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The bell rang out in the morning and so Brómber woke. This time the ring was softer and briefer. Prayers crept from the other room, then Godric with bread to break their fast. The priest blessed it in his quiet Latin and they ate in relative silence. Brómber grunted in acknowledgment when the priest spoke. Each attempt at conversation tightened Brómber's jaw, each unanswered question left Godric's expression harder to read. Godric finished his bread first and left with a glance back and a word unspoken. Alone now Brómber's face unwound. His beard had taken the brunt of the bread's assault. His right hand lingered on his face.

Still feeling his face with his right, his left hand fell toward his things. Without looking he searched for the feeling of hide. He catalogued his life with his fingers. Hidden pendants in the shape of a hammer and a cross, scraps of soft metal, cords, a stone like the one on his belt, steel and flint nearly fine enough to cut, some cloth, a dry and spongy stalk, a knife for whittling, a wooden spoon, a well-worn hide pouch almost soft enough to be velvet. He brought it up to his lap and, with both hands, loosened the pouch and extracted bone from skin. He held the antler case as he opened it, careful not to damage the joints. Inside was a matching comb. It was worn and brittle, yet not a single spine was broken.

The corners of his mouth pulled up as he picked through his beard with the comb. Every piece of bread and speck of dust was knocked off balance then pushed onto the floor. He worked fast and carefully, spending a few moments on his face before working through the rest of his head. Each hair that held a piece of hardened bread was swiftly swept and swatted till bare. No tug too tight or twist too rough, no bristles broken when the job was done.

It never seemed to be enough, there was always something more to extract from the rough. He forced his hands away from his mane and examined the comb. It was almost as clean as when he started. He wiped it on his cloak and returned it to its case, all the while staring at his fingernails. Dirt beneath the nails and dried blood too. Some breadcrumbs. He wasn't hungry enough to suck them out. A sigh fell out of him and he pulled himself to his feet. He kicked at the small pile of rubbish he had created before leaving the room and exiting the church. The wind brought the smell of the town up to him as he walked down to the river to wash his hands. For a time he stood by the bank of the river, looking up at the church. The priest went about his day, tending to his garden and meeting with members of his congregation. The river gushed behind him. A woman with fine clothing entered the church and left a few moments later. The church bell rang and the river gurgled. Brómber pushed his way back up the hill, stopping silently next to the garden where Godric was working.

"It relieves me to see you have stayed. I have a favor to ask of you."

Brómber's gaze met the priest's.

"I want you to come into town with me today. I heard there was trouble on your way in, a rock thrown and a horse scared. I want to show you the people are not like that here, that it was an exception. I know the people may have seemed uneasy with your presence, but I promise you they are kinder and happier in nature than how you see them today."

The priest scanned his face for any sign of an answer before continuing.

"The army to the South has made them wary of all strangers. Their unkindness is fear, nothing more."

Brómber started to speak but stopped himself. Godric's eyes grew wider, expecting an argument. Finally a response came. "I will come," he said. "I believe you."

For a second day Brómber watched as Godric went from home to home, tending to his flock and gathering information on the town. Godric walked while Brómber rode. A cow killed by wolves, an uncle who fell ill, a trader who haggled too fiercely over silver. At each stop Godric took a moment to introduce Brómber to the townsfolk and the folk to Brómber. He spoke little. The townsfolk stood stiff. Still, Godric's good nature and calm voice put all at ease. They arrived at the carpenter's workshop and the charcoal-haired man stepped out and darkened the day.

"Godric!" he shouted. "And you!" he said, turning to Brómber. "You decided to stay! I am glad, I started work on your coffin."

Godric sighed and Brómber grimaced.

"Wulfric, must you taunt the man?"

Brómber spoke over the priest, "Who would pay for the coffin? I have no silver."

"Well, boy, I am sure the Father would be willing to pay the cost. If I have it right he is the one who asked that you stay."

"Wulfric, please, spare your timber. He will not need a coffin for many years..." the priest attempted to interject.

