We Help Each Other #2
Slowly, tenderly, Kelda’s head shakes. “It is not my place to pry, and I do not need to know what happened. That is between you and your God.” She watches Euphemia for a moment longer, something calculating behind her gaze.
She sighs, seeming to move beyond it. “But what I know of guilt—it changes people. Teaches them something valuable. Makes them smarter. Stronger. I see that same strength in you, and I think you would suit the people of Thorfell quite well, if you were interested.”
The suggestion comes so suddenly, Euphemia almost doesn’t understand it. “Interested? In what?”
A chuckle ripples from Kelda. “You truly do not know, do you?” Seeing Euphemia’s annoyance return, Kelda frowns an apology.
“Right. Well, you asked for plain speech, so allow me to say it more plainly. My name, as you know, is Kelda Varinsson. That name might not mean anything to you in these parts, but in the north, I am known as the widow to the late Baron Otho Varinsson. I am the presiding countess of Thorfell Crag.”
Suddenly, Euphemia’s mind begins to bubble like a cauldron over the fire.
Sparks of memory. News humming through town—months ago, maybe a year—about a northern baron’s death.
Seeing as Euphemia does not much care for idle conversations about people she knows nothing about, she hadn’t paid the news much mind back then.
But hearing the name now, the late Lord Otho, it has a familiar sound to it.
“You’re a countess,” Euphemia says, less of a question, and more like she’s testing a theory she’s already certain is true.
“The presiding one, yes.”
And just like that, Euphemia recalls another piece of the story that blew through town when Lord Otho died. Not just that he’d left behind a widow, but also an adult son meant to inherit it all.
Suddenly, Kelda’s true intentions become clear.
Sensing the importance of this moment and how it might impact the rest of Euphemia’s life, she forces herself to stand taller. To appear stronger. Worthy. “You’ve come here in search of a bride for your son then.”
A solemn nod from the northern widow. “Indeed I have.”
“And—” Euphemia swallows the quiver in her voice— “You intend to make me that bride?”
Frowning, Kelda gives an indifferent shrug. “Why not?”
The laugh that escapes Euphemia is caustic. It echoes all the way down the road, between the homes, and into the forest where it rustles the trees. Euphemia balks. “Because he’s a baron, and I’m just—”
“An alewife’s daughter,” Kelda interjects simply, as if the two are one and the same. “I am aware of your family’s standing. It is of no problem to us.”
Another scoff bursts from Euphemia’s lips.
She stares down the road, gazing into the darkness.
It’s not as if she has another choice.
However, she can’t in good conscience accept. Not when the proposition seems so one-sided.
“Surely, your son has other suitors. Noble ladies who are far worthier of the title than I ever could be.”
“He does not,” Kelda says matter-of-fact. Now it’s her turn to look away. She gazes up at the stars as if each one is a long-lost friend. “The truth…the noble houses do not care much for us. My husband’s father was not English-born. Did you know this?”
Euphemia shakes her head.
Kelda sighs as if she’s told this story too many times to count and never likes the ending.
“A despicable man, my husband’s father, and I refuse to speak his name.
This country suffered him long enough. He and his men conquered Thorfell Crag many years ago.
Long before Otho or I were born. I assume you know what it means to conquer lands that belong to other people? The brutality. The bloodshed. The—”
Before Kelda can say anything truly stomach-churning, Euphemia stops her. “Yes. I can imagine.”
Perhaps more than most young woman. Because Euphemia had seen firsthand what combat could do to even the best of men.
When her father would return home from the battlefield, he’d try with all his might to leave those memories behind.
But every now and then, they’d resurface, and a black fog descending upon him.
And although he would never dare share the details of what transpired—what he’d had to do—Euphemia could sense it nonetheless.
Once, when she’d asked, all he’d said was that men at war were capable of doing unspeakable things they’d never known themselves capable of doing.
Nodding to herself, Kelda continues.
“I met Otho when he was just a boy. My father proposed a marriage then, but his father said Otho needed to marry an English woman to strengthen their allegiances. I didn’t see Otho again until after his father passed and he inherited Thorfell.
