The Jarl's Son, Chapter 5-2
Accounts of the Accused, Part 2
“The accusation came from my father.”
Gaiur’s eyes widened. “From the Jarl? Why?”
Letting go of her hand, Marten shrugged and took a step forward. “Grief, perhaps, or fear of losing his legitimate heir.”
“So you’re a bastard, then,” she murmured.
Marten sighed and shook his head. “No, I’m no bastard. My mother was wed to Jarl Ostock. She was a provincial woman from one of the farming villages in the northeastern reaches of our holdings, but she died shortly after giving birth to me and he blames me for that.”
“So when Erik fell ill he believed it was a ploy by you to usurp him,” Gaiur murmured.
Unexpectedly, Marten smiled at that. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say his name,” he said.
Despite herself, Gaiur felt heat rise in her cheeks. She looked away from him and nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line once again. “It’s still hard for me, but I’m coming to terms with that difficulty,” she said.
“Does it have something to do with that grim story of you and your wolf?” he asked.
“In part,” she replied.
“Will you tell me about it?”
“Soon,” she answered.
“Soon,” Marten grumbled. Hints of frustration rang clear in his voice. He shook his head again and crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought we agreed we’d share in kind.”
“We will,” Gaiur assured him, “but I wish to speak with the læknir first. After that, I’ll tell you the story in full.”
Marten was quiet for a long moment, but eventually he assented. “Very well, but at least answer one thing for me now,” he said. “Why haven’t you been able to speak Erik’s name until now?”
Gaiur’s jaw clenched and her gaze dropped to stare right past Marten at the shadowy form of the home behind him. It was a difficult question for her, the most difficult he could’ve asked, not that he’d known. That question brought back the images of what he might’ve looked like, with his light olive complexion, his bushy eyebrows and hazel eyes, and his head of hair which was wavy like his father’s and blue-black like hers. An image that brought the painful lump back into her throat again.
A lump which she swallowed back as she answered, “It was my son’s name.”
“You have a son?” Marten asked with unmasked surprise.
Gaiur’s jaw clenched tighter. “I had a son,” she said, speaking through her teeth.
Realization immediately played across Marten’s features. “I see. Forgive me for pressing the matter,” he said. Then he reached out and gave her a firm squeeze of her shoulder. “Know that you have my sympathies. No parent should have to bury their child.”
“No, they shouldn’t,” Gaiur muttered. Closing her eyes, she choked down the painful lump one more time, then took a deep breath and met Marten’s gaze again. “So let’s make sure your father won’t have to.”
“Agreed,” he said, once more taking the lead on their trek.
The bustle of the market square was minimal at this time of night. The stalls were now closed and the customers had made their way back to their homes. Only the shopkeepers remained, and they either stored what wares they could in their stalls, or packed what they couldn’t to bring home with them. Regardless of what they’d been doing, once Gaiur and Marten entered the square, all remaining eyes fell upon them and the area was cast into an eerie silence. No one dared break it by speaking. They were too afraid of what might happen if the strange woman who reared a giant wolf overheard them; such was Gaiur’s supposition. It was hardly the first time she’d drawn such leery gazes, especially after being spotted in the company of Varro and Hunin.
Of course, the fact that the Jarl’s eldest son accompanied her likely played its own part in stilling their tongues and drawing their eyes. She was certain that silence wouldn’t last, though. Once they’d fallen out of sight, those shopkeepers and merchants were sure to wag their tongues in scandal and rumor. If there was anything in this world more valuable to a merchant than money, it would be gossip. By that token, if there was anything Gaiur despised more than the shadowy fiends destiny tasked her with hunting, it was that unofficial currency which the merchants and nobles of the world so loved.
Rumormongers were of the most detestable sort. In Gaiur’s eyes, they were the surest sign of civilization’s inherently dishonest nature. Her nomadic life may have been difficult and dangerous, but its challenges could be overcome with grit, strength, and cunning. Bandits, brigands, and raiders were of a similarly greedy lot to those mongers, but they could at least be cowed through prowess and power. Even thieves and cutpurses could be caught and throttled through keen awareness. Secrets and rumors weren’t nearly so simple an enemy to deal with, not when civilization sought to protect them as it so often did.
“Wretched tongue waggers,” she growled as they made their way down the shallow slope of the northern road.
Marten chuckled under his breath. “I know what you mean,” he said, and Gaiur grinned at his agreement.
