"An... entertainer, you say." Lord De’Vance was not a man overly given to amusements, although in his fairness he would not deny others theirs. All his court was delighted at the end of the long winter, and courtier and servant alike were thrilled in eager anticipation for the coming celebration: Lark's Day. The coming of spring and the arrival of the planting season was a time of hope for everyone. After months of being trapped by freezing rains and heavy snows, noble and commoners all looked forward to the warmer weather. The land had been asleep. So, too, had the people as they were so tied to the land, but with the heat of the sun starting to wake the land, they were like the children waking well before dawn to start their mischief. Dancing! Singing! Feasting! Drinking! Gaming! And this would all centered around not just Lord De’Vance's hall but the fields immediately about it as well! Knights and men at arms would struggle mightily against one another to prove their valor and skill in tourneys, the heavy iron shoes of the war horses neatly turning up the ground with their charges to make the coming plowing all the easier. If there was any sport to be had other than the Owl's Night at harvest time, it was now. Lord De’Vance was more than willing to pay for these celebrations, as it was both his duty and even small pleasure to host these events. The King's parties in the distant city might be grander, but De’Vance always made sure that his were the heartiest.

If only he did not have endure Cuckoo's Eve first! It was the day before the spring rites, a day where no man nor woman could be held accountable for their actions outside of The Royal Bans: theft of coin or property, murder of another, high treason against the King. It was a day of... jests and japes. There would be pranks. Practical jokes, many of which would be neither practical nor truly a joke. There would be a fancy dress ball for the gentry, all masked and gossip, while townsfolk and farmers' families had their costumed revels. In short, it was a day of chaos. A serious man who had served on many fields of battle, who loyal served the King through a civil war, a man whose will was as iron as his hair, did not take well to Cuckoo's Eve. But his daughter so loved the holiday that he could not refuse its coming. If not for her? Then this custom and tradition of generation be damned! Only a day away until the start of the accursed holiday, a day far too soon for his liking. The soft cushions upon the ancient Lord's Chair of De’Vance Hall did nothing to ease his aching back; it crafting had been for some forefather of his that was far shorter and smaller than the heights to which Lord De’Vance had grown, someone who must not have had his shoulders like his either. Hook nosed and keen eyed, he pierced his Seneschal with a stare that could only be called... grumpy.

"Er. Yes, my Lord." The ancient man with his quavering voice and bronze-green brocade spread his arms to either side. "He is... a young man but doth seem quite the... the jongleur!"

A frowning scowl crossed the nobleman's face. "I thought you said he was a musician, Broadmere?"

Broadmere nodded as eagerly as the balding head upon his wrinkled stalk of a neck allowed. "And that as well, my Lord, and that as well! And a singer. And a storyteller. And full of sleight of hands and tricks unlike ever I have ever beheld in my life! A gaukler of the first rate!"

At this Lord De’Vance raised an eyebrow. Broadmere, his Seneschal, had served the lord's father's father in his time, and so it was a long life that must have been full of wonders to behold. In fact, Lord Tripple could not recall ever seeing the usually dour old man as enthusiastic as he was now, not even at his own beloved son's wedding. For him to interrupt the lord at court with news of some common wandering minstrel at the gates, he must indeed be something of note. "Well, then, hire the man for the feasting, Broadmere! You scarcely need my permission for such as this!"

Here, the Seneschal was un-nerved.. Now before the Lord's Chair in the the grey stoned hall, Broadmere was at a loss of how to explain why he was here advancing the cause of some un-named, homeless vagabond. Broadmere knew the laws and rights of both the Kingdom and the Lord's lands as well as he knew his letters; the evening visitor had called upon some very old and touchy tenets in advocating his cause, laws that Broadmere knew unused for generations. But they were laws all the same. The torch scones upon the wall flicked orange light across his face, the servant starting the evening fire in the great hearths to either side of the vast room. Stuttering, his eyes seeming to dart without discipline about as though the answers were hiding in the shadows, he tried again. "Yes, my Lord, it's just... It's not just about performing."

Lord De’Vance was losing his patience, a virtue already taxed by the apprehension of his least favorite day of the year. "Well? Spit it out, man!"

It came out in a rush. "He requests to audition before you directly, my Lord. He invokes Fallow Law."

There was a collective gasp from the assemble courtiers. Lord De’Vance seemed to freeze in his chair. By invoking Fallow Law, the entertainer was claiming that the Lord had stolen unused land from him, a serious accusation and grievous insult if unfounded. "Have we... taken land from his young man or his family, Broadmere?"

The Seneschal spread his hands helplessly again. "He does have documents to that affect, my Lord. I did not have time to peruse them in details, but it seems your great-great grandfather may have..." Caution. Caution. "...been overly hasty in some regards."

Lord De’Vance found himself tense and frustrated. The upcoming festivities had him on edge, and now this?? There was no man nor woman in living history had ever invoked Fallow's Law, so honorable had the gentry accorded themselves to the King's trust! The law was near a relict, a byline from the eldest days of legalities, a footnote in the annals of solicitors and lawyers that no base peasant had reason to know. Thunder formed behind De’Vance's stormy eyes, his anger plain. If this was some early Cuckoo's Eve merriment, the traveler would have Hell to pay!

"Send for him. Now."