The Jarl's Son, Chapter 8-2

A Contest of the Heart, Part 2

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Gaiur had been about to ask Ida about the Red Bear, but Marten called out to her before she could. “I was looking for you!” he said as he approached, his smile wide as he carried a horn of mead in each hand. That smile wavered when he noticed the half-full horn sitting beside her. “I thought I’d bring you a drink, but it seems I’m late.”

She smirked at him. “No,” she huffed as she stood, snatching up her earlier mead while she rose. Then she tilted the half-full horn back and guzzled what remained. Some of it spilled over the rim of the horn, leaving pale purple trails as it dribbled down her chin and neck. Once drained, she took the horn he proffered and pressed the empty one into his hands, raising the new one as if in toast. “You’re just in time.”

Ida scoffed, standing herself as Selma began to stir. “That’s how you try to woo him?” she snarked. “You really have been without a man for years.”

Gaiur scowled at her, but Marten just laughed. Then he leaned close to Gaiur and whispered, “Fret not, I’m quite wooed.”

He earned a hard thump on the chest for that. It knocked his breath away, but not enough to quiet his laughter. Gaiur asked why he wasn’t taking offerings with the Jarl. Marten explained that they’d all been given. He was now free to roam the festivities as he saw fit, and he saw fit to roam them with her, if she would have him. She glanced back to Ida, who met her look with puzzled incredulity. Clearly she expected Gaiur to go with him, and why not? She was the hero of the city, had no romantic ties, and a handsome man was trying to win her affections! She’d have to be a fool not to go with him!

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And yet, instead of giving a full throated, “yes,” Gaiur turned to Marten and said, “Give me a moment?” Then she snatched Ida by the wrist and dragged her off to the back of the tannery.

“Are you mad?!” Ida barked.

“Where are you staying in the city?” Gaiur asked her.

Immediately, Ida’s mien became one of incredulity. “Oh, no, no, no,” she said, taking a step back and holding a hand out as she wagged her finger at Gaiur like a scolding nanny. “That man’s the image of beautiful Balefor himself, and he’s throwing himself at your feet! Don’t you dare tell me you fancy me over him!”

“What?!” Gaiur snapped! “Of course not! I told you I had a husband before!”

Ida’s eyes narrowed. “In my experience that doesn’t always mean much.”

“What sort of experiences have… Bah!” Clenching her teeth, Gaiur gave a low growl and shook her head. “That’s not why I’m asking!”

“Then what are you getting at?” Ida hissed.

“Your village! Your husband!” Gaiur replied. Then she paused, glancing around again to make sure no one was listening, and leaned in close. “I wish to know more of what happened, but tomorrow, in a place and time where we can speak away from prying ears.”

Ida’s incredulity faded into nervous concern. “Why?” she asked.

“Tomorrow I’ll tell you, when we’re behind closed doors,” she answered. “Now, where are you staying?”

She pointed south. “The smithy on the south end of the city. He and his wife took us in.”

Gaiur nodded. “When could we speak alone there?”

“Midday,” Ida said. “They’ll both be working then, and they won’t think twice about you coming to see me. I’ve brought guests from my village before, I’ll just say you’re one of them.”

“Midday then,” Gaiur said, and she led Ida back to where they left Marten.

Truly, she did wish to speak with Ida now, but it wasn’t the right time. With so many people around, it would’ve been far too easy to be overheard, and if Gaiur’s suspicions were proven true, then their discussion could be just the sort of thing that would spark fresh panic. Celebratory though the day’s mood was, it wouldn’t take much to spark the people’s fears anew. It was better they wait until the morrow, enjoying the day while they still could.

“What was that about?” Marten asked as the two women emerged from behind the tannery.

Gaiur opened her mouth to answer, ready to tell him it was nothing important, but Ida was faster.

“Oh she was desperate for advice on how to make a man swoon, seeing as it’s been so long for her,” the young mother said, smugly grinning all the while. To her credit, she met Gaiur’s glare without so much as a flinch. In fact, her smug grin widened.

Ida certainly had courage to spare, Gaiur would give her that.

Luckily for the both of them - Gaiur for the embarrassment it saved her, Ida for the slap across the face she avoided - Marten met the snarky remark with a jovial laugh. “Perhaps you could tell her I’m already taken with her, then!” he said. “Since she seems to value your opinion over mine, maybe she’ll actually listen!”

Once again, Gaiur thumped him hard in the chest for that. Marten let out a pained oof, but still didn’t stop laughing. Ida, meanwhile, started bouncing Selma in her arms again. The baby had woken during the brief commotion, and was beginning to fuss. Deciding to head back to the smithy’s to lay Selma to bed, Ida bid Gaiur and Marten farewell and left them alone.

Once she was out of earshot, Gaiur leaned against Marten and asked, “Did you mean that just now, about being taken with me?”

“Was that not clear when we spoke this morning?” he asked. His hand fell on her waist as he spoke.

Heat rose in Gaiur’s cheeks. She shook her head. “It was, it’s just…” Her words trailed into a long pause. Taking Marten’s hand from her waist, she pulled it forward and rested it against her belly with both of her own. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against his chest and said, “It’s good to hear it again, after so long.”

Marten said nothing. He had no need of words when actions would speak better. Reaching down with his free hand, he caressed Gaiur’s cheek with the tips of his fingers. Rough and calloused, they were the fingers of a man who was strong and worked hard. So very different from Varro, who always took such care to keep his hands as soft as he could for her. Yet the touch felt every bit as warm, and when his fingers came to her chin, she found she needed no beckoning. She tilted her head back and met his lips, the kiss soft at first, then bruising as their passions rose. Only the sounds of the celebration reminded them that this was not the place or time. That, and a sudden grumble from Gaiur’s stomach. She’d spent so long talking to Ida that she left her now cold stew uneaten!

