"For yourself?" he asked, spurring up to the stranger's side.
"Nay, for my lord and his wife and daughter. I am sent ahead to find lodging for them. They are on the road to Rutupiæ, to take ship for Gaul, and travel by way of Londinium, where my lord hath affairs to settle; but the women have given out and vow that they will go no farther. So do the chickens break for cover when the hawk swoops."
His voice was slightly contemptuous. He turned his face, covered with a wiry red beard, upon Wardo. His eyes, small and light, glinted from a network of wrinkles under reddish brows.
"You are no Roman," he said abruptly.
"Why, no," said Wardo, somewhat surprised, "I am Saxon."
"Like myself," said the stranger, grandly. "Men call me Wulf, the son of Wulf."
"There is an inn here," said Wardo, without returning information. "I will show you, if you like. It is kept by Christians, and it is clean."
"Then it will be poor," Wulf grumbled, "and the wine will not be fit for decent men."
"There you are wrong," said Wardo. "It is where my lord Eudemius stops with his train when he passeth through here."
"So!" Wulf's glance held awakening curiosity. "The lord Eudemius of the white villa south of Bibracte?"