\   \/ /  /
   `._\ _/\/_ /_.'
      `\  |  /'
    ~._ \ | / _.~
        `\|/'
         )(
        (  )
      __/  \__

The carpenter's words lingered in his head. He rode up the hill, an army of eyes on his back. The church grew clearer. It was taller than it was wide and fell back about forty paces. Its stone walls came most of the way up to his elbows, topped by timber twice as high and on top thatch. A bare cross stood at the crest. The oak door was as tall as he was on horseback. On the east side, obscured from view until he crested the hill, was a gnarled bramble, twisting itself higher than seemed right and surrounded by wilting flowers and petty crops. As he approached the building the door cracked open and a man wearing a taupe tunic slipped out from the entrance.

"Greetings!" the man hailed him with a voice polished with southron diction. "What business brings you to our church?"

The rider looked down on the man, fixing his gaze on the bare crown of his head and the ring of brown hair around it instead of his eyes. "Shelter," he said, "and food if you have it. I am traveling south but need a few days' rest."

The priest looked up, meeting his eyes. "South? Well, you better come in then."

The rider swung himself down off his steed. His cloak lingered a span behind and revealed his slight build. He was taller than the priest but not by much. Hunger hung on him heavier than his tunic.

"Come, there is a place for your horse by the garden and one for you..."

"Smjor," said the rider.

The priest stumbled over his own words, tipped off balance by the interruption. "You want butter?" he said. "I can see what I have, but a..."

"No," the rider cut him off again. "Sorry, Smjor is the name."

"You are named Smjor?" The priest looked at him with mild disbelief as they walked through the garden, leading the horse behind them.

The rider stared back, his brow furrowing a bit. "Sorry, no. The horse, she is named Smjor." The priest looked at the mare. It made some sense. White and amber flecks, more sleek than frayed.

"And what is your name then?" he asked the rider, adding, "I am called Godric."

His face opened up and his eyes darted around the space. They fixed themselves onto the gnarled bush and he spoke without thinking. "Brómber," he said.

"A horse named butter and a man named Bramble," the priest smiled as he spoke, "perhaps there are some things new under the sun."

Brómber looked at the man in surprise. "You speak Danish then, yes?" he asked in English. "You know my name and the name of the horse."

"Enough to understand, if not to speak it well. My congregation crosses the river freely, it is not my place to pick my favorites from among God's children."

Godric stopped and Brómber stared at him. The two men stood for a moment, looking at one another in quiet before the priest spoke again.

"You can tie her here," he said.

"Oh of course, I am sorry."

"There is no need to ask for forgiveness, I can see you are weary. Fatigue clouds the mind when traveling far, let us retreat into church. We will discuss your stay away from the heat of the sun."

The men had to angle themselves slightly as they entered the church, the door too narrow to clear the breadth of their shoulders. Pausing at the door to let his guest pass Godric looked at the leafless mulberry tree and smiled. "Brómber," he whispered to himself.

The priest guided him through the church and to an attached room on the west end of the nave. The ceiling was higher than Brómber had seen in quite some time. Small windows lined the walls letting daylight and fresh air inside the building. They passed through a thick curtain and into the priest's personal quarters. The fabric hung over a divide on the ground where packed earth became wood. There was a hearth at the end of the wall and to its right a bed. Godric stretched his second finger toward a pallet of straw opposite of it and spoke.

"We will be sharing quarters, that is where you will sleep." His voice was rougher than before. "If you desire privacy you may find a place to sleep elsewhere, but in this season the nights are cold and you will be far from the warmth of the hearth."

Brómber stepped in front of the priest and fell onto the straw like he was dying, letting out a soft groan as he hit the floor. Looking up at the wooden ceiling he hummed without a melody.

"This is a finer bed than I am used to." He spoke, "And a priest finer company than the bushes."

"I am happy to provide you this comfort. I must attend to my duties, but I will fetch you bread and some ale. You should rest, after. We have things we must discuss."

Brómber declined to inquire what the priest meant. When the man returned with a meal he set it down between them, then bowed his head and raised his hand over the bread. "Oculi omnium in te sperant, Domine, et tu das illis escam in tempore opportuno," he said. "Benedic, Domine, dona tua, quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen." Brómber kept his hands in his lap and his eyes on the bread until the words ran out. Then they ate quickly and quietly, drinking small ale from small wooden cups. The priest returned to his duties and the rider returned to his place in the straw. The weight of travel pushed down heavy on his eyes and he fell asleep, dreaming of colder skies and stony arches.

A bronzen crash filled the church. Brómber shot up off the hay and against the wall behind him, reaching for his seax and glaring out at the fabric that cut him off from the rest of the world. The clamor continued, striking the sleep from his eyes as he made sense of the interruption. The bell continued to shriek out a demand for attention. He attempted to stay his breath, counting each one by flexing a finger. Once he got to ten he loosened his grip on his knife but left his hand where it was. A moment passed, and then another. The ringing of the bell came to an end but the sound of his own heartbeat kept on in his ears. He stood and spoke to himself.

"Noon."

Still too alarmed to return to sleep he sat for a few moments, letting his breath drain his head of worry. Another sound came and went, a man mumbling something he could not make out followed by footsteps coming toward him. The curtains swept to the side and Godric stepped into the room.

"I thought Wystan might wake you," the priest said. "He is much louder from the inside, gentler at matins. The bell wakes us all, be not offended."

Brómber looked at him but said nothing, dropping his hand from the seax down onto his lap.

"Need you any more food or ale before I head into town?" Godric asked. "You could accompany me if you would like. I need to speak to members of my flock. A man has missed mass twice now due to illness, and..."

"Ale, perhaps," Brómber said sooner than he meant, "and something for Smjor."

