'Forth ic gefare.....frind ic gemete...'

Thus ended Leofric his entertaining of the patrons at the Sun Wheel inn. The guests cheered their appreciation, and one bought him another drink. Since he had begun, one or two other guests had drifted in, complaining of the weather until they heard the singing going on--at which point they quietly took a seat and a drink. Even in unsettled times such as these, a good scop was respected for his artistry.

Leofric took a drink of his cider, now warmed by the application of an iron drawn from the fire and plunged into the wooden cup. He carefully packed away his harp, and picked at the remains of his bread. Aelwyn the inn-keeper brought him another piece with some more cheese, and took the seat opposite which he had previously given up to allow his guest a good view of the performance.

"Finest singing I've heard in many a year! Surely that was'na learned at the minster?"

Leofric shook his head. "No, I've always had the talent...and my father Aella had us all taught how to sing and play some instrument--my brother Osberht was the best of us--but he's gone now." It was some moments before he regained his voice. "He was lost in the raids which claimed my father as well. Of my sister I will not speak...."

Aelwyn nodded in understanding; many folk had lost family to the viking raiders...and to those seaxa who felt it their christian duty to root out heresy: be it that of heathenish gods--or unromish sacraments. Much of northern and western England's folk had been, and in many places still were, followers of the celtic church centered on Lindisfarne and Iona...and many more still were in their hearts. The Roman Church concerned itself too much with appearance and worldly affairs many people thought, but found it best to say nothing. Perhaps now that the Danes were here, the true church could be reborn?

As Leofric finished his meal, Aelwyn took the plates away, and began to extinguish the torches about the hall. Soon, only the fire in the central hearth gave off any light. The guests repaired to the sleeping ledges at each side of the long hall, and wrapped themselves in their cloaks. Some few had also acquired blankets from the inn-keeper, though Leofric was not one of these. He was therefore surprised when Marthe, the stout wife of Aelwyn, draped a fine wool coverlet over him as he stretched out.

" 'tis the least we can do for such as yerself, young sir. Bide well."

As he finished his breakfast of bread and cheese, Leofric pondered where he would go next. Home was out of the question, too many memories haunted his village--and his brother had the aid of their great uncle...a man too old to fight but still sound of mind if not of body. Further east, into the Danelaw? Could he avoid the vikings, and deal only with the common norse farm-folk, that might be acceptable--after all, he could scarcely believe in the christian god after seeing the fate of his minster--but he found he could not believe in the pagan deities either! Further north, into Strathclyde and the lands of the Scotti...it was probably only a matter of time before the raiders settled there too.

That left only the south, into the lands of Alfred, king of the West Seaxa. And there too, was the Roman church at it's strongest, a church which would hate and possibly kill him for having practiced the wrong rites (in their view)...or worse yet...now practicing none at all! At least the bretwalda (king of the english) was a tolerant man who had ordered that his court's official language be English and that all books be written in that tongue so that more could read them. This had been somewhat of a necessity, since even in the clergy, Latin was known to only a few!

South it would be, then--at least for now! It was nearly noon before he stopped by the side of a nameless track to eat, and discovered that his hosts had added a loaf of bread and a half-round of cheese to his pack. It wouldn't be until later that he discovered his money had been returned as well, along with a silver ha'penny he hadn't had before entering the inn!