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Brómber sat in front of the fire, looking just above it. He picked up the untouched bowl of porridge and stared into it. It was more like earth than mud, hardened by the heat. His stomach grumbled as he picked up the empty cup of ale, looking at its bottom and groaning. A hand came and snatched it from him, replacing it with a full one. A familiar voice came next.

"Pour some into the bowl and eat it. You should not waste your meal."

His eyes turned up and saw a slave woman with a plain face looking down at him, one hand kept on her hip. "Go on," she said.

He spilt some of the ale into the bowl and began to mix it in with a wooden spoon. She fell to her knees with a huff and grabbed the bowl and the cup from him, pouring some ale onto the ground and the rest into the bowl. "Not all of it is for you," she chided. "You must put more force into it," she said. She pushed the bowl and the spoon back into his hands but kept the empty cup. "Now eat."

Brómber felt hot. He took the spoon into his mouth and paused. Those eyes were still on him. One more spoonful and then a third. Her eyes followed the spoon as he ate. Her lips stayed shut. When he was done she snatched the bowl and the spoon from him and walked away. He could still feel the slurry on his tongue when she returned.

"I thought you were dead when I saw you in the river," she said, "by the looks of you I was right. What is your name?"

The image of her washing a red cloth shot across his eyes. "thváttkonan," he mumbled.

"You are named washer woman?" She leaned back and squinted at his lap.

His ears now burnt. "No. No. No," he said. "I am. My name is Brómber. You are the washer woman. You saw me in the river, yes?"

"Oh," she said, "yes. Thora."

"Thora?" he repeated.

"I just said that, yes?" She snapped at him.

Halla's voice came from the other end of the hall. "Ambatt!" she sang out. "Stop bothering the boy. Get him some clothes!" Her words ran together a bit as she spoke. "Over here, these will fit him." She kicked an oak chest sat against the wall.

"Halla," Ulf's voice replied, stretching her name again, "those are Erik's. Surely we can find something else for him to wear."

"They are of no use to him now," she said. "And there is nothing else that would suit him so well."

The two began to bicker again as Thora left and returned a few moments later holding a shirt of linen, wool trousers, and a tunic the color of walnuts. He took the clothes and dropped the blanket from his shoulders, pulling the trousers and linen onto his body as quickly as he could. He fumbled with the knot, his fingers made awkward by shaking. Thora watched as he dressed himself, tunic still in her hands. He took it from her without a word and held it out before putting it on. Bands of rust and gold wove their way around the neck and the cuffs. It smelled of old smoke and sweet gale, a dusty bitterness lingering behind. He slipped the tunic over his head, tugged at the sleeves, and frowned. A few knuckles short and frayed more on the left than right, the arms of the tunic failed to cover his. A mended tear on the right side slid against his elbow, too soft to chafe.

"My belt?" he asked.

Thora looked back at him. The cord from her own tunic loosened and her hand held it out for his. His hands stayed at his sides and his eyes stayed on the cord.

"You are not getting your belt tonight," she said. "Halla would not have that. Take mine now. We will find you something better in the morning..." She spoke quieter than she had earlier and tripped on Halla's name. "...if it is not good enough for you."

"Alright then," he said, grabbing the cord and tying it around himself. "Thank you."

She looked at him and twisted her lips. She turned and left, letting out a huff as she left the hall. The bell rang and marked noon. Throughout the day he heard scraps of conversations around him but did not join.

"He is too big for Erik's tunic," came one voice, "look at his arms."

"No," came another. "It is that he is too small. It hangs over him like a cloak."

"What about Leif's spare tunic?" came a third.

"Leif is a child," came Halla's, "he is already wearing Erik's. Leave him."

He walked outside to scan the camp. He could hardly see. The sun was brighter than he remembered and the sounds of the day louder than he liked. He returned inside almost as soon as he left and sat on a bench, running his hands up and down the sleeves of the tunic.

That night another slave, a man with greying hair and pale eyes, showed him where to sleep. His was the bed nearest to the entrance of the hall. The ceiling filled his view as the others drank and ate their supper. He left his trousers on along with his tunic, curling the blanket around him. Bare feet poked out of the bottom. Smoke poured up out of the fire, pushing against the ceiling before finding a way out the hole in the middle of the longhouse. He passed into sleep before the bell rang again. In his dreams Smjor ran along the river, the sun in front of her and him behind. It filled the heavens, brighter each step, until he could no longer see her. Feet no longer made noise, drowned out by the sound of the sky. The fog parted and he stepped out from the river, calling her name.

Wystan's ring woke him in the morning. His eyes were not heavy with sleep but he kept them shut anyway. The Danes began to wake and move around the hall. "Wake up," a high voice sang, "the sun is rising." Brómber kept still in his bed. He heard the voice step away and then return, saying, "If you wake not yourself I will wake you." His eyes opened. Before he moved a smack came at his feet, then another. He shot up on the bench and panted, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. Halla stood in front of him holding a short length of wood and chuckling.

"You said you would work. It is time to work." She smiled at the boy then turned her head, "Thora!" she called. "She will bring you boots. When you have them on find Arvid, he will tell you where to toil."

The slave brought him thin linen socks and wrappings and left them by his bed. As he secured them to his feet she returned with his boots. "I dried them by the fire," she said, then briskly walked away.

The leather was stiff enough to feel like planks of timber against his feet. He groaned as he stood and joined the Danes eating their first meal of the day. Halla instructed a slave girl to dole out small amounts of bread and curds, pairing them with ale. Some of the men spilled their drink onto the floor before drinking, others spoke hushed words over their bread, some did both. Brómber ate quickly and drank the same, then hurried outside into the light of day.