They made the rest of their walk to the læknir Hlín’s plot in relative silence. Fortunately it didn’t take them long. The road to the northern palisade sloped downward, allowing them to keep a brisk pace with ease. Within just a few short minutes, they’d stepped off the road and onto the pebbly path leading through her lush herb garden. Gaiur recognized all sorts within Hlín’s plot, from native plants like rosemary, thyme, nettles, sages, onion, and even a small juniper tree; to herbs like fireweed and hyssop, which she’d only seen foreign traders sell. Their fragrant scents permeated the air, the plants so numerous around them that Gaiur almost felt like she was walking through a small forest. They even concealed part of the small cottage at the plot’s center, which was then further hidden by the wide variety of dried herbs that hung from its roof and door frame in tightly bound bundles. Had it not been behind the city’s walls, one might not know anyone lived there at all.
Someone did live there, though, and she made her presence known when Gaiur pushed past a rosemary bush as she stepped off the path into the garden proper.
“How very typical. Must your kind always treat what isn’t yours so roughly?”
The voice, spoken behind her, was that of a woman. High and haughty, it had an almost musical lilt to it. When Gaiur turned to face its owner, Marten had already begun speaking with her.
“Hello, Hlín,” he began. “Forgive us, we were only-”
“Only seeking to rummage through my things again, as you’ve done many times over these last few months,” the woman retorted.
Wearing a simple woolen dress of light blue, Hlín stood in the doorway of her small cottage with arms crossed tight over her chest. A slender and pale woman, she was almost thin enough to be waifish and she affixed Marten with a dagger glare. “What is it this time? More treatments for the child? Or are simply inviting strangers to traipse through my garden for the fun of it now?”
“You might’ve told me you weren’t on good terms with her on the way here,” Gaiur said as she returned to the path.
Marten merely shrugged. “Slipped my mind. She’s not really on good terms with anybody,” he said, and Hlín was quick to take offense.
“How dare you!” she hissed, stepping out from her doorway to stand face to face with Marten. She was tall, almost as much as he, and in the moonlight her skin looked so pale as to be near pallid. If not for her lustrous golden hair and striking emerald eyes, she might appear as a walking corpse.
“Relax, Hlín. We both know it’s true,” Marten countered.
Hlín smacked him across the face without a second’s hesitation. Gaiur smirked, admittedly impressed by her grit. Plenty of folk might be stupid enough to take a swing at someone like Marten when they were drunk or angry, but she imagined few would do so when standing face to face with him. She still wouldn’t call it smart, but it was gutsy.
“I get along perfectly fine with those who follow my rules, something you and your guests consistently fail to do!” she barked, turning her glare toward Gaiur upon the mention of guests. Then, after a moment’s pause, she took a step back and once more crossed her arms. “Now what do you want?”
“Medicine,” Gaiur said. “Treatments for fever, pain, and a bad stomach.”
Hlín scoffed and rolled her eyes. “For the child, yes? So you’ve come up with another wild plan to rouse him from his stupor?” There was a discernible edge to her words, a mix of frustration and guilt which she was trying to mask with curt words and pride. “Whatever witchery you’ve planned won’t work,” Hlín continued. “If my herb lore wasn’t enough to rouse him, nothing of this world will.”
Marten started to voice a response, likely a plea based on his tone, but Gaiur interrupted him. “What makes you so sure?” she asked.
“Because no one in this region knows more of medicine than I do,” Hlín snapped. However, when she continued, her shoulders slumped, and her tone softened. “Yet that knowledge wasn’t enough.”
So it was guilt, then. Gaiur couldn’t fault her for feeling as she did. The woman made a life out of seeing to the wellbeing of these people. It must’ve cut deep to realize that her talents wouldn’t be enough to save the Jarl’s youngest son. Yet that still wasn’t reason enough to let her deny them.
“Perhaps it wasn’t then,” Gaiur said, “but when we wake him, we’ll need your lore to nurse him back to health.”
“Once you wake him?” Hlín scoffed. Her expression made it clear precisely how incredulous she found that idea, and she punctuated it by looking Gaiur up and down and scoffing again. “A wild woman, dressed practically in rags like some vagabond barbarian. What could you possibly hope to do for that boy in my place?”
Reason and instinct battled in Gaiur’s mind and heart. The warrior in her, the “wild woman” who left her home half a decade ago, wished to put the mouthy læknir in her place, and possibly lay her on her ass in the process. Despite that nagging urge, she maintained her composure. Such action would be fruitless, leading the woman to shut them out entirely. Besides, she was tired. Her emotions had already run rampant enough times today. More than enough, really. So if words wouldn’t be enough, and reacting on instinct would only worsen the problem, then she had but one idea left.
