Far off in the mists ahead, the glow of torches marked the entrance to the half-timbered inn. Below the thatched roof a sign portraying a round shield--surrounded by writing in both Latin and runic scripts, swayed in the freshening breeze. It would begin raining very soon, now that night had fallen. The only other building visible was a lean-to stable at the end of the inn, a corral fenced off from what passed for a main road in this section of Britain. One small window of polished horn was the only other source of illumination. The young man knew the number of coins in his purse, and regretted having to spend any for lodging, but knew he could not reach any other habitation before the storm began.

He pulled his conical cloth cap down further, and pulled part of his woolen cloak over his head as the rain began. By the time he reached the door of the inn, he had begun to feel the chill of the rain, though he was not thoroughly soaked as yet, his cloak giving good protection from the spring shower. He pushed at the heavy timber door, and entered the tavern. He strode up to the counter, and pulled back the folds of his cloak.

"Was hael, friend. I require lodgings for the night, and a meal...the storm is getting worse by the hour!"

The taverner, a burly man of middle years, but still apparently quite fit, eyed the stranger with caution. The tavern got a wide range of customers...Wealhas, Seaxa, Northmen and even the occasional viking...all of whom could be quick to anger, and if provoked...the Christ alone knew what would happen! He was just glad that his brother was a skilled carpenter who gave decent rates to family for mending broken furniture! The stranger was tall, and of medium build, and what could be seen of his hair beneath the cap was reddish blonde. Beneath the cloak of grey wool, the man's knee-length tunic was of burgundy with gold-embroidered trim, and the breeches were of blue-dyed wool. Low boots of brown leather were pierced and cross-gartered to a point half-way up the calf. A longish dagger of Saxon shape was worn in one side of the embroidered cloth belt, and a smaller one for eating adorned the other. The man had seen rougher-looking customers, and no mistake! A pity Anya wasn't present to amuse this youngster.

"Two copper pennies for the night, choice of ale or cider, and also bread and cheese in the morning. For tonight, there's mutton."

"Do I look like kin of King Ecgberht to you?! One penny, since I don't have a horse to stable here." The man's voice was melodious, with a northern accent the taverner couldn't place. At least he didn't look like a Viking berserker!

The inn-keeper stared for a moment, hoping the stranger would break, but then he smiled. "Done...can't blame a man for trying!" He set a cup of cider in front of his guest, after picking up the penny the man had drawn from a leather purse beneath his tunic. He watched as the young man went to a table, removed his cloak and sat on a bench next to the wall. A pack had been hidden by the cloak's bulk, and this the man sat on the bench next to him. "Dinner will be coming soon, young sir." He sighed, regretting that he had given the serving girl time to 'entertain' a friend, and that his wife Marthe had gone off to the mead supplier's.

Looking about the inn, he saw that it was cleaner than most, and the smell of roasting lamb was everywhere, along with that of fresh bread. He sipped at his cider--stronger than that at home and spiced differently--and surveyed the rest of the room in more detail. Wide benches along the two long walls of the room would serve as sleeping places later, and the room was dominated by a long fire-pit in the center of the room which provided most of the light and nearly all of the heat, and definitely all of the smoke which rose lazily to the chimney hole in the roof. The roof itself was supported cunningly by timber-framed trusses which were carved and painted with swirls and animal figures of angular form. Rushes and straw covered the floor, save near the flame-blackened hearth stones. A few tables were set about, and also a few seating benches--roughly done but well made. He saw several cats, one lying by the fire, and another perched on one of the cross-beams above. A good sign...no rats to worry about then! the young man thought.

A few other people had drifted in, not many since the weather was turning so foul. The taverner served them drinks, and they took places about the room. The man brought a platter of mutton and bread to the table, and also some whitish cheese. He also brought a small pitcher of cider should it be wanted. "I didn't catch your name, sir...I'm sorry. Mine's Aelwyn."

The young man smiled and motioned for the man to sit, if he would. The inn-keeper looked about, and pulled out a cup of his own as he seated himself on the bench opposite his guest. He poured himself a bit of the cider, and waited for his guest to eat a bit and begin his tale.

After taking a bit of the bread and a bite of lamb, the young man nodded his head and smiled happily. "An excellent dish, good man. I saw by your sign, that this inn is the Sun Wheel..."

"So," the older man replied, "You are able to read? Not a common skill! You must be a priest, or one of the king's men!"

The red-haired man laughed heartily, as he stabbed another piece of meat with his eating knife. He chewed for a bit, and drank more of the spiced cider.

"No, you are mistaken there! My name is Leofric, son of Aella, son of Seaberht. I come from what used to be the kingdom of Deira before the Northmen came. My home was Eoforwic...once known as Eboracum to the Romans and I was destined for Yorkminster."

The taverner nodded. "You are a priest then..."

"No," Leofric smiled sadly. "I was destined, but the gods--and the Vikings--took that away from me for all time." Another drink of cider and bite of bread and lamb. "My father had been a minor earl, and I was his youngest son and therefore pledged to take the tonsure when the time came. I studied at a minor house nearby until I was twelve, then was sent on to the minster for more training before I would have to take the vows. Word came of a raid on my village, and the local thanes called up the fyrd to fight the viking forces. By the time I was home, my father and two elder brothers were dead, but the raiders had been driven out. My remaining elder brother was wounded, and I stayed on until he was recovered and could take his place as earl."

"You did not go back to the minster, then?" the host inquired.

Leofric looked at him, then noticed that the other customers were wanting service. "Another tale for later...duty calls you." He continued his meal once the taverner left. Once he had finished, he wiped clean his knife and returned it to its scabbard. He stretched, yawned, and reached again for his pack. He drew out an instrument, and after bracing it on his lap, he began tuning its six strings. He had made the lyre with the aid of an old monk at the minster, and its amber-stained oval shape was one of his last relics of those days of peace. Once he had the pentatonic scale tuned to his pitch, he plucked some notes and hummed quietly with the tune.

"Would you favor us with a song, sir?" came the voice of another guest in the room. Others also joined in their support of this request, since entertainment was not readily available in such small places as this inn seemed to be.

Leofric smiled sadly, and nodded his assent. He plucked a few phrases to set the rhythm, and accompanied his words with the harp--its silvery notes making good contrast to his light tenor voice's cadenced phrasing of the song. Caedmon's Hymn, I think to begin...he thought ironically.

"Nu sculon herian...heofonrices weard...."