A Stranger from the North
Remembering the stranger beside her, Euphemia turns toward the older woman to thank her for her aid. But the gratitude snags in her throat. Her eyes catch on the tattoos lining the edge of the woman’s finger. Ancient markings from fading northern beliefs. Runes, she thinks they’re called.
Euphemia is still gaping at them, when a familiar voice sidles up beside her. “Feeling any better?” Cybele must notice Euphemia’s confused, bewildered look, for she adds with a nod toward the crowd, “About ending things with Conwal finally.”
“Right.” Euphemia shrugs. “I suppose.”
Smile brightening, Cybele gives Euphemia’s shoulders a squeeze. “I, for one, would be relieved.”
“And why is that?” Euphemia scoffs.
Cybele’s nose scrunches. “Because he smelled of manure.”
And at that, a spark of laughter awakens in Euphemia’s chest. “Cybele!” She swats at her older sister who jumps back, looking innocent and aghast. For a moment, Euphemia is too stunned by her sister’s blatant disrespect to say anything else.
It’s so unlike Cybele. It takes a moment to remember they’re in public and to collect herself.
“That’s unkind. You know his father is a carter.
They can’t help it if the smell of their labors sometimes… lingers.”
Cybele titters.
The older woman who Euphemia hadn’t realized was still standing next to them gives a low, rasping huff. “The truth is often unkind. Doesn’t make it any less truthful.”
Euphemia turns toward her with a wrinkle in her brow.
Without the distraction of facing her formidable past, she’s able to get a better look at the woman.
Ocean eyes and flaxen hair with perhaps a few wiry strands of grey at her temples.
But she’s not nearly as old as Euphemia had previously mistaken.
The crooked curve to her spine is misleading.
The grooves in her face are minimal, much more similar to their own mother’s.
And the mischievous glint in her eyes makes Euphemia think she could be younger, still.
“And you are?” Euphemia asks, not meaning to wield her words with so much venom.
“Euphemia, where are your manners?” Cybele swats her shoulder before flashing the woman a beatific smile.
“This kind woman was just buying some of your cider and pies when I saw you and Conwal talking. I completely froze mid-conversation, and when she asked me what was wrong, I told her it looked like you might be in trouble. And this saint of a woman marched right over here to shoo Conwal away. Isn’t that nice? ”
“Nice. Yes.” Euphemia mimics the words, but it’s more like she’s in a trance. Is it really so unusual for someone to show her kindness that she’s forgotten how to accept it? “I mean, thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure. Women like us need to look after one another, aye?”
There is a knowing sort of weight in the way she says us that makes Euphemia uneasy.
But Cybele’s laughter bubbles up around them, clearly not noticing that something might be amiss.
“Come, let us resume where we were. Shall me?” Cybele wraps an arm around the woman’s shoulders, gently guiding her back toward their cart.
But there’s a slowness to her gait that almost seems performative, the movements non-rhythmic in the way Euphemia would expect with someone hindered by old age or an injury.
Euphemia watches the woman more intently and notices there’s something strange about her clothes as well.
The wool skirt and linen apron are normal enough, but there isn’t a single stain or smudge in sight.
No patches to indicate years of use. No signs of the usual wear and tear prevalent in most commoners’ belongings.
Peculiar, but not dangerous, she reminds herself. So, Euphemia forces her suspicions aside. As long as this woman is making a purchase at a fair price, that’s all that matters.
Euphemia joins Cybele behind the cart just as the coin is exchanged. Cybele digs through their coin purse in search of change, unaware of the woman’s bright blue eyes boring into her.
“I didn’t catch your name, dear,” the woman says, a hint of an accent hiding in her throat. It’s buried too deep for Euphemia to place it.
Cybele beams that glowing, subservient smile. “Cybele Branwen, ma’am.”
“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
“You’re too kind.” Mid-blush, Cybele’s eyes flit to Euphemia. Expectant. And then impatient. Hastily, she answers for her, “And this is Euphemia.”
The woman’s eyes crease with a grin that seems far too calculating. Too cunning. And Euphemia is reminded again of wolves in sheep’s clothing. “Another beautiful young woman. But I am nothing if not honest, and Euphemia is a peculiar name, no?”
Euphemia is too cautious to answer. Her mind is abuzz with danger, though she cannot place why.
On second thought, she can. This whole day has primed her to be on edge.
First the dream and the strange figure within it.
Then walking by the meadow and searching for the nightmare.
Seeing Conwal. Revisiting the painful memory of her father’s passing.
All of it has led to this, her feeling like the frayed end of a rope dangling over a fire.
It’s difficult to discern what is the residual discomfort from each of these moments and what could be something more.
Cybele’s laughter comes with ease as she fishes out the final coins. “It might be considered strange. But our parents named her after a devout Saint, the Holy Great Martyr Euphemia, she who chose to worship God even when it was illegal.”
The strange woman’s mouth opens as if impressed, but there it is again.
That performative quality that Euphemia is all too familiar with herself.
It’s the same way she imagines her smiles landing when she is merely trying to appease a tavern guest and act cordial toward someone she’d rather not be speaking to.
