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He woke before the bell. Wystan's silence was displaced by the echo of a shattering haft in his head. His tongue stuck flat against the roof of his mouth, his lips were sealed. His eyes were heavy, the left more than the right, but he snapped them open each time he found them shut. Sleep had not been a faithful companion that night but it had left its trace where his eyes met his nose. Quietly he stepped out from the room, taking with him the severed head of the axe and a small chunk of bread left over from the night before. Avoiding meeting Christ's eyes on the cross he shuffled out of the church and into the cold morning air.

The sky was black upon purple upon red, the last forcing the others up from the horizon. He woke Smjor and untied her. They carefully descended the hill, Wystan's ring coming soon after they arrived at the bottom.

The bell gave permission to the other sounds of the town to make themselves known. Wood, feet, stone, hooves, iron, caws, cries, grunts, snorts, thuds. They joined a waking chorus as they walked toward the carpenter's workshop. The red sky began to turn blue as Brómber tied his companion to a post on the edge of the road. He looked Smjor in the eye. "Don't make trouble," he said, half to himself. He looked down the road, checking the manor to see who stood guard today. The post was empty.

He could hear Wulfric working in the yard and walked around the edge of the building to meet him. The head of the axe was tied to his belt. The man sat on the ground with a hammer next to a box. Wood sat in stacks near him, a hewing bench lay further back. A wattle hurdle separated the space from the rest of the town, with a gap more than wide enough for Brómber to wander in. He watched the carpenter drive a nail into the side of a coffin in silence, trying to muster up the words to speak. Before he announced his presence Wulfric paused his drum and half-shouted, "What do you need?"

Startled by the sudden question Brómber croaked back, "My axe."

Wulfric stood and turned to face him, his expression duller than before. "Your axe?" the carpenter said. "What of your axe?"

Brómber held up the blade and began to speak. "The haft shattered while I was..."

"That is not your axe."

"Well, right. The father, he..."

"You broke our poor priest's axe, leaving him with no way to find fuel for the winter?"

"No, I was cutting the wood for..." he tried to respond. The carpenter continued to speak over him, sauntering away from the coffin.

"Poor Father Godric, all alone up on the hill. Now he'll freeze in the Yuletide and there will be no one to deliver mass on the day of our savior's birth. How could you, boy?"

Brómber's brow compacted and teeth dug into each other. He squinted his left eye shut and widened its twin then barked, "He won't freeze because you will replace the haft and I will cut the wood."

The men stood across from one another in the morning. The carpenter had to look up slightly to meet the intruder's eyes. He sized Brómber up, uninterrupted but for the sounds of the town around them. His mask cracked and a laugh boomed out from him. "You really have no sense of humor, do you, boy? It was only a bit of fun, we would never let our poor father freeze even if he were too old and infirm to swing an axe. Give it here and I will have a look." He held out his left hand, the hammer still in his right.

Brómber opened his left eye but left the rest of his face in defensive formation. He untied the head from his belt and handed it over to the carpenter without a word.

Wulfric considered it for a moment and then spoke. "I will have it to you by noon. As you can see I have other customers to serve first." He gestured at the coffin with his hammer. "Don't worry, son, that one isn't yours. Not quite tall enough. Yours is inside."

Brómber shifted. He retreated into his cloak as he spoke, "Forgive me. I am not used to that kind of humor and I slept... not well last night. I am out of sorts." He looked expectantly at the carpenter before realizing the request he had omitted. "Godric asked me to have the axe back this morning. Could you fit the haft sooner?"

"How soon?"

"Immediately if you can."

Wulfric's eyes went up with his shoulders for a moment before falling with a sigh. "Sure, lad, I can get started now. Do you have the silver?"

"Well, I..."

"I see," Wulfric said. His voice was as devoid of humor as his customer's. "Don't worry, I will get it from the father the next time I see him. Come around to the front, I should have something inside."