The leather sack she tossed clinked and chimed when it hit the ground at Hlín’s feet. She looked at it disdainfully, then turned that look on Gaiur as she spoke.
“Take it,” she said. “There’s enough coin and hacksilver in there to pay for what we’re asking and plenty more besides.”
“This isn’t an issue of payment,” Hlín retorted.
“No, it’s about your pride,” Gaiur said, stepping forward so that she was now face to face with the skinny læknir. The woman really was tall, nearly half a head more than she was, yet she soon looked like a defiant kitten standing before a wolf.
“Take it,” Gaiur said again. “Since you value your pride more than Erik’s life, we’ll buy what we need and be on our way.”
Red filled the pale features of Hlín’s elegant, angular face. The muscles in her neck tensed as she set her jaw, and her breaths came in sharp, angry huffs from flared nostrils. Gaiur was taking a risky gamble, one that might see her alienated from the woman. Should that happen, then she’d lean on Marten’s influence. He had the Jarl’s word at his back, and that was something she wouldn’t be able to deny. Still, Gaiur would rather it not come to that, and perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but she had a feeling that her gamble would pay off.
“Wait here,” Hlín hissed. Then, turning on her heels so quickly that her hair and dress alike billowed as she moved, she practically stomped back into her little house.
“Forgive her,” Marten murmured once the læknir disappeared from sight. “Erik’s sickness has been difficult on more than just our family. The people have struggled with my father’s closure of the city.”
Gaiur crossed her arms, a low hum rumbling from her throat. “You said something about his sickness at the gate when I arrived,” she said.
Marten nodded. “Jarl Ostock feared Erik’s malady may somehow spread. He didn’t wish to risk it escaping our borders.”
“It couldn’t have,” Gaiur countered, “not unless the shadow adder went on to bite others. Were there any who died strangely since he was ill?”
Marten shook his head. “None that I know of.”
“Then why keep the city locked shut?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging as he spoke. “Perhaps he wouldn’t have, had it been another’s child.”
Gaiur was silent. They both were, and that silence lingered until Hlín appeared in her doorway again. Glowering at them, the tall, reedy woman tossed a sack of thick burlap at their feet.
“There’s garlic and rosemary in there,” she said curtly. “Boil them with haddock soup and feed it to him hot, that should help his humors. There’s also muslin pouches with featherfew, ginger, and clove. Boil one for him every morning and evening until the water darkens to ease gut discomfort and keep his pain at bay. There’s enough for five days, if he wakes.”
“Thank you,” Marten said as Gaiur picked up the sack, but Hlín only scoffed in return.
“You can thank me by leaving me in peace,” she said, turning her back on them to head inside once more. However, instead of shutting the door behind her, she paused in the doorway for a moment.
“If he does wake,” she began, her tone much softened, “please tell me. I’d like to check on him, make sure he recovers properly.”
Marten nodded, promising that he would, and Hlín started closing the door behind her. She stopped when Gaiur called out to her.
“I wonder if you might have something else I need,” she said.
Hlín sighed, rubbing her forehead in frustration. “What is it,” she grumbled.
“Troll’s hair,” Gaiur answered.
“That swamp moss? No. It does nothing that I couldn’t achieve with plych or klockmoss, and those are easier to grow,” she said.
“Then do you know if it might grow somewhere nearby?” she asked.
The tall woman was about to answer, but instead turned around with eyes narrowed. “What reason do you have for seeking such a weed?”
Gaiur shook her head and once more crossed her arms over her chest. “My reasons are my own. Now, do you know where I might find it, or not?”
Hlín leaned against the doorframe with one hand, tapping it repeatedly with her long fingernails. They rapped hollowly against the wood, filling the otherwise still silence as she stared squint-eyed at Gaiur, who made no move to answer her. After a moment, the skinny læknir relented.
“Check along the shore deep in the fjord, where the waters become brackish,” she said. “If you find none there, you’ll have to travel far afield to the Red Marshes in the east.”
“Thank you,” Gaiur said, arms falling away from her chest as she bowed her head. Then she and Marten turned to leave, and the læknir’s door clicked shut.
Thank you for reading.
The Jarl’s Son sees Gaiur the Valdunite return to embark on a new adventure and acts as the follow-up to my dark fantasy mystery tale, In the Giant’s Shadow. The previous story isn’t required reading to understand and enjoy this tale, but doing so will enhance the experience.
Oh yeah. If I were a healer and someone questioned my competency, as well as mistreated my property, I'd be upset just like Hlin. Very believable. You've done a great job with this one.