I was surprised to hear that over all that time, he’d refused to marry anyone because his heart had belonged to me from the moment we met. ”
The story does something strange to Euphemia, but it also seems to take its toll on Kelda.
Her eyes do not gloss-over like most. Nor does her voice become constricted with emotion.
But Euphemia notices that whenever Kelda says his name, there is a softness to it that she did not know the woman possessed.
Every time she breathes life into his name again, Kelda blinks wildly, as if a lifetime of memories are flashing before her eyes and she needs to capture—remember—each and every one of them.
Resituating her stance, Kelda clears her throat.
“My husband and I were fair. We took care of our people and our lands as best as we could. The people of Thorfell are content and well taken care of. Some are even our close friends. But to the noble houses, we are outsiders still. Even our son who is English-born. The noble houses, they would rather their daughters marry true English noblemen. Not Danish. Not outsiders.”
Euphemia knows a little about being an outsider herself.
But just because she can sympathize, does not mean this is the correct path for her, let alone for them. Kelda does not know who she’s inviting into her home. A cursed woman who would only bring them misery.
“I am flattered by the offer, Lady Kelda—” Kelda blows between her lips as if to say the title is ridiculous. Euphemia ignores her. “But I am not a suitable bride for your son—”
“Let me ask you this then—” The words seem to spill out of Kelda like an ale knocked over. There’s a desperation in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Once your family awakens in the morning and finds you’ve not returned, what do you think will happen?”
Euphemia opens her mouth to say something but realizes she has no answer to give. She hadn’t yet thought that far ahead, and Kelda gives her no reprieve to do so now.
“What about when your father disappeared? How long did your family grieve? Did your sisters and mother move on with ease? Or were they troubled by the suddenness of his departure?”
It feels as though Euphemia’s been dipped in molasses; slow understanding sinking in.
“We were all troubled by his disappearance, obviously.” It comes out a little more defensively than she means to, but Kelda is too caught up in her own questioning to notice.
“More importantly, did your neighbors allow them peace to grieve his loss? Or did they make things harder? Did the rumors spread like wildfire? Did those rumors make it more difficult for your family to endure?”
Euphemia is stunned into silence, assaulted by the memories.
The town hadn’t even known the horrific truth about her father’s passing.
They’d simply believed him to be a deserter.
Still, no one had let them grieve in peace.
The months that followed were some of the hardest Euphemia and her sisters have ever endured.
The family was shamed for his desertion.
Fewer folk visited the Saint’s Hearth, making coin scarce.
They were scrutinized and investigated, all the while Euphemia had been harboring a secret large enough to condemn them all to the gallows.
Taking Euphemia’s silence for what it is, Kelda inches nearer, voice as gentle as a cloud. “And once the town discovers you have disappeared, my little cloud, how will your family be treated then?”
The horror of that understanding makes Euphemia’s eyes bulge.
How had she not even considered it? The rumors would be staggering. And after a night like tonight? After Euphemia had accosted a man in their own home? Her family would surely suffer. Rumors circled them like vultures already. This would be the last one needed to cast them into destitution.
“I hadn’t considered it,” Euphemia says weakly.
Kelda nods. “I thought not. It is why you need a more permanent solution.”
Fingernails dig into Euphemia’s palms. Here she thought she had everything figured out, thought that all they needed was for her to disappear.
Turns out, she had been wrong. Abandoning them now would leave them to face a vicious and superstitious mob instead.
But staying will only put them in danger from the nightmare as well.
Already, it’s set their apple tree ablaze.
One spark, and they could lose their home while they’re slumbering inside.
Mob or nightmare, her family seems doomed either way.
Unless…
What they need is protection. Something to restore the reputation they would lose by the disappearance of an unlikable daughter.
“You should ask Cybele instead. She would make a beautiful bride.” It splits her in two to say it.
Before Kelda can respond, Euphemia whisks past her one final time.
Saying goodbye to hope. Something tugs deep in her chest as she does.
A hollowness that grows with each passing step until a chasm has yawned inside her, so immense and aching she’s forced to stop.
Euphemia reaches up for it, hand grasping at the pit in her stomach, trying to press the edges back together, to keep herself whole when—
The hand she’s clawing with twinges.