Chapter 37 - the Foundling III
Ryeamund was lounging in his own bath house, in his own great-house. It was one of his favorite things to relax himself, and it made his muscles and joints feel better. Eira was sitting next to him. Her arm was down along his, her fingers entwined with his. This was normal, this was decent, this was good. Eira would often laze one leg over his while she sat as she did now. Their lives were entwined just as their fingers were.
Eira wasn't talking much, which wasn't at all like her normal self. Unless feeling under the weather or tired, she would usually talk to her man when they were relaxing in the bath house.
Ryeamund particularly enjoyed this bath house specifically, because it was almost always quiet. Unless he and Eira made any small talk or noise of any kind. Eira had long ago hung a wooden sign she had made for them as a small geft for her man. It read "Faery Water" in the old speak.
It was a shared joke between the two of them. Because Eira had once asked him if he only wanted to be goat fucked in his own bath, because Fairies had sprinkled magic fairy dust in the water there. Ryeamund had been early in his dry wit he was then still picking up on from being about the high north. He had given her dry wit back. Yes, fairies had sprinkled magic fairy dust in his own water, so he preferred it best.
Ryeamund pointed at the sign, and they both smiled. This was nice, Ryeamund thought. The two of them shared everything. On another wall in the same bath house, they had a pair of swords on pegs on the wall, another in joke they shared. No one else needed to know the meaning, and weapons on a wall were common throughout the kingdom.
After Eira had hung the wooden fairy water sign? Ryeamund had secretively hung crossed swords on another wall, to play his part back. They had no small cast iron pot to lean against the door, because no one else ever hardly used this bath. It was theirs alone most usually. Only when the other bath was being drained and refilled, did the kids use this one.
Ryeamund was not a particularly demanding father. He had not yelled and made rules and demanded privacy. Once the kids were old enough to understand they had their own bath house, that this one was for him and his woman to relax in? Interruptions slowly ceased and went away.
"So, what is on your mind, that I would have upon your lips, woman. I can see in your eyes, that ye are reckoning something."
"Our life. It is good, is it not?"
"Aye. When I was a younger man, I did not bargain for a small portion of all this life. I would have been happy with several acres nearly anywhere. Are ye troubled, woman?"
"Not troubled greatly."
"Ye are troubled gently, then. If we are to be troubled, if it please Odin, let the troubles be gentle matters."
"Do you enjoy having three fine sons?"
"Aye. My own father, had but one son. I now have three. I wish father could have seen enough winters to have enjoyed his last grays in this place. I am sure father would have enjoyed a hot bath house."
"Ye did not mind the third son, then?"
"Nay. Shan is a fine son to have."
"What would you reckon on having a daughter?"
"Aye, woman. If ye wish to move the fairy dust in the water around some more, that is no small matter then."
"Nay, not a daughter made in that manner."
"Woman, I reckon as a farmer, and I tell ye plain. That is how daughters are made."
Eira smiled. She enjoyed his gentle and idle wit.
"I was reckoning on a used one, not a new one."
"Is this some new stall in the market, that I have not yet seen, then?"
"Nay, a foundling."
"Speak plain, then. Ye know well, ye have my ear in my bath."
Ryeamund dipped his head in the hot water and came up again.
"Shan's little friend. From the garden. The one he took his lunches with at the tavern."
"Ah. You have mentioned her. Many times. I am pleased Shan has a friend that he enjoys idle time with."
"I worry about her. Shan does not think they feed her enough. The father and mother are drunkards, the both of them."
"How bad of parents can they be. She is the only child at the garden every day for years, other than our own Shan."
"Aye, but I have come to reckon, that is more for the benefit of the parents to be rid of her all week, than for the child's benefit. It is said of the parents… that they make more wine than sheep, on their own sheep farm."
"In this land, sheep farmers prefer sons to daughters. Will they not declare her soon enough then? Or, is she being injured."
"No more than many drunken farmers injure their seedlings."
"Woman, I am the steward. I am not the high king. If a pickle does not stand up and beg to be plucked, I try to limit my interfering in their private matters."
"Gareen was the one. He spoke to me of her quality, and he is correct. She was the only child that took Shan's part when he had his problems at the garden during play. To no benefit of her own, I would mention. Also, she is the only other child to finish her gardening so well."
"Go on, then…"
"Shan gets little attention from the girls, on account of not fighting. You know the ways of these hairy beasts in this land. Also, as Gareen claimed… once Shan is given leave to fight, his situation with the girls will soon change."
