Chapter 7 - Village II
To Ryeamund, the great-house of the Bear looked like a large tavern, or perhaps a decent sized barn. More like a cross of the two, he finally decided. It was laid out in a giant rectangle. Three great tables lined three walls, with a large open space inside it. It was of mainly timber construction, and timbers with lots of wooden pegs pounded into holes that ran behind all the seats. Men obviously claimed seats by putting their well cleaned and oiled weapons and armor on pegs behind their claimed seats.
A few men were sitting and gabbing loud with horns and goblets. Idly picking at trays of bread and small foodstuffs. Several of the men were standing about the big fireplace and mantle, at the fourth wall of the rectangle.
Above the fireplace, hung large decorative shields. The one in the center, had a large star on it; Ryeamund knew this was the North Star, a sign of the high king. He was said to be the greatest of the stars, and also to lead men. As the north star itself guided men to their destination, so too did the high king. 'The North Star does not lead men in error' was a motto of his.
Directly to the right and left of the big king-sign, were mounted animal skulls on smaller shields. To the right of the north-star, was a wolf's skull. The king's right hand man. The wolf, who led his other kingsmen. To the left was the skull of some gigantic bear. This was therefore one of the king's left hand men, the Bear. The man who was the leader of this great-house, his own kingsmen, and indeed this entire village.
To the right and left of the gigantic fireplace and mantle, were openings that led to what was clearly the big kitchen and pantry. From the outside, it was easily seen that there were other buildings attached to this main one, and no doubt there were doors or passages to those as well.
Ryeamund could clearly see this was the nerve center of the important men in the village, the king's men that called it home. A pretty young woman came out and replenished the bread tray, and checked on the pitchers of wine and mead for the men, then disappeared around the fireplace and was gone.
The place smelled wonderful. Ryeamund's keen nose detected fresh, hot bread baking. Stews and meats as well. Ryeamund had to swallow to keep from drooling, the man had not boasted idly of this. Ryeamund would have been ecstatic with just vegetables, bread, and stew.
A big, booming voice called out.
"The Ox! Are you back from errand, then."
"Aye! I am."
"Well, the Bear welcomes the Ox. And his oxen… come here, man."
Arroch strode over, and clasped forearms with the huge man. Ryeamund needed no explaining that this was no doubt "the Bear".
"How went your errand, then."
"Well. And, even more. We have more bundles of hard sapling wood than on any other errand."
"Why the North Star wants so much handle wood, is his affair. I can only hope it is for coming command work. My sons need playthings, and my mantle could stand some decoration, as well. My belt loops, have not seen use in some time."
"Aye. If wishing made it so."
"Arroch, you have a new thing. What is it. Is that a new ox calf I see you with? Or is that some other mark he wears."
"Aye. This be Ryeamund Thorson. He hails from the south border lands."
"I would ask why he bears your mark, yet, the Wolf was already here. You missed him, by but a short time."
"Does the Wolf send me word?"
"Aye. He said he has gifts for you, and your oxen."
"Is he in haste?"
"Nay. Came you here, then, for the Wolf."
"Nay. We three have been on pig food for one moon too many. And this new man? He has been all but thralled to death. He has quality! And I did promise him proper food."
"I would ask of his quality, but… the Wolf was just here. This be that farmer he spoke of, then. I was not aware they grew this in the Rye down there."
"They do now."
"I see this. Pity he still wears your ox-mark. After Wulfgar said the man has some small quality? I should like to see some entertainment from the man. You marked him a Thorson."
"Aye. Entertainment, such as that? Must wait."
"Well… while we await such sport? The sun is going down soon. I see now, your man is sniffing the air, he no doubt smells the boar."
"Aye. The poor man has been kept on pig food, and little of that, even. I fear for the life of my war-horse, if we do not hand him a leg of boar, and soon."
The big bear-man called loudly for the women. He called for his own horn. A woman was smiling, and filled it from the mead pitcher, and handed it to the bear-man.
"Nay, wench! We have a new man! THIS… BE RYEAMUND. GIVE HIM MY HORN! DRAIN IT, MAN!"
The men all hammered on the table with their fists, as Ryeamund drained the man's own drinking horn.
"To Ryeamund!…", and they boomed in unison, "To Ryeamund!"
"Now, woman. See to these men. Then, bring them back. Hopefully, in time for some morsels and a few drops of something worth a man's trouble on errand."
