TOPIC : Living Under Suspicion, Accused of Theft in the Middle Ages

Introduction: A Whisper from the Past

Hey guys, tonight we begin with a curious little twist of history, one that might make you grateful for the
modern luxury of not being accused of stealing a neighbor’s pig on a whim. Imagine a world where a
missing loaf of bread or a stray cow could turn you into the village’s most wanted criminal, your fate
decided by a crowd of suspicious neighbors wielding pitchforks and a startling lack of evidence. It’s the
Middle Ages, and suspicion is as common as muddy boots. The irony? In a time when everyone was
struggling to survive, the real theft was often just time stolen by mistrust. So, let’s wander back to a
foggy village in 13th-century Europe, where whispers could ruin lives, and justice was… let’s say,
creatively administered.

If you enjoy this kind of thing, maybe like and subscribe… but only if you feel like it. No pressure. Dim the
lights, maybe turn on a fan, and settle in. Let’s drift into a world where suspicion was the loudest voice
in the room, and you’re about to live through it.

Chapter 1: Waking to a Whisper

You wake up in medieval Europe, specifically a small village in England, around 1275. The air smells of
damp straw and woodsmoke, and your bed is a lumpy sack of straw that crunches when you shift.
You’re a villager, not a noble, not a peasant bound to the land, but a freeman, which sounds grand until
you realize it just means you pay rent to the lord instead of your soul. Your home is a single room, walls
of wattle and daub, which is a fancy way of saying sticks and mud. The roof leaks when it rains, which is
always, and your only window is a hole covered with a scrap of cloth. Cozy, in a “hope you like damp”
sort of way.

This morning, something’s off. You step outside, and the village is buzzing—not with bees, but with
whispers. Your neighbor, Agnes, a woman with a face like a disappointed turnip, is muttering to Old
Tom, the baker, who’s nodding like he’s solving a mystery. You catch fragments: “...seen it last night…
gone by dawn… probably her.” Her? You? Your stomach does a slow flip. The baker’s prize rooster, a
bird so pompous it struts like a knight, is missing. And somehow, you’re the prime suspect.

Suspicion in the Middle Ages wasn’t like today, where you might get a stern email from HR. Here, it’s a
spark in dry grass. One wrong word, and you’re facing a trial by people who think “evidence” is just a
loud opinion. You try to laugh it off—surely no one thinks you’d steal a rooster. You’re more of a
“borrow an egg” type. But as you walk to the well, eyes follow you. The blacksmith, a man built like a
barrel, squints as if you’ve personally insulted his hammer. Even the village children, usually too busy
throwing rocks at each other, point and whisper. You’re not just living under suspicion—you’re
drowning in it.

Chapter 2: The Weight of a Missing Rooster

You stand in the muddy lane of your 13th-century English village, the air thick with the scent of damp
earth and woodsmoke. It’s noon, and the sun is a shy guest, peeking through clouds that seem to have a
personal grudge against brightness. Your morning started with a jolt—not from the usual crow of Old
Tom’s rooster, that feathered tyrant who treats 3 a.m. like it’s prime time, but from the whispers
slithering through the village like eels in a stream. The rooster, that pompous bird with a strut that could
shame a knight, is missing. And somehow, you’re the one everyone’s pointing at. You, a freeman with a
leaky roof and a barley plot that’s more hope than harvest, are now the village’s most notorious rooster
thief. The irony is almost poetic: in a world where everyone’s scraping by, a missing bird is the crime of
the century.

You’re hauling a bucket of water from the well, the wooden yoke digging into your shoulders, when the
reeve approaches. He’s the lord’s overseer, a man who wears his authority like a slightly cleaner tunic.
His name’s Godfrey, but you call him “Sir Frowns-a-Lot” in your head, because his face looks like it’s
been carved from a particularly grumpy oak. “You,” he says, pointing a finger that feels like it’s accusing
your entire family tree. “There’s talk you took Old Tom’s rooster.” You blink, the bucket sloshing as you
set it down. The rooster? The one that makes you dream of chicken stew every time it wakes you before
dawn? You’d rather steal a moment of peace than that squawking nuisance.