"Eira. Perhaps you should be examining Shan on this matter. A mother can do much, yet, are you going to hang the coin for him?"
"Gareen already discussed the matter with Shan. He does favor her. He does claim he sees this quality she showed, for no benefit of her own."
"Eira. On our own farm, we can arrange such things for our animals. I am not certain it is a gentle steward's place to be arranging such for the village pickles. You know my ways. As a steward, I am to leave the pickles float as they may, if there be no real danger."
"I would not go plucking the pickles, as you say. Can we not… nudge the pickles in the barrel around some. Gently. If two pickles came to rest touching, and all was well…"
"Aye. And how gentle will this nudge be? What is yer plan on the matter. You always have a plan, woman."
"You do remember, how much the tavern-keeper and his wife enjoyed the reckoning that Shan gave them. They sweetly complain, that they miss him being there every day. They offered to give us coin, to get him back for lunch every day, as they were used to. The wife claims that it is much saved time to have him there."
"And, how does the steward's high reckoner plan on interfering in the affairs of the tavern-keeper, then. This I must hear as well."
"Well, here is my plan then. The tavern-keeper misses Shan and his reckoning. The girl's parents are barely more than useless drunkards. The tavern-keeper keeps trying to bargain coin for Shan's time once again. The girl is all but a high reckoner already."
"If the parents were to simply declare her a young woman, she would be free to do all the reckoning for the tavern-keepers. The tavern-keepers would feed her better, likely give her one of the small rooms out the back. She is a sweet little seedling, I am sure she would not mind helping in the kitchen."
"And, how does this nudge Shan and his little girl to bump up in the pickle barrel?"
"Well. I would instruct Shan, that it was only polite to see that her reckoning was going well. Shan claims he sort of misses the tavern-keeper and his family, and doing music with the oldest daughter. The two of them, could spend idle time over sweetbread and apple pressings, and Shan did mention he missed his idle time with her."
"Woman. I would have believed, a high reckoner such as yourself, would have formed a more complete plan on the matter…"
Eira furrowed her brow. She did not see what she had missed.
"What have I not accounted for…"
"Aye. Ye have not yet named our grand children yet…"
Eira smiled, then pouted, and beat Ryeamund's shoulders with her fists. Playfully.
"Woman, is there no test to see if this plan might reckon out as ye wish. Would the gentle woman not poke the soil of the matter gently, to judge it first."
"Well. I was thinking of inviting the girl to the feast. To sit with Shan. You can then see the two of them together, and judge for yourself. The little foundling could use a feast and some fun. All the men will be with women at the feast. Shan is already all but declared. I might even get the little thing some decent clothes for the feast, perhaps see to her hair a bit. She can help me in the kitchen some… and that might be noticed by the tavern-keeper and his family, who will be tending to things."
"Promise me two things, woman…"
"Aye?"
"First, my son will not end up carousing in the duck pond behind the tavern, with a horn of ale in one hand, and a foundling's teat in the other."
"And the second thing?"
"Can this be done without you teaching the little girl to take Shan at sword-point in the duck pond?"
They both splashed and laughed like a younger couple a bit. Then, Eira and Ryeamund were back to gentle relaxation.
"Does my steward's shoulders require kneading?"
Ryeamund moved his right arm around a bit in a circular motion to judge the feeling of it, and a few exploratory movements of the left, as well.
"Aye, such would not do me harm. If ye will…"
"I will."
And Eira kneaded his shoulders and neck with her strong hands, but spending more time on his right shoulder. She had seen him move it around more than the other.
"Aye, woman. That feels good. Is today not the day for my potion, as well?"
"Aye…"
Eira grabbed the pitcher of mead, and poured a small goblet. While Ryeamund usually took his mead watered down, this goblet was full strength. She reached back and had a small potion bottle in her hand, and took out the stop on it. The stop lid had a long and slender stick on it.
She dipped and raised the stick a few times, to judge how fast the drops shed and dripped down. She wanted to count the drops exactly. When she was satisfied, she dipped and raised it. When the drops slowed to a single drop that stayed, she moved it over the goblet, and tapped her hand holding it. A single drop fell and plunked into the goblet. She did this a second time. Then, she handed it to Ryeamund. He took it down quickly. She bent back and returned it to its hiding place. A small stone came out and the bottle went in, and the stone went back over. If a person did not know it was there, they would never find it.