Marten wouldn’t stand for that. Practically dragging her into the heart of the festival, they joined in the revel proper for the first time that day! Mead and beer flowed like water and Gaiur, wholly unable now to resist her hunger, devoured a joint of red meat straight off the bone! It was smokey and herbaceous, charred over open flame and crusted with herbs and coarse salt. There were nuts and cheeses as well, tangy and creamy, and plump ripe fruits picked as part of the last summer harvest. Roasted root vegetables, fish, berry sauces, and gravies were passed all around and anytime a horn or tankard was emptied, someone was there to fill it again.

Feasting moved into dancing and song, and then into more feasting! Fights did break out, as they so often do at such large gatherings, but they were civil things and handled in good sport. Marten was even challenged to wrestle by one of the young guards under his command, a request Gaiur was happy to see him accept. As Ida said, he was like an image of Balefor the Beautiful, second-born son of Luthmor and Shelyn, and when she heard that the bout would see them removing their tunics, she was all too happy to indulge in the sight of his strong back and large pectorals.

However, for a time it seemed as though the match wouldn’t happen. As both men readied themselves to begin, Jarl Ostock arrived with Erik alongside him. Having been bedridden for so long Erik was unable to walk on his own, and so he had to make use of a small wagon to get around. Normally a servant or serf would be the one made to push Erik’s wagon, but much to everyone’s surprise, Jarl Ostock himself took to the task. When he emerged into the heart of the crowd to see his eldest son and one of his city’s guards readying to fight one another, he took in the scene with a stern look and demanded answers.

“A contest!” Gaiur answered, raising the day’s fourth horn of mead high.

“A contest, you say,” the Jarl answered disapprovingly. Crossing his arms he shook his head and paced forward. “It feels, to me, inappropriate for my eldest son, who is the leader of our city’s guard, to engage in battle against one of the men under his charge! This is a day for celebrating, not fighting! Yes, a day for celebrating the life of my youngest son.”

Smiling warmly, Jarl Ostock turned back to face Erik, who appeared more than a little nervous with all eyes suddenly on him. Returning to the wagon, the Jarl crouched beside it and placed a hand on his young son’s shoulder.

“Erik, since this is your day, I think it only fair that you decide,” he said. Then, turning as he spoke so he could face everyone around them, Jarl Ostock cried out, “Would that please the people of Halvfjord?”

The crowd cheered and applauded, answering in unanimous cries of, “Yes!” and “Let the boy choose!”

“Very well, then! Very well! Erik shall be the decider!” Jarl Ostock called back to them. Then, once the crowd quieted again, he knelt back down next to his youngest son and, with a reassuring hand resting upon his back, had Erik face the crowd. “So, Erik, shall we let your brother have this contest?”

All were silent, waiting for Erik’s answer. From her place at one of the nearby tables, Gaiur watched the young, nervous boy wring his hands, then look to his father and nod. The Jarl then patted his back and said, “Very good. Now, say it loud so that they can hear you. Show them how strong my boy still is.”

Erik bit his lip, and Gaiur could see the uncertainty writ upon his face. The suffering he endured at the fangs and coils of the shadow adder, along with his youth and his still uncertain health, were making him scared. Yet she saw something else in him, too, a hardness in his bright blue eyes. A desire to show that yes, he was a strong boy. He survived that snake, and learned much from his father and brother both, despite being only eight years old. He was the Jarl’s son, and he wanted everyone to see it.

So, sitting upright as much as he could, Erik took a deep breath and yelled out! “Let Marten fight!”

The festival erupted with cheers and music! Marten and his subordinate got into position, and as they readied for their clash, Jarl Ostock rolled Erik’s wagon around to Gaiur so they could both sit with her. All eyes were on the clash as it began, cheering and clapping as Marten took the young man to the ground and called for the next challenger, a request that Erik readily approved. Round after round Marten faced his challengers and took them to the dirt, and after his fourth win against a particularly brawny stablehand from the nearby farms, Jarl Ostock clapped his eldest on the back and proudly declared, “My son will conquer all comers!”

As the Jarl was away, Erik tugged at the waist of Gaiur’s dress. She looked down to him for a short moment, then slipped off of her bench seat to kneel beside him. Again, he looked nervous, uncertain.

“What is it?” Gaiur asked him, gently cradling his hand in hers.

“Are you Wolfmother?” he asked.

Gaiur raised an eyebrow. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Marten,” he said. “He said that a lady called Wolfmother saved me, and the fox told me that, too.”

Gaiur giggled at that. “A fox told you that, you say? Tell me something, does this fox like to talk a lot?”

Erik nodded excitedly. “He told me lots of stories while I was sleeping, and helped keep me safe from the snake! He also said he couldn’t beat the snake alone, but that he had a friend who was a lady with a raven and a giant wolf who could!”

“And you think I’m that lady?”

The boy blushed a little and nodded again. “He showed me what she looks like, and she looked a lot like you, but with different clothes,” he said.

“Different clothes and a great, big axe?” she asked.

His eyes lit up, and she couldn’t help but smile despite the emotions that clashed in her chest. The ache of grief rose up against the warmth of joy. They slammed into each other, gripping and clawing, wresting and swinging. For a moment, it seemed like grief would win, and that joy would be stamped down. That’s when Erik pushed up to his wobbly knees and wrapped his arms around Gaiur’s neck.

“Thank you for saving me from the snake,” he said.

“You’re welcome, Erik,” she said, embracing him back. Though she wept in that moment, she knew that joy had won.

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.

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