Sir Humphrey pivots — a manoeuvre requiring several seconds in full plate — and addresses the goat directly. He squares his shoulders. He lowers his lance, then raises it back to its heroic forty-five degrees. "Your Honour," he begins, because one must start somewhere. The goat regards him. Its hat sits slightly askew. Its expression is that of a magistrate who has heard stranger things, but not many. "I put it to you," Humphrey continues, with the careful logic of a man building an argument from raw desperation, "that I am the most recent arrival, and therefore the most dramatically significant. I request only that you confirm this. Officially." He gestures at the goat. The goat blinks. Reginald has stopped pretending to sort documents. Goodwife Thripp's needles pause — one unprecedented click of silence — and resume. The goat steps forward, examines the tournament register that has escaped from Reginald's satchel, and turns back to Sir Humphrey with the expression of a judge who has, against all probability, reached a verdict.