Aethelwynn

T'was a long night in Stangard, night before a battle and the Mead-hall of the village was full with bold-hearted Eorlings, from son to father and warrior to herdsman. They were invited by Dryhten. Bards were singing their songs of war and ancestors and playing on gilded lyres. The tables were lined with food and the pig roast turned over the pit, its juices falling into the fire with a sizzle. There was people sitting, standing, in corners and among the open spaces. Not a single space was empty.

Each morning I awoke, it was as if I have never left Grimslade. My mother would still weave in silence by the kitchen, Hilda sang of the ride of Eorl. People would start to recognize me and greet as I walked by. I spent my days in reflection, helping in the house chores or telling of the strange things I saw on my journeys.

I went to the armsman, as my father's letter indicated. When I told him who I was, he took my measures and asked me to return in a few days. I had a suspicion of his reasons, but kept it to my own. I would not want to spoil my father's surprise to me.