Others passed through the door after him and he slid to the left to let them pass, head turned the same direction, scanning the settlement. The yard before him was well trod and flattened down, sloping gently above the rest. Below, houses spread out to the river, their walls curving toward the sun to the east and south. Smoke crept out from their eaves but he could not smell it over dung and woad. He flexed seven of his fingers and a thumb, counting eight in all. Beyond the houses were the byres and beyond them the midden, steaming in the sun. He could hear the quern grinding from the grain store, over by the women's end of the hall. As his head turned he saw the river. Two skiffs, washing stones, a vat, a shed half sunk, the smokehouse, and furthest the tannery. Closer to the hall lay the ford and the toll post and a third skiff as well. Sixteen structures, the hall behind him made seventeen. He turned and looked for the missing building, finding the smithy at the north end of the road nearest to the forest. In between it and the trees were paddocks and pastures, filled with sheep and cattle, and then the strip-fields. It was just as it had been when he came. His eyes focused in on the paddocks, inspecting the horses there. The fairest had a tawny coat. His shoulders fell forward and he looked to the church, up atop the hill on the other side of the river.

"Are you lost?" A man spoke with a flat and lazy rhythm. "I can help. You are in Brygwad."

The interruption broke Brómber's concentration. "I know," he replied, turning his eyes to the man. He had light brown hair, almost blond where the sun hit it. His lips were full. A beard covered his soft cheeks. His hair was in a braid.

"It was a joke," the man said. "I know you are looking for me."

"I am?" Brómber replied.

The man's face bent a bit, his lips and his brow moving toward his nose, "I am Arvid. Halla told you to find me, yes?"

"Oh, yes. She did. You will show me how to work."

"I will show you where," he replied. "You should know already how to carry water, yes?"

"I know."

"Good then, come this way." The man walked past him and toward the river, upstream from the ford. There were two buckets attached to a wooden rod by hooks near a rocky landing at the river. He pointed at them and said, "You will take these and bring them to the cask by the hall. Once it is full collect some more and bring it to the women by the river, they need it for their dyeing."

"Alright," Brómber said. The sun sat behind Arvid's head, forcing Brómber's eyes into a squint.

"Alright," the man repeated, squinting back. He lingered a second looking at Brómber. "Be careful not to fall in."

Brómber forced out a laugh. It sounded like a cough. The man turned and walked away, calling back "That one was not a joke," as he left.

Brómber looked down at the buckets at his feet. He picked up the rod and slung it over his shoulders then crouched down and filled the left side then the right. The river tugged on him gently as he went. He stood and walked back toward the camp, counting his paces as he went. His feet ached as his boots slowly lost their stiffness. Water jumped and bubbled as he walked, some finding its way out of the buckets and onto his feet. Forty-one paces. He dumped each bucket, both about two thirds full, then turned and went to fill them again.

The second trip he filled each bucket halfway, hoping not to lose any water to the earth. The third he filled them a little more. Each time he took a bit more until, after nine trips, he found the level at which it would begin to spill out as he paced. Again and again he went back to the river and crouched. Again and again he walked back to the cask and dumped. The cask was twice as wide as his shoulders and came up to his chest. Seven and twenty trips passed before it was full, he felt as though it were as many hours. His feet were breaking faster than his boots. Curses for Thora came out from under his breath as he dropped the buckets to the ground by the cask, breathing for a moment before picking them up again and trudging back to the river.

This time he passed the cask and kept going, another sixty paces down to the vat where women worked on fabric. At twenty paces he passed the ford and saw the Dane with a scar who let him pass the day he first arrived. At thirty paces he could smell it, a sordid blend of sour ale and piss. At forty the scent overwhelmed the dung and the river. At fifty he could hear the women talking in the shed, one side left open to the air. It was half in the earth with a roof low enough for him to grab were it not for the water on his shoulders. The vat rose from the earth beside it, withes wrapping around the top of the tub as embers burnt at the bottom, breathing out putrid air from the top of a pond the color of sick, green and brown yet bronze and violet at once where the light hit it, that grew foam on its face which clung to the edge of the great pot without attempting to escape. Two thrall women worked at it from above, Thora and another he did not know, as two worked from below both with turned backs while Halla stood behind directing their movements. "Careful," she said, "careful."

Their sleeves rolled up to their shoulders revealing arms burnt light blue, deepening into the color of the night by the tips of their fingers. One of the women below managed staves of drying fabric, turning her head and wearing Wynflæd's face with rolled sleeves, her forearms streaked with splashes of the sky. The other, older than the pair above her, held the edge of the vat steady. Thora scowled as her partner fished through the muck with a stick, extracting from it a length of wool, letting it drip the excess back in before swinging it gently toward the rack to dry. It was riverweed in mud. It was autumn hay. It was spring grass. It was a pale adder. It was the shallow sea. Then it was blue alone. He stood in silence trying to keep out the smell while the fabric aged into its final color before his eyes. The women kept their eyes on the vat, except Halla who turned to him and spoke out.

"Over there," she pointed at a trough, "and not too much."

He turned the bucket over without ceremony before stepping back. "More woad, Wynny," Halla cooed, adding "gentle please" as Wynflæd approached the edge with a pot caked in dry green mash. She scooped out a clod with her hand and tossed it in and the thrall pushed it around the basin with a stick before fishing out another length of wool.

"If you are going to stand here I will make you work the dye," Halla said, looking at Brómber. "Maybe you are a maiden after all."

Quicker still than the wool turned blue his cheeks turned red. "I am sorry," he said, leaving the shack as quickly as he came.

One of the buckets hit the wall near the door as he left. "Careful!" Halla cried after him. He looked up at the sky as he walked back to the edge of the river, breathing heavily through his nose to rid himself of the odor.

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