The floor of the workshop was paved with well-trodden wood chips and shavings that seemed to soak up the sound of their feet as well as the light that streamed in from the doorway. A small fire was imprisoned by thick stones, only given enough air to breathe and be useful, nothing more. A treasury of iron tools hung from pegs on the wall above a wooden chest. Axes, augers, chisels, mallets, a hand saw, awls and whetstones. A pole lathe and a stool sat against the wall opposite of the rest of the tools, separated by a box of elm, perhaps a cabinet. Tannin smoke, tallow and glue worked in unison to invade Brómber's head and lungs, forcing an occasional sputter as he surveyed the workshop.

"Let me see the haft then. The broken one, I mean."

"I left it at the church."

Wulfric let out a huff. "Fine, fine. Tell me how it broke."

"I was chopping down an elm and lost control. It snapped in my hands."

He grunted in acknowledgment and grabbed Brómber's arm, drawing it out in front of him and holding a wooden rod against it.

"You swung too hard," he said. "Or you swung wrong."

"I swung true."

"You know, even so it will still take an hour, maybe two if you don't make yourself useful and help me." He continued to measure Brómber, walking his thumbs down his arm.

Brómber shifted. "Might it be done faster?"

"Faster! Faster!" The carpenter paused. "You want another broken haft?" he said, dropping Brómber's arm and reaching up above him. He produced a length of ash wood to match the pale arm he let down. "I will go as fast or as slow as I want," he added.

"Why are you measuring me?" Brómber asked, not noticing or not caring of Wulfric's indignation. "The axe is for Godric."

"The axe is for the axeman, and you are Godric's man," he said, taking a side-axe and a drawknife from the wall and placing them on the bench alongside the length of wood.

"I am not."

"Yes," Wulfric said, putting a hand on each of Brómber's shoulders and moving him up against the wall and marking where his head met the wall. "You are."

Brómber watched the man rough the wood and finish it with the knife, slowly transforming it into the shape of a long oval. Shifting his weight between his heels and sinking slightly into the ground aneath him he attempted conversation.

"The Danes," he started, suddenly in need of a follow-up, "what do you know of them?"

Without looking away Wulfric replied, "A lot, their names, their professions, their creed. They live just across the ford, you know."

"Right, of course. No, I mean... How long have they been here? Where are they from?"

"They came when I was young, younger than you. Knife." He held out his hand. Brómber handed him the tool. "Thank you. It must have been five and twenty, perhaps. As for where they came from..." He paused and looked back with a grin. "Probably Denmark."

"You know not?"

"I didn't ask," he said, turning back to his work.

"Who is their leader?"

"I believe they do not have one. Or at least they do not have a king. Here they listen to Gunnar, but he is away. His brother Ulf likes to order them around but he is not in charge. Supposedly they are loyal to the thane, but Leofric is dead and his son is hardly old enough to lead."

"So they have no lord."

"I suppose they don't," he said. "Rag." Brómber handed him a rag. "Same as you?"

"What about you people?"

"Same as them. The lady Hild speaks for us in front of the Danes, though. Godric too, although he welcomes all in his house."

"Do they get along?"

"Do they get along?" Wulfric repeated with a snort. "No, boy, not quite. That's what those are for." He pointed with his knife at the box at the edge of the bench.

Brómber's eyes locked onto it. The faint light of the fire glinted off the nail heads. It was another coffin. "I see."

"Charcoal," Wulfric demanded. "And no more questions."

Brómber sat with wide eyes, trying to absorb as much light as he could to see what the carpenter was doing. Again and again, Wulfric offered the wood to the charcoal-coated eye of the blade, shaving off the wood where it caught. The handle fit better and better, drawing nearer to perfection each time until...

Brómber heard a smack and a shrill whinny from outside followed by a shout. "Heathen nithing!" the voice called. A brighter voice followed. "Your wife looks like a horse!" Their feet were hardly quiet as they ran down the street.

