"What? Something terrifying, old friend? Did some noble lord raise taxes again? Tell us quickly."
His companions did not even know what kind of godforsaken place Melksham was, but he had asked about the thing they feared most: the various lords raising taxes.
Independent farmers did not actually pay much tax to the king, but tax collectors would levy extra for their own pockets, and there was also the share owed to the church. If farmers wanted to get by and still have enough to drink at the tavern, they had to care about taxation.
Even if they were illiterate, they knew what collecting taxes meant: the lords wanted more money and grain again.
Yet the first farmer said nothing. He merely stared at the cup before him. A stream of snot ran from his large red nose, and his eyes were hazy; he had clearly drunk quite a bit.
But his companions understood what he meant. Someone quickly called over the bartender and bought him another mug of ale. Though it was the cheapest, worst-quality brew, he gulped it down in one go, wiped his beard, let out a sour belch, and began his tale:
"That city of theirs has been cursed by demons! Since last winter, people have been dying there without end!"
"Hisss..."
His friends all sucked in a breath. Apparently, this was the universal gesture for expressing surprise. After the shock passed, someone grabbed his arm and urged him on.
"God bless us. Tell us properly—how did those cursed people die?"
They did not merely press him for details; they also bought the old fellow another drink as if currying favor.
People in this era had curiosity too, especially when they lived in small, closed-off communities. That only made them more curious about the outside world.