There was none he could find. The hardened pads of his fingers followed the swell and down into a dip, and then back up slowly. He turned his hand, resting the palm along that same camber. A frisson of satisfaction traveled across his skin, lifting the small hairs along his arm. Wulf was pleased. The chair leg was as fine as any human hand could make it. Exhaling a deep sigh, he felt the proud tightening in his gut that followed every successfully completed step. Other folk might laugh to see how reverently he touched the wood he chiseled. They teased him for the long hours he spent shut away with his tools. But he took his work seriously, for without it what did he have? Once he was Raedwulf, disappointing youngest son of the Eaorl of Wexford; then, when the Normans came to conquer, he was taken prisoner. Fifteen years later he was finally freed and now he was simply Wulf the Carpenter. And he was as happy as any man left alone to do as he pleased could ever be. But it wouldn’t last would it?
