As customary when alone in the house, Jake spoke his thoughts aloud. Some people prefer the company of a cat or a dog. He preferred that of his voice.
Scanning the notes he’d taken to glean something about the identity of Cynewulf, he said, “Let’s see, what do we know? Not much. The poet wrote in Anglian, not Saxon dialect, which means he was either Northumbrian or Mercian. Dammit, I knew that. What else? Ah, yes, he was a learned man. I’ve jotted something down here… ooph! I must improve my writing. Ah, yes, high level of sophistication. Probably a priest or a monk, because the poem is religious. And there’s another thing—he refers to other Latin works. Few people other than those in holy orders knew Latin.” Jake carried his notebook over to the mirror, leant forward and peered at his re