You try to laugh it off, a nervous chuckle that sounds like a sheep with hiccups. “Me? Steal a rooster? I
was asleep, Godfrey. Probably dreaming of bread that doesn’t taste like dirt.” But Godfrey’s not amused.
His eyes narrow, and you realize that in this village, suspicion doesn’t need evidence—it needs a target,
and you’re wearing the bullseye. He explains that Old Tom, the baker with a beard like a bramble bush,
swears he saw you “lurking” near his coop last night. Lurking. It’s a word that sounds like it was invented
to make innocent people sweat. You weren’t lurking—you were snoring, tangled in your scratchy wool
blanket, but try proving that when your only witness is a cat who spends her days plotting against
sparrows.

Godfrey crosses his arms, his tunic straining against his barrel chest. “You’ll face the manor court
tomorrow,” he says, as if he’s announcing the weather. “Old Tom’s pressing the charge, and Agnes is
backing him up.” Agnes, the neighbor with a face like a disappointed turnip, has been whispering poison
since sunrise. You can picture her now, leaning over her fence, telling anyone who’ll listen that you’re
the kind of person who’d steal a rooster and probably dance with the devil on weekends. The manor
court, Godfrey explains, isn’t some grand affair with a king’s justice in a fancy robe. It’s a gathering of
villagers, presided over by the lord’s steward, a man who cares more about the lord’s taxes than your
innocence. The court’s job is to keep the peace, not to find the truth, and you’re starting to feel like
peace might mean your head on a metaphorical spike.

You nod, because what else can you do? Argue with Godfrey, and you’ll only make it worse. He’s already
eyeing you like you’ve got feathers tucked in your tunic. As he strides off, his boots squelching in the
mud, you feel the village’s gaze settle on you like a damp fog. You pick up your bucket and trudge back
to your hut, the water sloshing in time with your thoughts. The blacksmith, a man built like he could
hammer iron with his bare hands, pauses his work to squint at you. His apprentice, a lanky boy with a
face full of freckles, whispers something, and they both laugh. Even the village children, usually too busy
throwing clods of dirt at each other, stop to point and giggle. “Rooster thief,” one of them mutters, and
you resist the urge to point out that they’re more likely to steal apples from the lord’s orchard than you
are to touch that bird.

Back in your hut, you set the bucket down and sit on your straw mattress, which crunches like it’s
mocking you. The walls, made of wattle and daub—sticks and mud, the medieval equivalent of optimism
—seem to close in. You think about the rooster. It’s not just a bird; it’s a symbol. In a village where
hunger is a constant guest, a rooster means eggs, and eggs mean survival. Stealing one is like stealing a
week’s worth of meals, a crime that stabs at the heart of a community that’s already one bad harvest
from starvation. You get it, in a grim sort of way. But you didn’t do it, and the fact that no one believes
you—or worse, no one cares—makes your chest tight.

You try to go about your day, heading to your barley plot, a scraggly patch of dirt that’s more weeds
than grain. You pull at a thistle, its thorns pricking your fingers, and wonder if this is how it feels to be
judged by a village that’s decided your guilt before you’ve even spoken.

***

The irony isn’t lost on you: in a world where everyone’s bending the rules—sneaking an extra handful of
grain from the lord’s fields, “borrowing” firewood from a neighbor’s stack—you’re the one under
suspicion for a crime you didn’t commit. You think about Old Tom, his flour-dusted hands and his
insistence that you were “lurking.” Maybe he’s just embarrassed his prize rooster wandered off. Maybe
Agnes is stirring the pot because she’s still mad you got a better plot of land last year. Or maybe they
just need someone to blame, and you’re convenient.

As the day drags on, the clouds thicken, and a light rain starts to fall, turning the village into a slurry of
mud and mistrust. You pass the alehouse, where a few men are nursing mugs of watery ale. One of
them, a farmer named Hugh with a face like a weathered plow, calls out, “Heard you fancy roosters
now!” The others laugh, and you force a smile, because snapping back would only make you look
guiltier. You keep walking, the rain soaking your tunic, and think about the manor court. Tomorrow,
you’ll stand before the steward and a crowd of your neighbors, people who’ve known you for years but
now see you as a thief. The thought makes your stomach twist, not out of fear—though there’s plenty of
that—but out of the sheer absurdity of it all. A rooster, of all things.

You lie down that night, the straw poking your back like a thousand tiny accusations. Outside, the rain
patters on the roof, and you wonder how a single missing bird could turn your world upside down.
Medieval justice, you’re learning, is less about truth and more about who can shout the loudest. Old
Tom’s got the village’s ear, and Agnes is fanning the flames. You close your eyes, trying to imagine a
world where “innocent until proven guilty” isn’t just a dream. But here, in 1275, suspicion is heavier
than the lord’s taxes, and you’re carrying its full weight. Tomorrow, you’ll face the court, and all you can
hope is that the truth—or at least a good story—might lighten the load.

