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| - On the 18th day of April, the Sabbath, in the year of our Lord 1220, the weather in the vale of Stretton was fair and fresh. A spring breeze ruffled the grass, carrying an earthy smell. Watling Street, an old roman road, ran southwest from Sarop down the vale, which was flanked on the north-western side by the Long Mynd, and on the south-western side by number of hills. Across the vale from Church Stretton lay Caer Caradoc, Helmeth Hill with Willstone Hill rising behind it, Hazler Hill, and Ragleth Hill, whose sides bore more of the same forest which hugged the base of the Long Mynd. In the past, the vale had been entirely covered by forest, but now a broad strip had been cleared, and the road was lined with fields.
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| abstract
| - On the 18th day of April, the Sabbath, in the year of our Lord 1220, the weather in the vale of Stretton was fair and fresh. A spring breeze ruffled the grass, carrying an earthy smell. Watling Street, an old roman road, ran southwest from Sarop down the vale, which was flanked on the north-western side by the Long Mynd, and on the south-western side by number of hills. Across the vale from Church Stretton lay Caer Caradoc, Helmeth Hill with Willstone Hill rising behind it, Hazler Hill, and Ragleth Hill, whose sides bore more of the same forest which hugged the base of the Long Mynd. In the past, the vale had been entirely covered by forest, but now a broad strip had been cleared, and the road was lined with fields. The manor proper sat well back from the road, at the end of a broad and deeply rutted track, beside the manor's church, a sturdy stone building dedicated to Saint Laurence. At the junction where a track led off toward the manor and church, was a long, low building, in front of which stood a tall post bearing a sign with three lions; a reminder to all who passed by that Stretton-en-le-vale was now a royal manor. Inside, the Inn of the Three Lions was warm from the heat of the cooking fire, the occupants, and the bright sunlight. The main room was busy with people sitting on benches as they ate meals from trestled tables. The travelers dined with an assortment of knives, and drank weak ale from cups of leather or clay. Beneath one of the tables, the Innkeeper's dog sat amidst the rushes strewn on the cobbled floor, watching as the tavern maids bustled hither and yon with trays laden with platters. Upon spotting travelers through a window, one of the servants shouted across the din and clatter to the Innkeeper, a portly man, who ambles in an easy fashion over to the door, to greet the new arrivals. As the Innkeeper looked up, he saw a couple just outside one of the open windows, the woman apparently calling after an older boy who had stopped to pet a stray dog. The man, by the looks of it, the boy's brother, the Innkeeper thought, had a patient smile on his face and turned to the young lady and spoke softly into her ear just before turning and pushing open the door to enter the Inn. There was something about the man, plain as he may appear, that the Innkeeper did not like. It wasn't anything that he could put his finger on; it was just something that made him uneasy. Behind him came the young woman, modestly dressed in a simple kirtle over her undergown, though the kirtle was mudstained from the road. What could be seen of her face beneath the wimple was open and appealing and intelligence sparkled in her eyes. She dragged the young boy with her, he was apparently more interested in something outside, but she remonstrated with him sternly, "Llewys, there is a time and place for that, and this is neither. Sit. Conjugate 'to love' now." With a sigh, the boy began, "Amo, amas, amat ..." There was only one chair in the room, and the Bailiff lounged in it at an angle, with his head propped up by one hand and a goblet of wine loosely held in the other. He gazed into the red liquid as he gently swilled it around; lost in his memories. The Innkeeper began to address him, and he looked up with a start. A scowl passing across his face upon being disturbed, that quickly melted into a vague look of concern as he heeded the Innkeeper's words. He looked the man, and then spoke briefly to the Innkeeper, who glanced nervously back at them. With a wave of the hand, the Innkeeper was dismissed, and reluctantly headed back toward where the strange man sat. "Our Bailiff bids you welcome to Church Stretton, and kindly asks where your company is bound for on this fine day." A happy and welcoming smile spread across the Innkeeper's slightly chubby face; a well practiced mask from years of working as a host. In less boisterous surroundings, Ambrosius might have noticed the contradictory, nervous rigidity of Innkeeper's body that would have betrayed their true feelings. Roan, the barmaid, entered a door to the left of the entrance, and a room, very much like the one they currently occupied, lay beyond it. She set about placing trestles, lifting heavily scarred, wooden tabletops onto them, and once that was done, noisily dragged some long benches across the cobbles.
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