Anglia's open skies were a clarion call for a young man to seek adventure and romance.

In my youth those skies called me to live my dream of being a wandering bard. A life of adventure, romance and sleeping beneath those open skies. However, as I neared twenty, The dream of sleeping beneath a lord's roof appealed more. The truth is, the open skies tend to rain a lot.

I dreamed of being a court musician. How grand to stay in one place, sleeping warm and dry, instead of trudging the cold, wet trails. I composed sonnets to a soft bed, a decent table and the comely serving wench I'd woo.

Needless to say, my dreams were not real. A travel-tattered bard is not welcome in a court. He's barely tolerated in a tavern.

However, in deference to my advanced years, I kept close to the trade roads where a man who travels lightly--a man who owns only his eating knife and lute--can reach an inn by nightfall. A bard sometimes receives a meal and a bed in exchange for an evening of song and story.

At worst there's space in the barn.

It was half past October when I stopped at a tiny inn where the trade path crosses the River Wier. The inn was built of stones borrowed from the long-abandoned Roman wall. The Romans constructed good, solid walls of well-dressed stone. Now that the legions have been gone for some five hundred years, those stones have found better uses.

I entered the inn with a lutish flourish and a song on my lips.

I bring the news from far and near,
I'll sing the tunes you wish to hear.
A bard is welcome, far and wide,
For joy is always at his side 

The innkeeper frowned at me. "Another penniless beggar. Stay out of the way and don't annoy anyone."

The scars on his face told me he'd been an armsman in his younger days. The thin gray hair on his head told me those days were not recent. The breadth of his shoulders and his huge hands told me that it didn't matter how long ago those days had been, he could still eject any bard who displeased him.

I retreated to the far corner and sang softly until he thundered. "If you're going to make noise, sing loud enough to be heard."

I obliged with a jaunty drinking song, and soon had several of the local farmers singing along and taking deep drafts of ale with each verse.

My host smiled as he refilled their tankards. Innkeepers favor a bard who increases their trade. He even gifted me a small mug of ale that was watered down just a bit more than necessary.

In hopes of being allowed to sleep near a fire, I sang my best sagas: _Sigurd and the Thirty Thieves_, _Sigurd Slays the Dragon_, and even _Sigurd and the Three Virgin Sisters_.

I tell myself that I am recognized for my Sagas of Sigurd. I sometimes sing the traditional sagas, but I prefer to present tales I've composed myself; adventures to thrill you, romances to enthrall you and moral tales to fulfill you. And, if my tales move you to bestow Christian charity upon a hungry bard, a blessing upon you.

Despite my best efforts, I ended the night in the stable. The stable was not well-cut stone. The walls were rough planks with gaps that let the evening-breezes flow freely. These breezes kept the stables as cold as outside without diluting the perfume of horse droppings.

Being the only traveler too poor to pay a penny to sleep by the fire, I pulled the loose straw into a pile and wrapped myself in my cloak. I fell asleep without being stepped on and counted myself lucky.

My luck changed shortly after moonrise. I woke with a start as the stable door creaked open, followed by the soft tread of footsteps. I cracked one eye and spied a figure approaching. The moonlight streaming through the open door glinted on shoulder-length blonde ringlets.

It's not unheard of for a young lady to sneak from her bed to visit a bard in the stable. For me, it happens after an evening of the tales of Sigurd. The door opens, a slim form slips in, and a hushed voice whispers, "Do you know where Sigurd is now? Will his travels bring him here?"

But, I've sung enough songs about a quick dally in the stable that I kept hoping for some truth in the tales.

I admired the golden locks. The form beneath was more robust than I'd dreamed of, but even a bard sometimes prefers substance to an ethereal dream. A noise in the stables made my visitor turn, and moonlight gleamed on a full blond beard.

I prayed this was not a romantic visitation, merely another traveler without enough coins searching for a dry place to sleep.

"Bard?" the visitor whispered, "Are you awake?"

I considered pretending sleep and then mused about what my visitor might do to a prone bard. "I am now," I grumbled.

"Good." He settled on his haunches near my chest and stared down at me. "I enjoyed the Sagas of Sigurd you sang tonight. They thrilled and inspired me."

How many times have I wished to hear a comely lass murmur those words. Not some hero-worshiping lad nearly as old as I.

"Thanks," I mumbled back, "may I go back to sleep now?"

"A moment of your time. As I said, the sagas inspired me. Are they your own?"

"Yes. They are mine. Carefully crafted so none can fail to recognize my talen--"

"Wonderful. As I said, they inspired me. I wish to be Sigurd."

"Well, every man should aspire to do the best he can in the eyes of man and God. I aspire to sleep most deeply."

"You mistake my meaning. I do not wish to be as heroic as Sigurd. I wish to _be_ Sigurd. Sigurd the Hero."

I grunted a querulous grunt.

He wasn't attempting to seduce me. That was the good news. The bad news was that he was obviously insane.

Everyone knows Sigurd is imaginary. Nobody could survive all the adventures I've composed of him. You might as well aspire to be Roland, or Lancelot or even a king like Charlemagne or Arthur. It's a grand dream, but I'd sing at court long before this lad became Sigurd the Hero.

I tried gently to explain this, but he interrupted me.

"I'm a sell-sword," he said. "A sell-axe, actually. Swords are expensive. But I live like you; wandering and earning money when I can. I guard a farmer's crops today, and don't know where I'll rest tomorrow."

"Aha, You have a story that should be a saga? In the morning I'll be happy to hear your tale."

Everyone believes their life would make a great saga. Too many are eager to relate every tiny detail in exchange for a portion of the coins they think I'll receive by singing of their boring lives.

"Alas, I only wish I had adventures like Sigurd. Especially the one with the three maidens." He paused, gazing dreamily at the ceiling. "But, that's not why I'm here. You sang that Sigurd is tall and fair-haired, like me. If I were Sigurd the Hero, I'd be paid with pieces of gold instead of chunks of cheese."

"So, tell people you're Sigurd. Tell them you're Hercules for all I care."

"No one will believe me if I claim to be Sigurd. But, if _you_ declare me to be Sigurd, then I'll receive greater rewards for my services and your songs will be grander for my presence. We'll both sleep on feather beds, not in stables."

That pretty much settled it. The man was insane. Insane and armed with an axe. Not to mention upright while I was sitting, wrapped in my cloak.

Discretion is a bard's first weapon. I needed to remove this man--and his axe--from my presence.

"You have an interesting proposition. Let me sleep and consider it. We can continue talking in the morning."

"Thank you, Friend Bard. In the morning it shall be." ....