"Llanfrechfa, glad I caught you." the portly man grunted. He parked his spreading rear in Geraint’s own chair in an appropriating gesture. Geraint knew at once that this was going to be bad news. His boss, the Earl of Manchester, usually summoned him to his own offices. If he came to Geraint’s, then there was trouble to be shared or delegated, It might be gout, it might be one of his wives demanding more maintenance for the noble offspring, it might be anything–but it would be trouble. Geraint sat down opposite him, dutifully.