Eira retreated to the corner of the bath and stuck her long legs out. Ryeamund slid over and lifted her legs up and slid to sit under them. Her knees over his lap.
"Aye, you are a great woman for me. You fight this enemy for me, that I can not fight."
He moved his right shoulder around a few times, to punctuate his words gently.
"How long do I have, Eira?"
Eira practically whispered her response.
"Ye have many winters left. Ye knows this."
"Aye. You tell that I have as many winters, as any other man without this enemy. Ye knows well what I mean."
"As I have said, and many times. No one can know. If ye continue to labor, yet not over do it. If ye stays agile, and limber. If ye takes care to not get injured greatly, in a joint. It will surely be many winters. Perhaps, even as many winters as would carry us into our full grays."
"Aye, and no other woman could help me fight my enemy. You are truly a blessing."
Eira leaned up, and smoothed her hands over his cheeks.
"The venom will work, for a long time. Long enough for your purposes, that you worry about. You only get a small amount, and not very often. A man half your size, would generally need much more. I am coming to believe, that a man who keeps doing labor, even after he reaches a station in his life he no longer has to? Is fighting the enemy better than anything."
"Yet, one day, I will be too old to labor. What then, I ask… yet, I already know."
"Husband. Ye take too much upon your shoulders. Yer job of steward. Ye could well keep doing that. Long after… you could no longer do… the other work."
"That other work, woman. It needs to be done."
"Aye, it does. Can it not one fine day, be that those labors be performed by others."
"Eira. Ye knows well. What my childhood was like for me. What my pickle barrel was full of. I can not rest easily. Until I see the pickle barrels are all drained of the piss and the cheap wine. When the last turds have been plucked… then… THEN… I can rest easy. We will then, go to our grays gently. Bounce fine grand children on our aging knees. Well, ye may be doing the bouncing, wife, I might well be lucky to sit there and watch them play."
"Little Rye. By that many winters? Yer precious 'Lord' you serve? He will have three more to handle that end of the matter… have you not seen yer three fine sons at labor, and at practice? Yer Lord will be quite well served."
"Aye. The steward's high reckoner, is likely right on that count."
"I know I am, husband. Look around you. Walk about yer Lord's land. Are the pickles not sweeter here?"
"Aye… almost as sweet as the pickles in the north star's own district, I believe."
"Well then. The wise steward will see such. He will be pleased to examine our three fine sons. Is not your example a great one? Will not all three son's examples be as great, if not more so."
"Aye. All goes better than we ever planned upon, perhaps."
"Most men worry too little, and my husband worries too much. Now then, I am only concerned with yer shoulder. Do you feel it? As always?"
Ryeamund moved his shoulder, and smiled. He raised his hand up straight in the air and held it there.
"Aye. The burning. As hot as ever."
"Aye. All is well. Now then… remember… just as the youngest got well gardened, such that he gets the full benefit of learning to reckon as a high reckoner?"
"Aye…?"
"And, ye brought it to me, that he rolls his neck, as you always did when young."
"Aye, I worry, about the crackling for him."
"Well? Worry not. He labors. He practices. He is agile as anything. He is nimble as a cat. He will get but one drop, only once every moon. He will likely never come to feel it."
"What has that to do with gardening?"
"As gardening early has its rewards? So too, does that we taught him to stay active. Starting this early, we have caught sight of your enemy very quickly. One drop every moon? Is as nothing. It will keep him for life."
"Wife, why do not all men have high reckoners, for their wenches, as I do?"
"Once the wise steward sees how well yer pickle barrel is doing? It will come to pass. Yer family scroll? Will be read by many, for generations to come."
"Woman… I have no family scroll."
"Do ye not? I would reckon, that ye will have one. Soon. Mark my words down and remember them."
"I was a farmer. A poor smith. A fine woodcutter, for the love of Odin… I do not deserve a scroll… do not flatter me…"
Eira cupped his face gently.
"Yer Lord does, husband. Ye serves him well, and in all ways. It will be marked down."
"If Odin wills it, then I suppose so."
Eira started…
"Well then. What the North Star wishes…"
And Ryeamund finished.
"Is as Odin wishes."
"Correct. Now, are you well? Let us go, and enjoy our family, and our fire. I got for you, a large wheel of the smoked cheese you favor… or, would you wait on that matter."
Ryeamund smiled, and got up to dry off. As everyone knew, there were precious few things in life, that excited and motivated Ryeamund Thorson, so much as morsels of food he favored.