"When I die it will be far from here," Brómber stated. "And I will need no coffin."

"Come now," Godric said under Wulfric's booming laugh.

"Bold!" said Wulfric. "What name will we bury you under anyway?"

The traveler stared down at the carpenter without speaking, his back straightening and his shadow pouring further onto the ground below. Finally speaking uninterrupted, the priest answered for him. "His name is Brómber. I think we should be going now. It was good to see you, Wulfric. Take care."

Smjor huffed and turned away, carrying the pair off. Brómber held tight to the reins, his knuckles as white as bone. His brow furrowed and his neck swelled as he stopped himself from glancing at the manor and the workshop behind him.

The men approached the river, passing by the manor on their way out without stopping. The guard who had thrown the rock the day before was now absent. The cold of the river broke Brómber from his concentration, cleaning away the dirt on his boots as well. Two Danes greeted the pair warmly as they approached the longhouse. A woman came out to greet the priest and Godric dismounted to meet her. Brómber sat above them, not leaving Smjor's back. He inspected her as she approached. Her hair was a light brown, not quite blonde, and a long nose made her face look thinner than it was. She kept a brisk pace before stopping at the men.

"The men are on a hunt today, Father. I am sorry you crossed the river for naught." She spoke in English.

"Be not worried, you, too, are a member of my flock. Crossing is always a worthwhile endeavor. How are you?"

Her gaze broke from the priest for a moment, looking up at the Dane on the horse.

"Very well, Father. And who is your companion?"

"A traveler from the North. I have asked him to stay among us until the threat from the South has passed," spoke the priest. "His name is Brómber."

"Brómber." Her mouth scrunched up. "Is he the man from yesterday?"

"Yes," Brómber spoke for himself. "I came in the morning, shortly after dawn."

"I heard they spooked your horse with a rock. Please, judge them not too harshly, Daniel is a troubled boy but he is not evil."

"Daniel?"

"Yes. He who threw the stone."

"I see."

"See you?" she asked. Her eyes hardened against his stare.

Brómber grunted. Smjor huffed. They both turned away from the woman. The priest spoke with her as Brómber looked around the Danish camp, their conversation blending in with the sound of the river. Smooth edges and warm walls, even during the Harvest it was more alive than the English half of the town. The scent of pigs and cattle hung in the air, stirred by their calls. Women and thralls tended to them. Brómber smiled.

Godric and the woman finished their conversation. The Danes and the river let them cross without incident again. They passed back through the town to the church. Godric rang the bell again, then returned to the hearth to share another meal with his guest. The blessing said, Brómber was the first to ask questions this time.

"Who was she," Brómber asked, "the English woman with the Danes?"

"She is called Wynflæd."

"Why is she not with her kin?" he pushed. "Did she marry a Dane?"

Godric sighed and took a sip of ale. "No," he said, "it is nothing quite so happy. Remember that I told you that tragedy has come to Brygwad?" He spoke quietly now, avoiding stirring the air. "Some time ago, Harvest three years ago if my memory still serves me well. Our thane, the good Leofric, was gored by a boar while on a hunting trip." Godric hesitated. Brómber was staring at the bridge of his nose, eyes glimmering in the dim light. He looked away and continued the story.

"He went with two of his own and three of the Danes. The forest split the party. Leofric found himself alone. It was a Dane who came across him lying on the ground, taking his last words. Some of our own blamed him for his death and claimed he willed it to happen."

"He made the boar kill your thane?" Brómber asked.

"No, not quite. They accused him of leading him to the boar or failing to intervene."

"It is not so simple to pull a boar off a man, no?" Brómber leaned forward as he spoke, "Even if he had, your thane might have died."

Godric's brow bent as he heard this. "The English were struck by grief," he said, "and the boar was left living. The Danes were no happier, mind you." His eyes flitted back to find Brómber's still fixed on the same spot.

"One of our boys, Wigmund, had too much strong ale that Michaelmas night. After the festivities he came upon a Dane and struck him with a rock. He carried the man to the ford and left him to drown in the water. He told his wife that he had been possessed by his wrath and, weakened by the ale, he had killed the man who killed their thane. In anger and despair for what might happen to her husband she told him to hide himself and flee."