Another smack came, darker and nearer, followed by a pain in Brómber's knuckles. Wulfric stopped working and stood. Brómber dropped his fist from the wall and marched to the door. He paused before leaving the workshop and again looked down his nose with one eye, addressing the carpenter behind him. Wulfric could hardly see him with the light of day at his back. "Go. Finish the coffin. The axe can wait."

The blue above him might as well have stayed red as he marched out into the morning air. Smjor was a few yards away, pulling against the post. A welt had already begun to raise itself on her left flank. In a heartbeat he was at her side, the sound of his wordless voice working with his hands to calm her. He breathed slowly, trying to calm himself as much as her. He could hear the sound of laughter in the distance. It drowned out all the noise of the world except his breath and hers. Her left eye met his right and she relented. "You will be safe."

He spun back on his heel and dropped his hands to his side. He could feel his heartbeat in his fist and his eye. Wulfric had ignored his command. He stood in the doorway of his workshop and tried to call something to Brómber. Brómber could not hear what. A chain of guffaws pulled him from his steed to the front of the manor where two men stood struggling for air between bouts of laughter. They looked the same to him, only one was taller.

His back was painfully straight. His cloak hung over his shoulders, hiding his nimble body beneath. His hood lay at the back of his head, slightly askew. His nose jutted out toward the guards.

"What want you, Dane?" the taller man said. This must be Daniel. "Did something scare your horse?"

He took a step forward. His feet made no noise. "I demand an apology."

The smaller man chortled. "An apology?"

Another step. "Yes," he said. "You scared my horse and injured her too."

Daniel stood straighter. The smaller man kept laughing. "We are very sorry for hurting your wife, my lord," he said with a grin, "we only wanted to have a bit of fun."

"That is not true," Brómber said.

"Andreas." Daniel's voice wavered and his hand moved toward his sword. "Stop." Brómber took another step forward and Daniel continued. "I apologize, Dane. My brother is a fool, he did not realize his offense."

"Not from you," Brómber said between slow breaths. "From your lord."

"Our lord has been dead since we were youths and our..."

Brómber cut him off with another step. "Lady Hild. Get her."

Hand on hilt Daniel stepped away from the gate. "Stay here," he spat at his brother. Louder he said, "Our lady meets not with visitors, especially not traveling Danes. No harm was done, leave and let us repent on Sunday." The men stepped toward each other.

"I am not leaving without an apology." Step.

"It is a horse. Walk away." Step.

"All I want is an apology." Step.

"Leave." Step.

"No." Step.

The men were now close enough to speak without being overheard. Only a yard lay between them, maybe less. Daniel kept his hand on his hilt. He could not see Brómber's arms underneath his cloak. Brómber stank of tallow and glue. Daniel smelled of game.

"Leave, Dane. With your life." The man before him was motionless and silent save for his breathing. "Leave my town, leave my country. Leave."

Brómber's eyes sat at the guard's chin. Neither moved, neither spoke. His breath became him. He turned slightly and slid his right foot over the earth, drawing the guard in.

Daniel blinked. With hand on hilt and head above the earth he pulled his panic under pride and drew. His sword sought out a stranger's head but death had drawn first and dashed across his neck. His eyes blinked again, looking down at the strange man in front of him. He could still move his arms. Daniel pulled back, ready to avenge himself. This was not to be the end of him, he would find a way out. He began to swing the sword back when the flat of the seax crashed into the side of his head. He hit the ground without a word.

His brother drew his own sword and let out a shrill cry. No one could say if he had said "Dan" or "Dane." He charged at the man who killed his brother. The stranger pivoted his right foot back and swung the seax into the sword, deflecting it and letting the boy tumble past him. As he fell past the knife flicked up and cut deep into his stomach. His body hit the ground with a thud and a shriek.

Brómber returned the seax to his belt and paced away. He kept his neck straight and his eyes well above the men on the ground. He could smell their blood even if he would not see it.

As he marched back to Smjor he called out to Wulfric, "Two coffins, then." Brómber coughed.

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