The Jarl's Son, Chapter 8-1
A Contest of the Heart, Part 1
It was just past midday, and the celebrations for Erik’s recovery were well underway. Jarl Ostock, along with Marten and his advisors, stood with the boy near the foot of the steps that led up to his home. People queued before those steps in a line which stretched all along the shallow sloped road that ran to the Jarl’s house from the market square. Crowns of woven flowers adorned many of their heads, man and woman alike. All either carried bundles to give as tokens of well wishing for the boy’s continued recovery, or brought some larger offering to be made in sacrifice to the gods for his continued wellbeing. Miraculous as they found Erik’s recovery to be, the people of Halvfjord weren’t fools. Like all Stenisians, they understood plenty well how quickly an ailment could return after its supposed healing.
Gaiur didn’t join the well wishers, nor did she stand with the Jarl’s family and council. Crucial though her role was, she was not of this place or these people. It didn’t feel right to stand with them and accept offerings, despite Jarl Ostock’s insistence that she do so. In time, when the mead, ale, and wine were drunken and the beef, fish, and venison were eaten; when the last men and women went stumbling home with clumsy cheers still falling from their lips; she would rejoin them. Until then, she was satisfied to linger at the party’s edge, wearing the same sort of plain strap dress and smock that most of the young women wore.
All the better for helping her appear nondescript, strange though it was to wear such a garment after so many years donning tunics and trousers. She had no real wish to be recognized, and even less of one to socialize for the moment. Meat and mead were foremost in her mind right now, especially considering how thoroughly the last couple days waylaid her original plans to merely resupply and move on. Her work to save Erik from the abominable end that shadow adder would’ve brought him gave her no time for a proper meal. Today she’d remedy that, starting with a bowl of thick venison stew and a hefty horn of whortleberry mead.
They were a local herder’s recipes. Like the others who provided for the feast, he gave them out freely, but she still insisted he accept the four pieces of hacksilver she had for him. Then she crept back into the crowd and found a somewhat quiet spot against the wall of a tannery at the far edge of the market square. Sitting against it, she set her horn of dark purple mead down and ate. For a blessing, the common clothes she’d donned stopped most from recognizing her, leaving her free to enjoy the meal in relative peace.
Most, but not all.
“Hey, wolf woman!”
The high, strong voice of a young woman cut above the din of talk, song, and laughter in the square. Gaiur cringed, her shoulders tightening. So much for the peaceful meal.
“That’s you, right? You’re the wolf woman?” the young woman asked.
Gaiur looked up from her bowl. The young woman standing over her wore a dress much like her own, clean and creamy white with a pale blue smock overtop. Chestnut hair, slightly curly, rolled down past her shoulders. A cooing babe, wrapped in a red blanket, played with her ringlets with chubby little fingers.
“I remember you,” Gaiur said as she stood. “You’re the mother I spoke to outside the gates.”
The young woman beamed with elation. “I knew it! You are her!” she exclaimed, stepping in close. She was a touch shorter than Gaiur, and more slender as well, but she was so brazen that Gaiur was taken aback!
“It was you, right?” she continued, lowering her tone. “The celebration and saving the boy and all of that. It’s because of you?”
Gaiur was at a loss for words. She’d never encountered anyone quite so bold as this woman before. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she glanced about to make sure no one was looking. “Here I’d thought I could eat and drink in peace,” she murmured.
The young mother snickered. “You jest, right?” she said, but her grin faded when Gaiur glowered at her. “You’re being serious, aren’t you? Wait, is that why you’re wearing the dress instead of those man’s clothes you had before?”
“Is there something you want?” Gaiur hissed through clenched teeth, but no amount of verbal hostility would dissuade the bold girl. Perhaps if Varro were present she wouldn’t be so upfront, but Gaiur left him out back behind the Jarl’s home.
The young mother laughed. “Craich’s crotch, I’m right, aren’t I?” She practically wheezed the question through her chortles, only stopping once her baby started to fuss. “You’re not at all what I expected,” she continued as she bounced the tiny girl in her arms.
“What do you want?” Gaiur insisted.
Finally, the young woman seemed to catch on to her irritation. She took a half step back and smiled demurely.
“To thank you,” she said. “If not for you, I wouldn’t have been able to bring Selma into the safety of the city walls.”
Gaiur looked down at the baby. A fine tuft of hair, chestnut colored like her mother’s, stuck out from below the blanket that was wrapped over her head. At the same time, the baby Selma looked up at her with hazel eyes open wide and her mouth shaped into a curious little oh. Then she tugged hard on her mother’s ringlet, drawing a yelp from her. Selma laughed at that, as babies her age often do at surprising sounds. Gaiur laughed with her.