Chapter 3: The Manor Court and Its Peculiar Justice

Morning breaks over your 13th-century village, a gray smear of light filtering through clouds that seem
to have settled in for a long stay. You wake on your straw mattress, the familiar crunch beneath you a
reminder that comfort is a distant dream. The air in your hut is damp, smelling of earth and the faint
char of last night’s fire. Today is no ordinary day—you’re due at the manor court, where you’ll answer
for the alleged theft of Old Tom’s rooster, a bird whose absence has turned you into the village’s
favorite villain. You pull on your tunic, still damp from yesterday’s rain, and step outside, where the mud
clings to your boots like a clingy rumor. The weight of suspicion follows you, heavier than the bucket you
carried yesterday, as you make your way to the lord’s hall.

The hall, grandly named but really just a drafty barn with ambitions, looms at the edge of the village. Its
timbers are weathered, its thatched roof sagging like a tired old man. Inside, it smells of damp wool,
nervous sweat, and the faint tang of ale from someone’s breakfast. The room is packed with villagers,
some here for their own disputes—over a stray cow or a broken fence—others just for the spectacle. In
the Middle Ages, the manor court is the closest thing to entertainment, like a play where the actors
might lose more than their dignity. You stand near the front, heart thudding, as the steward takes his
seat at the high table. He’s a lean man with a nose like a hawk’s beak and a ledger he clutches like it
holds the secrets of the universe. His name’s Ralph, but you think of him as “Sir Bored,” because his
sighs suggest he’d rather be tallying the lord’s sheep than dealing with your drama.

Old Tom steps forward, clutching his hat like it’s a shield. His beard, a tangle of gray and flour, quivers as
he launches into his tale. “I saw her,” he says, pointing at you with the confidence of a man who’s never
doubted himself. “Lurking by my coop, under the moonlight, plain as day.” Lurking, again. The word is
starting to feel like a personal curse. You want to laugh at the absurdity—moonlight? In this cloudy
village, where the moon’s more rumor than reality? But the crowd leans in, eating up Tom’s story like
it’s fresh-baked bread. He paints you as a shadowy figure, creeping through the night to steal his prize
rooster, a bird he describes as if it were the king’s own falcon. You catch Agnes in the crowd, her turnip-
like face nodding, her eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a grudge well-fed.

You step forward when the steward calls your name, your voice steady but your palms slick. “I was
asleep,” you say, “not lurking. I’ve no use for a rooster that crows like it’s auditioning for the
apocalypse.” A few villagers chuckle, but it’s a nervous sound, quickly smothered by Agnes’s glare. The
steward rubs his temples, clearly wishing for a simpler case, like who trampled whose barley. He
explains your options, each one sounding like a punishment for a crime you didn’t commit. First, there’s
trial by compurgation, a fancy term for rounding up twelve people to swear you’re not a thief. It’s less
about truth and more about popularity, and you’re not exactly the village’s favorite right now. Half the
crowd believes Agnes’s whispers, and the other half just doesn’t care enough to vouch for you. You
think of the miller, still sore about those trampled turnips, and the baker’s apprentice, who smirked at
you yesterday. Finding twelve oath-helpers feels like convincing the clouds to stop raining.

The alternative is trial by ordeal, which the steward mentions with the casual air of someone suggesting
a nap. You could plunge your hand into a cauldron of boiling water to grab a stone, and if your burns
heal cleanly within three days, you’re innocent. Or you could carry a red-hot iron across the room,
hoping your blisters don’t look too guilty. The logic is so absurd it’s almost funny—almost. You imagine
explaining to your future self, if you survive, that your fate depended on whether your skin could charm
a scalding pot. The crowd murmurs, some excited by the prospect of a spectacle, others just eager to get
back to their fields. You picture the boiling water, the hissing iron, and wonder if medieval justice is just
a game where everyone loses.

The steward, yawning, offers a third option: pay a fine and settle the matter. But you’re a freeman, not a
lord, and your purse holds more dreams than coins. A fine would mean giving up your barley harvest,
maybe even your cow, leaving you to starve through winter. You ask for time to find oath-helpers,
clinging to the hope that you can scrape together enough goodwill to avoid the cauldron. The steward,
eager to move on to a dispute about a broken plow, grants you a week. “But don’t dawdle,” he says, as
if you’re planning a holiday. You nod, the crowd’s eyes boring into you, and leave the hall. The air
outside feels no lighter, the mud no less clingy. You’re free, for now,

***

but suspicion is a shadow that doesn’t fade.