"She is outside, feeding on grass." He looked at Brómber's face and took it as an answer to his offer of company. "I shall get you ale and leave you in peace."

He drank the dark ale alone, letting the sweet and the malt linger on his tongue as he thought. It tasted like rot without death, old bread without ill. He drained the cup slowly, watching it near the bottom and considering the way the taste changed as it went. Traces of older batches rubbed loose from the edge of the cup. He was warm.

Brómber stood and left the quarters, running his hands over the walls of the church as he walked back toward the exit. At the east end was the chancel, lit up by slightly larger openings in the walls and paved with flagstones before the altar. A man on the rod too, hanging without complaint. The gold ring around the scalp marked the man's lord. Brómber watched him as he walked forward. The paint had worn thin everywhere but the eyes.

A splinter bit into his ring finger, his hand recoiling from the wall. He ripped it out with his front teeth and scowled. "Smjor," he said to himself.

When he left the church his shadow fell to the northeast, pointing at the manor without accusation. From atop the hill, the town lay before him. He closed one eye and traced the river with his finger. It fell toward the town at a steep angle before leveling off near the base of the hill, sliding toward the east. Not long after it made a sharper turn, slowing and growing wider at the ford then bouncing back north before falling back down to the southeast. North of the ford and to the west, lay the longhouse, longer even than the church. It was surrounded by a score of buildings, small homes and outhouses, that gave way to pastures and some fields further along the road. Across the river, nestled in the bend, was the manor he had passed on the way in. The English side was greater than he had thought, two or maybe three score buildings surrounding the manor and lining the road, the church set aside. More farms lay to the south, with larger fields and greater crop to harvest.

Occasionally a man would cross the ford, stopping to pay the toll if he was not one of the townsfolk and continuing on freely if he was. He watched as the same two men who let him go on freely extracted silver from a caravan of three carts coming from the south, stopping them at the end of the ford before letting them leave the river.

Brómber sat and watched as Smjor picked at the grass, the sun giving warmth and an occasional breath taking it away. He counted all the buildings twice, seventeen and the longhouse on the far side, fifty-three, a church, and the manor on the near side. A Dane left the longhouse and rode along the road to the same carpenter who had stopped him earlier. The English stared at this man as they had at him, but no rocks were thrown and no commotion made. He watched the town return to its motions as the Dane left.

Godric went about from building to building, speaking briefly at most and for some time at a few. He seemed to be the only man without sword or axe in the entire town. The folk were at ease around him. He crossed the river on the back of a farmer's horse and repeated the pattern with the Danes. The sun grew nearer to the earth and the town grew quieter. Smjor ate, Brómber sat, and Godric returned.

The windows were shut and pottage stewed over a flame. The priest doled it out into two wooden bowls along with more ale and a nub of bread. He handed supper to Brómber and sat on the floor next to him, facing the hearth. He murmured his blessing over the bowls and crossed himself. Brómber ate quietly as the priest watched.

"So," Godric spoke, "you came along the road from the North."

Brómber looked down at his bowl while speaking. "Aye," he said, "the North."

"Where are you traveling from, how long have you been on the road?"

"The North," Brómber repeated. "A few months, I know not exactly. I left after the last winter thawed."

"That is quite a journey, where were you coming from?"

Brómber looked up from his bowl and stared at the priest, a shadow falling over the left side of his face and the right glowing in the amber light. "North. I came from the North."

"Your dress, I have seen it before on merchants coming from Eoforwic and the rest of Northumbria. Is that where you came from?"

Brómber's back straightened and he turned his gaze back to his pottage, mushing it with his spoon but no longer eating. He didn't respond.

"You and your horse have Danish names, but you carry a seax." Godric continued, unfazed by the silence. "You speak Danish and English both, each as well as the other. By looks your eyes and hair are more Danish, but without color you seem a fine example of an Englishman. I must ask, are you Danish or English?"

Brómber sat in silence just long enough that Godric prepared himself to speak again. He opened his mouth but the traveler spoke first.

"Yes." He looked into the hearth. "I am one of those. I came from the North and I am English or Danish."

"I see. Your clothes are as humble as mine and you have no ring on your arm. Are you a pilgrim? Were you robbed?"

"No. I am just heading South. I am tired of the cold." Brómber was still looking into the fire. He had hunger in his eyes but ate nothing. He turned back to the priest.

"The carpenter told me if I stay I will die," Brómber said, placing his bowl on the ground, "and that I would need a coffin. I plan on staying a few days before continuing down the road. I do not want to die."

The priest's patience spread thin upon his face. He collected himself before speaking. "Wulfric is fond of... humor of the gallows. Pay it no mind. It is true tragedy has befallen Brygwad more than it deserved in recent seasons, but violence is not the way of this place any more than fever is the way of a man. It is a temporary affliction, and one that nears its end."

He paused just long enough for Brómber to speak again.

"Still. It is safer to the south, yes?"

"I am afraid that is not the case, especially for men like you." Brómber twitched a little at those words. "An army of heathens again has come upon England. They landed last Harvest in Kent and have been scouring the land. They are not Christians like their cousins across the river. They have no land and follow no law but their own. If you travel South these men may come upon you and deprive you of your life. Even if you manage to avoid them, you may be mistaken for one of their kind and killed all the same. It is a bad time to travel, friend, and there are few places safer than this one."

Brómber grimaced at those words. Godric continued.

"If you will not stay here, at least travel back North. Be among the settled Danes, it would be a safer path than Mercia."

"I cannot go North. I left it. I must head South. I will leave in the morning."

The priest looked on at the man. "Stay another night at least," he said. "Make not this decision hastily. I can help you find work and a hearth. The folk here are good, my flock welcomes Danes and English alike."

Brómber looked at his meal and thought in silence. He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. "One more night," he said, "then I carry on."

 \|/
-(*)-
 /|\