“And your name?” she asked once Selma’s laughter finally calmed.
“Ida,” the young mother answered. Then she yelped again as Selma yanked at her hair.
“May I hold her?” Gaiur asked.
Ida looked surprised, and was clearly uncertain about letting Gaiur hold the baby girl. She could only guess what manner of thoughts passed through the young mother’s head, but Gaiur imagined they had something to do with her being a wilds wandering barbarian who kept company with wolves. Ida did end up stammering out a yes, though, and with all the nervous caution of a new mother, handed the child over.
“She’s heavy!” Gaiur chuckled as she held the baby in a gentle but secure cradle against her chest. Slowly, she rocked Selma back and forth and stroked that soft tuft of hair that sprouted out just above her forehead. Seeing how expertly Gaiur held her, Ida visibly relaxed, then laughed herself as Selma clenched a handful of Gaiur’s blue-black hair in her little fist and tugged!
“Oh! She’s strong, too!” Gaiur chortled.
Selma tugged at her hair again and as Gaiur worked her dark locks free of the baby’s grip, Ida scooped her back into her arms. She whined about it at first, disappointed to no longer have such thick and yankable hair within reach, but her complaints stopped once she realized her mother’s ringlets could still be grabbed.
“A wonderful age for her,” Gaiur said. She tried to mask the melancholy in her tone, but couldn’t.
“Sure, when she’s not pulling like this or biting down on my teat,” Ida complained. “Her teeth are coming in. Shelyn’s mercy that she’s not crying about that again. She gets monstrous when the pain’s bad. Were your children like that, too?”
Gaiur sighed and shook her head. “I have no children of my own,” she said.
“No? I thought you would with what you said about her age,” Ida replied. “A little brother or sister, then?”
Gaiur felt her emotions well again. A lump began to form in her throat, but she swallowed it away with a sip of sweet whortleberry mead. “It’s not that,” she said after setting the horn back down. Then, staying crouched for a moment, she gave a soft sigh. “What I mean is, I used to have a child.”
Ida struggled to form a response. Awkwardly, she tried to give condolences for Gaiur’s loss. The gesture was appreciated but unnecessary, and she stopped when Gaiur explained that it’d been a long time since she’d lost her family. Ida apologized anyway, and asked Gaiur what they were like. Though it pained her to think about them at first, Gaiur took Renald’s earlier words to heart and shared anyway. She spoke of Varro, her late husband from the South, and how he’d been a traveling companion with the man who was seen as the hero of her home village, Esbern Hallman. She spoke of how loving he was, and how he won her over with poetry and stories from his far away homeland. She spoke of Erik, their son, and how he had his father’s hazel eyes and bushy brows and tawny olive skin, but her dark, thick hair. She spoke of how they both laughed, and how Varro beamed whenever he held his child in his arms.
“He made a good father,” she sobbed. “Taken far too soon, the both of them.”
Ida was sitting with her now. She still cradled Selma against her chest, but the baby had dozed off. “I lost my husband, too,” she said after a short while. “His name was Gunvald, a farmer, despite his name. Never joined a raid, never marched to war under the Jarl’s banners. He could fight well enough, but he was no warrior.”
Gaiur watched Ida’s face closely as she spoke. She didn’t sob as she recounted her story. Her voice didn’t so much as crack. But she did stare. She stared down at the browning grasses between them and the nearby footpath, her vacant gaze looking through them to the memories she recounted. That look alone told Gaiur plenty. Her husband’s death was not a peaceful one, and it had something to do with her flight to Halvfjord.
“He should’ve run with us,” she murmured. “He should’ve fled instead of staying behind to fight the Red Bear.”
The Red Bear. When Ida spoke that name, Gaiur felt something tug at the back of her mind. It was the draw, the lure that led her to the places where wicked fiends and darksome beasts lay. Yet there was something strange about the feeling this time. Normally, when she felt the lure’s pull, it came with a sense of where to go. It was a vague and cloudy thing, but discernible, like a shadowy suspicion that can’t be shaken. That feeling was absent this time, almost as if, for the first time since she’d taken notice of this supernatural sense, it didn’t know where to go.
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.
It's nice that Gaiur gets some closure. She's been in a lot of pain for a long time.
It's too bad that the dress wasn't enough of a disguise, but at least the person who found her only wanted to thank her.
I can't wait until you publish these tales in a paperback, which I can buy and add to my library.