The milling of the market crowd slowed around them as others caught the raised voices echoing through the streets. Then came the sound of drums, and someone began playing a fife. Moments later, several ragged figures came into view a few dozen feet to Deborah’s left, rounding the corner and marching onto High Street. Their clothes were tattered, but they stepped smartly and in time with each other, their backs straight and heads held high. The players were followed by more people, mostly men, dressed in the simple, patched clothing of laborers and tradesmen.
“What the devil?” It was Dobbs’ voice next to her. Deborah started, and the burly servant nodded to her. “Beg pardon for my language, my lady. The look of yon folk is ill-favored.”
She looked back at th...
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