"Welcome to my great-house, Ryeamund. The bear, and his cubs, are brothers of the ox and his oxen. We will see, if we can put some color in your cheeks, man. The meat will do your beard well, I think."
And the big man clasped forearms with Ryeamund, then Arroch, then each of Theyer's and Sooth's as well.
The woman came and sniffed Arroch.
"Aye, ox just off errand? Ye smell like an ox, as well. Let us see to that…", and she led Arroch by the hand, and the other three followed him.
She led them through the kitchen, and Ryeamund wanted some of the hot bread. Another young woman smiled, and told him they would bring it to him while he relaxed.
They were led out the side of the kitchen, into a short timbered hall. At the end of it was a larger room, mostly looking to be made of stone. What appeared to be a giant open fireplace, was actually a gigantic pool of water, a small indoor pond. The heat was almost oppressive, and quite humid as well.
The woman left, and Arroch and Theyer and Sooth all began unstrapping their heavy, expensive armor off. They unbound their foot-furs. Then they were all three about to get into the small pond of hot water, when they stopped and looked at Ryeamund.
"Do ye not bathe."
"Aye. Most times, in some creek."
"Well. This is better…"
They got into the hot water, dipped beneath the hot surface, and came up spitting hot water out. They looked at each other, then all looked at Ryeamund.
"Ryeamund? Come in. Trust your brothers. There is nothing indecent about this, I tell you man."
Theyer leaned over and nudged Sooth with his fist gently.
"Wink at him, you fool."
Sooth slowly showed Ryeamund the 'one-eye'. He did not want Ryeamund to take any offense to the 'indecent' jest. For if their new brother did not take well to being called a son of cowards, they hardly intended to have him think they were calling him a homosexual. If the big Ox respected their new man, they knew that they had better as well. After all, the man bargained but once.
"Come. Bathe like a petty king, man. We keep telling you… we are not paid in coin… we are paid in respect. Learn to enjoy it…"
Ryeamund lost his rough burlap trousers he wore. The trousers of poor lease farmers. Made obviously out of old sacks for grain that had come apart at the seams. He tossed them onto his leather boots, about the only thing of any quality he wore than anyone might covet.
Standing there in his ragged tunic shirt, he skinned it and tossed it onto the pile of his other clothes on top of his boots. He rolled his shoulders around slowly, rolled his head about his neck, and slowly came up the steps to get into the steaming hot bathing pool. He rarely had a hot bath, such was only in the dead of winter. Even at that, it was just a big cooking pot of hot water he dipped a rag into and used.
He stopped, wondering why the men were staring at him. Practically bug-eyed.
"What…"
Ryeamund glanced down at his manhood.
"My sword is not that small, I do not believe."
They shook their heads slowly, no, that wasn't it.
Ryeamund furrowed his brow at them. He crossed his arms and awaited explanation. He glanced himself over, did he have some huge tick on him they saw? He couldn't find one…
"Oh… my sword, it is not clipped. Does it need to be? Father said a whole sword will serve a man just fine."
Sooth recovered and spoke up, after gulping his awe and closing his open mouth.
"It is not ye sword, Ryeamund. It is the rest of you."
Ryeamund looked himself over and looked back at his new brothers.
"Well, what of it. I am not as tall as all you big men up here. I never did quite reach even Father's height."
He started to lower himself into the water, when there was a soft crash behind them. All three men in the water looked to see the cause, and Ryeamund followed their gaze over his shoulder. He was glad to at least have his ass in the water, so as not to be parading naked around the young woman seeing to their bathing needs.
She was standing there, her mouth open in awe as well.
"I brought mead… and some bread… I'll just be a moment…"
And she gathered what she had dropped. Not without looking in as much awe as the men in the bathing pool at what she saw. She finally left, promising to return as quick as she could.
Ryeamund dipped under the water, imitating his friends, so he came up and spit out some hot water as well, as they had done.
"Ah…", he exhaled slowly. He spread his arms out on the rim of the bathing pool. Jerked his neck twice each way, to crack it.
"There I go…", and he seemed to relax finally, and closed his eyes to enjoy the soak. This was a fine thing. A man could get used to this, he decided.