As you walk back to your hut, the village feels smaller, its thatched roofs and smoky chimneys closing in
like a jury. You pass the blacksmith, hammering away, his eyes flicking up to judge you. The alewife,
usually quick with a smile, pretends to be busy with her barrels. Even the village children, chasing a stray
dog, pause to whisper “rooster thief” as you pass. You want to shout that you didn’t do it, that Old
Tom’s probably just embarrassed his bird wandered off to woo a hen in the next village. But shouting
won’t help—here, truth is as slippery as the muddy path under your feet. You think about the court, its
peculiar justice rooted in whispers and rituals rather than reason. The irony stings: in a world where
survival demands cunning—sneaking an extra sheaf of wheat, “borrowing” a neighbor’s firewood—
you’re the one facing judgment for a crime that’s more story than fact.

Back in your hut, you sit on your straw bed, the familiar crunch now a mocking sound. The walls,
patched with mud and hope, offer no comfort. You think about the week ahead, the daunting task of
finding twelve people to swear you’re no thief. You picture Young Will, who might help because you
fixed his fence, and maybe the alewife, who likes your face. But nine more? That’s a mountain to climb
in a village where suspicion grows faster than barley. You lie back, the straw poking your ribs, and let the
world fade. The rain starts again, a soft patter on the roof, and you wonder if justice is just another word
for surviving the crowd’s gaze. Tomorrow, you’ll start knocking on doors, hoping to find voices louder
than Agnes’s whispers.

Chapter 4: The Village’s Eyes and Ears

The dawn creeps into your 13th-century village like a guest unsure of its welcome, painting the sky in
muted grays. You rise from your straw mattress, the familiar crunch under your weight a reminder of the
world you’re stuck in—mud, mistrust, and a missing rooster that’s turned you into the village pariah.
Your hut, with its wattle-and-daub walls and perpetually leaky roof, feels smaller today, as if the
suspicion clinging to you has shrunk the very air. You pull on your worn tunic, still damp from
yesterday’s drizzle, and step outside. The village is waking, smoke curling from chimneys, but the eyes
that meet yours are sharp, like thorns hidden in the morning mist. You have one week to find twelve
oath-helpers to swear you didn’t steal Old Tom’s rooster, a task that feels like convincing the rain to fall
upward.

You start with Widow Margaret, who lives at the edge of the village in a hut that leans like it’s tired of
standing. She’s kind, with a smile that crinkles her face like old parchment, but she’s half-deaf and
squints at you as you explain your plight. “Rooster? You want my goat?” she asks, patting your hand as if
you’re the one confused. You try again, shouting about the manor court and your need for her to swear
you’re no thief. She nods, but you’re not sure if she’s agreeing or just humoring you. As you leave, she
offers you a cup of watery ale, which you decline—partly because it’s barely dawn, partly because you’re
not sure she’d remember you didn’t steal it. One potential ally, maybe, but it’s a shaky start.

Next, you head to the miller’s, a man named John whose grudge against you is as stubborn as the stones
he grinds. Last year, you accidentally stepped on his turnips during a harvest festival, a crime he’s
treated like high treason ever since. His mill, powered by a sluggish stream, groans as you approach, and
he greets you with a scowl that could curdle milk. “Heard you’re a rooster thief now,” he says, wiping
floury hands on his apron. You explain you didn’t do it, that Old Tom’s bird probably just wandered off,
but John snorts. “Wandered off? Like my turnips wandered under your boot?” You bite back a retort—
arguing with a man who holds grudges like holy relics won’t help. You leave, his laughter trailing you like
a bad smell, and cross him off your mental list.

The village is alive now, its rhythm unbroken by your troubles. The blacksmith hammers away, sparks
flying like tiny accusations. The alewife stirs a vat outside her hut, her chatter with a customer pausing
as you pass. Even the children, chasing a piglet through the mud, stop to whisper “thief” as you trudge
by. Suspicion, you’re learning, is a living thing here, fed by boredom and old grudges. Agnes, with her
turnip face and knack for gossip, has been busy. You catch her by the well, muttering to a gaggle of
women about your “shifty eyes.” You want to point out that her own eyes are shifty, especially when
she’s eyeing your barley plot, but you hold your tongue. In 1275, words are weapons, and yours need to
be sheathed.