"I see. This woman was Wynflæd?"

"Yes."

"And her husband is gone?"

"He left without so much as waking their child."

"He would have to," Brómber said as he leaned back. "He could not wait."

"Right. Well..." Godric's voice wavered a moment, "When the Danes found the body they were furious. The man he had killed had not even been the one who was with the thane in his final moments. It was his brother."

Brómber slapped his hands on his knees and huffed, interrupting the priest's story. He looked eagerly at the man across from him.

"His brothers wanted repayment, if not Wigmund's head. Wynflæd and her family had not enough silver to pay the price for her husband's deed and so they took her as hostage until the debt could be repaid. For three years she has been kept there without her son, and for three years no one has seen or heard from Wigmund."

"I see. There is never enough of it, it seems."

"Come again?"

"Silver. No one has it. The Danes need it, her family needs it." He paused and finished quieter. "I need it."

"Have you made a decision as to whether you will stay with us? I can help you find arrangements. Wulfric always needs help at his shop, or perhaps one of the farmers could use your aid in the harvest."

"Tomorrow I will go to the Danes and ask for work."

"I would not advise it. Violence is rare but when it comes, it is at the ford. An unlucky traveler decides he is above the tolls or that the Danes have no right to charge it. And..." The priest trailed off without finishing his thought, looking into the fire.

"I would be more welcome there. The folk on this side of the river are fine enough, but I am a stranger to them. That carpenter seems excited for me to die and all I would add to the fields is discomfort and worry."

"He wants not..." Godric tried to continue but was cut off yet again, left with a twisted face.

"You asked last night. Am I English or Danish. I choose to be a Dane. I will earn my silver honestly and find comfort with my kind. I appreciate your offer of finding work, but this is the right way."

Godric looked at him. He stopped himself and thought for a moment, then spoke.

"If you need silver and you are going to remain in town, why not sell your horse to one of the farmers. A member of my flock, Dunstan, lost one of his cows to wolves recently. I could speak to him for you, I am sure he would give you a fair price."

"Smjor," Brómber spat.

"Excuse me?"

"Her name is Smjor."

"Right. Smjor, yes. Why not sell the mare?"

"She is not mine to sell."

Godric's brow raised.

"Are you not her owner?"

"I am her companion." Brómber paused, his face twisting. "I helped her take her freedom. She took me along. I cannot sell her any more than I can sell myself! Perhaps we should sell you instead, if anyone would even have a thrall as meek as you!"

The words filled the room. Godric took a step back. A faint fear flashed onto the priest's face before cooling into a glare. Brómber's face matched Godric's like a mirror. The words rang in his ears. The room was hotter than it had been a moment ago.

"She's all I have, Father." He spoke so softly it was almost a whisper. "If I give her up, I would be alone." The priest's face thawed.

"And the new owner," he continued, "they may mistreat her or beat her. She may be afraid without me. She will be alone too."

"I understand."

The two men sat in silence for a long moment, each with their head turned to avoid the other's gaze. Godric broke the silence.

"I have not much silver to give you and the meals will be humble, but there is work to be done on the church. It will not stay Harvest forever. Preparation must be made for Winter and I cannot handle it all myself." With a smirk he added, "meek as I am."

Brómber looked at the priest and the priest looked back. Brómber sat on the floor of the church with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Godric relented. He stood above his guest with open hands and spoke softly.

"As long as you work there is food for you here, and a place to rest your head as well."

"And Smjor?" he asked. "You have fodder for her?" Godric's smirk turned into a grin.

"Arrangements will be made. You will both be provided for."

The room was again quiet, but it was a warmer peace. Brómber's shoulders fell and his back bent. The soft light still left outside faded away as they finished their meal.

"Brómber," Godric said. "How old are you?"

"I don't know exactly. Four and twenty I think, maybe a year more. I was born around Harvest."

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