The woman points between the two of them. “Sisters, then?”
Cybele sets three pence into the woman’s palm before handing Euphemia the coin pouch. “I didn’t realize it was that obvious. We’re always told we look nothing alike.”
“Ah, yes. Perhaps not the most obvious.” The woman chuckles, putting the coins in her pocket with a distinctive clink that tells Euphemia there are plenty others in there. “You both have your distinctive features. One of you as cheerful as the sun. The other…”
“Like a dark storm cloud?” Cybele offers, bumping Euphemia with her hip.
The two women laugh. All except Euphemia. She cannot shake the feeling of unease.
“A dark cloud. Yes, I can see it.” The mysterious woman chuckles to herself, smile so wide now that it reveals a slightly whiter tooth near the back.
Euphemia has to stop herself from staring, but it’s so very rare she sees someone with enough wealth to afford a false tooth, especially one carved from what looks like bone instead of wood.
The woman notices her staring and drags her tongue along the sharp edge of the tooth before saying to Cybele, “I would be willing to wager you are also the eldest then?”
Cybele’s blush is amplified by her amazement. “I am. What gave me away?”
“Only the eldest would be so brazen to talk about her sister in such a way. Don’t you agree, Euphemia?
” The woman pauses long enough for an answer, but Euphemia cannot give one.
It’s as if brambles clog her throat. The conversation carries on without her, until distantly she hears the woman ask, “Well, where is the handsome lad then?”
Euphemia blinks.
To Cybele’s credit, her friendly disposition finally falters, the first hint of a frown etching her brow. “Pardon?”
“Your betrothed, dear. The husband behind all of this—” The woman gestures to their cart of goods. “Surely, it’s not just the two of you?”
And Euphemia can see the pain that lances through Cybele then. Knows the thoughts that rush in with it as her sister answers politely, “Oh, there is no husband. Not for me, nor our mother. It’s only us now. Well, the four of us and our mother, that is.”
This goes far beyond the simple conversations they usually encounter at the market.
This feels more like the woman is searching for something.
But what?
Pity warps the woman’s mouth into something passable as a frown. “Ah. Times are hard, they are. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Cybele says, voice cracking. A wall of tears brims her eyes, the bricks ready to crumble. And it breaks something inside Euphemia to see one of the strongest women she’s ever known be reduced to rubble with just a few pointed questions.
Euphemia steps forward, shielding her sister. “Is there anything else we can help you with, ma’am? Or will that be all?”
“Euphemia!” Cybele blurts her name with such admonition, for a moment she almost thinks it’s their mother there.
Cybele pulls Euphemia’s shoulder, drawing her back, a look of disappointment warping her features.
Then she turns to the woman, ready to repair the damage.
“I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her today.
She’s been acting like this all morning. All testy and curt.”
The stranger holds up a mollifying hand. “It’s me who owes you the apology. I only meant to make conversation, but I can see I’ve dredged up old wounds and caused offense.”
“You’ve offended no one,” Cybele insists, casting Euphemia a scathing scowl. Turning the charm back on for the woman, she adds, “If anything, you’ve been a pleasant reprieve from the gloom.”
“Thank you, dear.” The woman’s bright blue eyes lift toward the sky.
She sighs. “But I suspect I’ve taken up enough of your time for one day.
I should be on my way.” She gathers the pies and the tankard of cider she purchased.
She tosses back the drink and they watch her throat bob once, twice, three times until the mug is cleared.
With an impressed smirk, she glances at the bottom of the tankard before asking, “I’m told rooms fill rather quickly here on market days, and I still have need of lodging.
You wouldn’t by chance be able to direct me to a tavern where I might stay for the night? ”
Stars seem to dazzle Cybele’s eyes. “Oh! You must come to the Saint’s Hearth. It’s our mother’s tavern. Just at the edge of Nottinghamshire.”
The woman graciously accepts, and Cybele spends the next few moments excitedly giving her directions and describing what the tavern looks like.
Meanwhile, Euphemia’s suspicions are itching again.
It is too much of a coincidence for her to shake that this stranger just so happened to talk to the exact people who run a tavern.
But with nowhere to place those suspicions, she finds herself with no ground to stand on. No rational reason to tell Cybele to uninvite her.
The woman packs away her things, but before she can amble off, Euphemia gets an idea. She calls out—
“And what is the name of the woman we’ve had the pleasure of speaking with today?” Nervously, she looks from her sister back to the woman, adding, “So we can inform our mother to ready a room for you.”
The woman’s keen eyes seem to bore into her. And for a moment, Euphemia thinks she might not answer. Or perhaps give a false name.
At last, the woman replies, “I am Kelda. Kelda Varinsson.”
As the woman disappears into the market, the sisters exchange a wordless glance.
That is no Christian name, nor is it English.
But Cybele’s silent glare urges Euphemia not to think too far into it.
The conflict between the Saxons and the Danes has long since ended.
The only war on their borders now is the one they fight from within, noble houses eager to shift power, no matter the cost it bears on those beneath them.
Still, Euphemia cannot shake the feeling that something sinister is afoot.
And that they might have accidentally invited a wolf into their home.