You try the priest next, Father Edmund, a man whose sermons are as long as winter and twice as
gloomy. He’s in the churchyard, tending a patch of herbs, his robe hitched up to reveal bony knees. You
explain your case, hoping his talk of charity extends to you. He listens, stroking his beard, then murmurs
about “the appearance of sin.” You’re not sure if he means the rooster or your existence, but his
hesitation stings. “I’ll pray on it,” he says, which is as good as a no. You leave the churchyard, the weight
of suspicion heavier than the bell above you. The irony isn’t lost on you: in a village where everyone’s
bending the rules—sneaking extra grain, skimming a bit of the lord’s firewood—you’re the one on trial
for a crime that’s more rumor than reality.

By afternoon, you’ve secured three oath-helpers, a small victory that feels like hauling water uphill.
There’s Young Will, a lanky lad who owes you for helping him mend his fence last spring. He agrees with
a grin, saying, “You’re no thief—too clumsy to sneak.” The alewife, bless her, signs on because she likes
your face and thinks Agnes is “a sour old cow.” And, surprisingly, the blacksmith, a man built like a
barrel, grunts that he doesn’t think you’d bother with a rooster when you could just buy eggs. “Too
much hassle for a bird that loud,” he says, and you almost hug him. Three down, nine to go, and the
week’s slipping away like water through your fingers.

You sit by your barley plot as the sun dips, the stalks drooping like they’re as tired as you. The village
hums around you, its sounds—clanging hammers, shouting children, the creak of a cart—now a chorus
of judgment. You think about Agnes, whose grudge stems from the lord giving you a better plot last
year, a decision she’s spun into a tale of your “scheming.” Old Tom, you suspect, just wants someone to
blame so he can claim compensation from the lord.

***

The rooster’s probably off strutting in the next village, oblivious to the storm it’s caused. Suspicion, you
realize, isn’t about truth—it’s about who can spin the better story. And right now, Agnes and Tom are
winning.

Night falls, and you lie on your straw bed, the roof leaking a steady drip into a bucket. The village’s eyes
and ears are everywhere, even in the dark, and you feel them watching. You think of the manor court,
the steward’s bored sighs, the crowd’s eager whispers. Three oath-helpers are a start, but nine more
feels like a dream. You close your eyes, the rain’s soft patter a faint comfort, and wonder if you’ll wake
to a village that’s forgotten your name—or one that’s carved it into a tale of guilt. In the Middle Ages,
suspicion is a thief that steals trust, time, and peace, and you’re learning just how much it can take.

Chapter 5: A Quiet Resolution

The week has slipped through your fingers like water from the village well, and now the morning of the
manor court dawns over your 13th-century English village. You wake on your straw mattress, the
familiar crunch beneath you a grim reminder of the world you’re tethered to—mud, mistrust, and a
missing rooster that’s painted you as a thief. Your hut, with its wattle-and-daub walls and a roof that
leaks like it’s holding a grudge, feels like a cage today. You pull on your tunic, damp as always, and step
into the gray light. The air smells of wet earth and woodsmoke, but there’s a tension in it, as if the
village itself is holding its breath. Today, you’ll face the steward and the crowd, armed with only eight
oath-helpers to swear you didn’t steal Old Tom’s rooster. Eight, not twelve, and the gap feels like a
chasm.

You trudge toward the lord’s hall, boots squelching in the mud, the weight of suspicion heavier than the
clouds overhead. The village is awake, its rhythm unbroken by your troubles—children chase a stray
dog, the blacksmith’s hammer rings, the alewife’s laughter spills from her hut. But their eyes follow you,
sharp and unyielding, like crows waiting for a scrap. Agnes, with her turnip face and venomous tongue,
stands by the well, whispering to a cluster of women. You catch “rooster thief” and your name in the
same breath, and your stomach twists. You’ve spent the week knocking on doors, pleading your case,
and while Young Will, the alewife, and the blacksmith have pledged to stand with you, nine others
remain elusive. The miller still holds his turnip grudge, Widow Margaret thinks you’re after her goat, and
Father Edmund’s “prayers” haven’t translated into support. Eight is all you have, and it’s not enough.
The hall is as drafty as you remember, its timbers groaning under the weight of too many winters. The
crowd packs in, their murmurs a low hum, like bees before a storm. The steward, Ralph, sits at the high
table, his hawk-like nose buried in his ledger, looking as bored as ever. Old Tom steps forward, hat in
hand, ready to repeat his tale of your “lurking” by his coop. But before he can start, a commotion stirs
outside—a shout, then laughter, rippling through the crowd like a breeze. A boy bursts in, all freckles
and excitement, yelling, “The rooster’s back!” The room erupts in whispers, and even Ralph raises an
eyebrow, which for him is a full-blown tantrum. Old Tom’s face reddens, his beard quivering as he
stammers, “Well… that don’t change nothing.”

