Notable Locations of Oxford (1068 A.D.)The Saxon Taverns of Oxford

Though Norman banners now fly above Oxford's walls and French has become the language of the city's new lords, the heart of Oxford still beats with a Saxon rhythm once the sun begins to set. The city's taverns remain places where laborers, merchants, travelers, craftsmen, and soldiers gather beneath smoke-darkened rafters to drink ale, exchange rumors, and forget—if only for a few hours—that England has changed hands.

Most taverns are humble timber buildings with packed earth floors scattered with fresh rushes, long communal tables, and roaring hearths that keep away the evening chill. The scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, onions, spilled ale, wet wool, and woodsmoke hangs permanently in the air. Storytellers, wandering minstrels, and merchants often trade songs and news for a warm meal, while arguments over land, taxes, and the Norman occupation are settled with words far more often than fists—at least while the innkeeper is watching.

Among Oxford's many alehouses, two establishments are known by nearly everyone who lives within the city.

The Oxtail Tavern

Standing only a short walk from the city's busy marketplace is The Oxtail, one of Oxford's oldest and most beloved taverns. Built of heavy oak beams with whitewashed walls and a broad thatched roof blackened by decades of smoke, its sign depicts the painted tail of a great ox swaying above the doorway.

The tavern is owned and operated by a man known simply as Trick.

No one can quite agree where Trick came from. Barely four feet in height, broad as a barrel, and possessed of an astonishingly thick beard braided with bronze rings, he has long been nicknamed "the Dwarfish Man" by both Saxons and Normans alike. Whether the title is merely a jest born from his stature or a whisper of something older is left to drunken speculation. Trick himself only laughs before pouring another mug of ale.

Despite his unusual appearance, Trick is one of the most respected figures in Oxford. He has owned The Oxtail for longer than many can remember and somehow manages to remain on good terms with Norman soldiers, Saxon farmers, merchants, clergy, and even the occasional outlaw seeking a quiet meal before disappearing back into the forests.

The ale served within The Oxtail is considered among the finest in Oxford, brewed from barley grown in the surrounding countryside and flavored with herbs gathered from nearby meadows. Thick beef stew, roasted fowl, fresh bread, smoked fish from the Thames, and hearty oat porridge ensure that no traveler leaves hungry.

More valuable than its food, however, is its information.

Nearly every caravan entering Oxford eventually finds its way through The Oxtail's doors. Merchants from London, Winchester, York, and even Normandy exchange stories over mugs of ale, while pilgrims and wandering monks bring tales from distant monasteries. Local reeves quietly discuss taxes, hunters report on the forests, and mercenaries boast of battles both real and imagined.

For those who know how to listen rather than merely hear, The Oxtail can reveal nearly anything happening within a hundred miles of Oxford.

After sunset, another clientele occasionally appears.

Kindred emissaries, trusted ghouls, Kinfolk, hedge magi, and other creatures who know the hidden world sometimes pass through its doors. Trick asks few questions, accepts coin from anyone, and maintains one simple rule:

"No killing beneath my roof."

Whether that rule is enforced by his reputation, his surprising strength, or something older lurking beneath the cellar remains a matter of rumor.

The Roman House

Along one of Oxford's oldest streets stands a weathered stone building unlike nearly every other structure in the city. While surrounding homes have been rebuilt many times in timber, this establishment still bears sections of dressed Roman masonry laid centuries before the Saxons ever settled the region.

Known discreetly among respectable folk as The Roman House, it has served as Oxford's brothel for longer than any living resident can remember.

Its origins stretch back to the days when Roman officials maintained a settlement near the crossing of the Thames. Legionaries, merchants, magistrates, and travelers found companionship within these walls long before the Empire abandoned Britannia. Remarkably, through Saxon migrations, Danish invasions, civil wars, and now Norman conquest, the establishment has never truly closed its doors.

The building itself is larger than it first appears. Thick stone walls surround a central courtyard with a small well, while two stories of timber additions have grown around the original Roman foundation over generations. Oil lamps cast warm light through shuttered windows each evening, and flowering herbs planted within the courtyard help disguise the scents of perfume, wine, incense, and humanity.

Women—and on occasion men—working within the Roman House come from every corner of Britain and beyond. Some are Saxon, others Norman, Breton, Welsh, Danish, or Flemish. A handful are former servants who purchased their freedom, while others remain under the protection of the house until debts are repaid. Though the Church publicly condemns such establishments, many influential men quietly pass through its doors beneath heavy cloaks after dark.

Information changes hands here almost as often as silver.

Merchants reveal profitable ventures after too much wine. Knights boast of military movements. Priests confess doubts they would never dare speak within a church. Visiting nobles often underestimate those they pay to share their company, forgetting that listening is often more valuable than speaking.

Among the Kindred, the Roman House has long been regarded as neutral territory for discreet conversation. Ghouls frequently serve within its staff, ensuring certain influential patrons are remembered, while some rooms are maintained specifically for private meetings beyond mortal ears.

Old rumors speak of hidden Roman tunnels beneath the establishment, leading toward forgotten foundations buried beneath Oxford itself. Most dismiss such stories as drunken fantasy.

The Nosferatu do not.

Many among the Clan know that ancient passages still exist beneath portions of the city. Whether the Roman House truly conceals one of their entrances has never been publicly confirmed, but those who disappear into its cellar are occasionally seen emerging from entirely different parts of Oxford before dawn.

For mortal patrons, it remains simply the city's oldest house of pleasure.

For those who understand the World of Darkness, it is one of Oxford's greatest crossroads of secrets. Since the year 1278 AD, this location has been St Edmund Hall.