in its commanding yet compassionate authority. Profound sympathy shone from his intense blue eyes. “Don’t you, lad?”
    “What’s to tell, Arthur? Dwras was causing trouble.” Loth nailed Dwras with his stare. “Again.”
    “I want his story.”
    As he loosened his tongue to describe the brawl, his head reeled like a drunkard’s. What name had Chieftain Loth given this man? Arthur? Loth’s brother-by-marriage, the Pendragon himself, here in remote Dunpeldyr? In the dead of winter?
    Impossible!
    This warrior came dressed for the part, aye, sporting more finely spun linen, well-tooled leather, and freshly polished bronze than Dwras had seen in his entire score of years. Scars adorned those hard-muscled arms and legs, too, thin white ribbons left by only the sharpest blades.
    The Pendragon, indeed.
    He couldn’t believe his fortune. Rather, his misfortune, for he felt utterly foolish for boring Arthur with such a trivial matter. He dropped his gaze to the floor rushes.
    “Dwras, I commend your courage for alerting Chieftain Loth, as badly wounded as you were.”