But it changes everything. You learn the rooster strutted into Old Tom’s yard at dawn, looking smug and
slightly fatter, as if it’s been on a grand tour of the next village. The crowd laughs, some pointing at Tom,
others at Agnes, whose scowl could curdle the air. You feel a flicker of relief, like a knot loosening in your
chest, but you’re not free yet. The steward clears his throat, silencing the room, and calls you forward.
Your eight oath-helpers stand with you—Young Will, grinning like he’s won a bet; the alewife, winking as
if this is all a grand joke; the blacksmith, arms crossed like he’s daring anyone to argue; and five others
you’ve scraped together, neighbors who’ve decided you’re not worth the drama. It’s not twelve, but it’s
a crowd, and in this moment, it feels like enough.

Ralph sighs, flipping a page in his ledger. “The rooster’s returned,” he says, voice flat as a millstone. “But
the charge was made, so let’s hear it.” Old Tom mumbles his story again, but it’s weaker now, deflated
by the bird’s inconvenient return. He claims you still might’ve “disturbed” his coop, but the crowd’s not
buying it—they’re too busy chuckling about the rooster’s adventure. Agnes tries to pipe up, muttering
about your “shifty ways,” but even her allies are losing interest. Your oath-helpers step forward, one by
one, swearing you’re no thief. Young Will says you’re too honest to steal, the alewife calls you “a good
sort,” and the blacksmith grunts that no one would bother with Tom’s noisy bird. The others echo
similar sentiments, their voices a quiet chorus against the storm of suspicion.

The steward listens, scratching his quill across parchment, then looks up. “Eight oaths, and a rooster
that’s clearly been on holiday,” he says, a rare hint of dry humor in his tone. “I’ve a plow dispute to
settle, so let’s end this.” He declares the matter closed—no fine, no boiling water, no hot irons. The
crowd murmurs, some disappointed by the lack of drama, others already distracted by the next case.
You stand there, the weight lifting, not entirely but enough to let you breathe. Old Tom shuffles off,
muttering about “maybe I was wrong,” while Agnes storms out, her grudge now aimed at the rooster
itself. The village will keep whispering for weeks, you know—suspicion doesn’t die, it just naps—but for
now, you’re free.

You walk home, the sun breaking through the clouds, a rare gift in this soggy corner of England. The mud
still clings to your boots,

****

but it feels lighter, as if the earth itself has eased its grip. You pass your barley plot, the stalks swaying in
a breeze that carries the scent of rain and redemption. The irony isn’t lost on you: in a world where
everyone’s stealing moments to survive—extra grain here, a bit of firewood there—a wayward rooster
nearly undid you. But it also saved you, its return a quiet twist of fate that turned whispers into laughter.
You think of your oath-helpers, those eight voices who stood against the tide, and feel a flicker of
warmth. Trust, you’ve learned, is fragile but stubborn, like a weed pushing through mud.

Back in your hut, you lie on your straw bed, the familiar crunch now a comfort rather than a taunt. The
roof leaks, the bucket catching its steady drip, but the sound is soothing, a reminder that some things
endure. The village’s eyes and ears will watch you still, waiting for a misstep, but today you’ve slipped
through their grasp. You close your eyes, the world fading to the hum of rain and the distant crow of a
rooster that’s probably gloating. In the Middle Ages, suspicion was a thief that stole trust and time, but
sometimes, just sometimes, a wandering bird could steal it back.

Epilogue: Drifting Off

And so, you drift back to your own time, the village fading like a dream. The Middle Ages were a world of
mud and mistrust, where a missing rooster could turn you into a villain, and justice was as slippery as a
rainy path. But there’s something oddly comforting in knowing that even then, people muddled through,
finding ways to laugh, love, and let go. So, close your eyes, let the fan hum, and rest easy. You’re not on
trial tonight.