Richard turned back and saw someone standing beside the registration table, still wearing that old coat, with cobwebs from the library still clinging to its lapels.
It was Mortimer, of course. Yesterday, he had refused even to eat dinner. Now, for some reason, he had come out on his own and made his way to the registration table.
He called to Richard in the Albion Language:
"Come here a moment and help me hold this register down. It's a bit windy."
It certainly was. The narrow valley mouth funneled the wind into powerful gusts that kept pouring into the courtyard, lifting every corner of the papers on the table.
Richard sighed softly and walked over with his plate, freeing one hand to hold down all the corners for the professor.
He glanced over curiously and froze on the spot.
That page was already full, and only the bottom three lines remained on the second page. All of it was Professor Mortimer's own contribution.
The same young monk was still holding the pen.
His grip had become contorted, his fingertips were covered in ink, and there was a little on his nose too, probably smeared there when he wiped away his sweat.
The ink bottle had run dry. He scraped the nib inside it, producing nothing but a scratching sound. Mortimer still wasn't finished. "Next person, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd."
"Sir, please speak a little more slowly."
"Llywelyn. Two l's."
The monk wrote it down, then looked up with despair all over his face.
"Sir, this name has more consonants than we mountain folk use in a whole year."
Mortimer explained as though it were perfectly obvious:
"That old fellow was from Wales. The Welsh can't bear to use vowels, not even on their deathbeds. They trade all the vowels they save