"Ah, I have it. You are not used to seeing a blacksmith's helper, then. We call these 'smith pocks'. The helper beats the red metal, and sparks fly out. Each makes a tiny burn, and it does scar over. After that? It hurts not anymore. Once the whole forearm is scarred. The first winter of it, is the worst. That, and the thorns in the wood, my forearms are not fine things anymore, from such work as that."
That wasn't what everyone was staring at. They suddenly realized, while Ryeamund was indeed a shorter man than they were? The rest of him more than made up for that. They had never seen the man with his shirt off, much less in the creek for a quick cleaning. He went off alone to bathe.
He was a huge man. There were simply ropes of muscles all over him. Veins stood out, as if complaining, and he wasn't even working. Saplings of what looked like small iron trees snaked around his thick arms and legs. His back had a nearly perfect V to it. His chest was two giant square slabs of solid horse meat.
That was enough, yet… there was not a scrap of fat to be found on the man. He didn't even boast what modern men that lift weights call a six pack, he had the whole eight pack, and they were squared out. His abdominal muscles formed another perfect V that pointed at his crotch.
You could even clearly make out the other indicators of his strength. His upper legs, had that curious third little muscle, squeezing out visible from behind and in between the other more usual big ones that strong men had. His triceps were completely split, and the horseshoes they formed wrapped around his massive upper arms. His biceps were even split in two.
Even his very nipples were pushed almost entirely off to the corners of the slabs of meat that formed his chest.
Theyer spoke first.
"Aye. You look fine, Ryeamund Thorson. Tell me, do all the woodcutters down there, look as you do? You do look like a strong man."
Ryeamund had a rag of hot water over his face, relaxing.
"Aye. More or less. It is hard labor. I am a little wider than the men in their full beard, yet, all are taller than I am."
"And you say, you have been eating mainly cereal grains, and greens and roots, and mushrooms, and the wild onions, aye?"
"Aye. I had to skimp on cereal grains this last winter. That's how I came by that little bag of small coins. I wanted to make sure you would not think me a burden to take with you. I had to boil the hard corn for the animals to get by the last winter season."
With Ryeamund's eyes hidden under the steaming rag over his face, they exchanged glances. Without a word spoken, they all knew what their glances meant. They all were taller, but, they knew they didn't look like this. They had muscles for tall men, but, some fat as well.
Their thick armor, and the thick cloth under the armor to keep their skin from rubbing raw, made them all appear much larger as well. Ryemund sized up beyond them, with no armor and thick clothing. His "armor" was his muscles. He was as big as they were, with their armor and thick clothing under it.
"Arroch? You are truly, one… brave… ox."
"And, a much wiser ox now, I tell you."
"Oh, by the oldest father himself. I am completely at my ease now. What is the matter at the door, then…"
Ryeamund idly wondered aloud, practically whispering and slurring, he was enjoying this hot bath, his first hot soak, ever.
Theyer chuckled to the other two.
"If I am not much mistaken… there is more than one serving wench, arguing about who brings in poor, starving, Ryeamund's mead and bread."
"Oh. I am in the water, now. Bring them both in. They can have their sport about my 'smith pox' arms. I am well used to it, by now. Tell them it's a fine thing. I will not hurt an animal, and Father would never approve of me raising my hand to a woman. They have nothing to fear."
Theyer recovered his voice first.
"Women! Come! We are in the water, it is fine."
And, the women came in. One put a small loaf of bread in one of his hands. The other guided his free hand to a horn of mead.
The third went about rubbing Ryeamund's shoulders, kneading them. "Oh, that is fine…", he cooed. Her eyes about bugged out, looking down at what was out of the water. Her eyes and deadpan expression went to the other three, each in their own corner of the square pool of hot steaming water. All smiling in amusement.
"So… Arroch. Where did you find this… new oxling you bring around to show off. Southern borderlands, they say?"
"Aye. They grow these, among the rye stalks. The poor man is starved, he has been eating pig food, and boiling hard corn he stole off his animals this last winter. We felt sorry for the little man, and decided it would be a fine thing to put his weight back on him."
She looked at him with the wryest of grins.
"You expect this… to grow?"
Theyer piped up, in his best dry humor.
"Aye. Notice, woman. He is only a few winters from but a young man. He's not even in his full beard yet."
"I see this…"
And she tugged at some hair on his arms. "He's not even into his body hair yet. Are we to stable him, in the barn?"
"Nay…", Arroch said in his boastful voice he suddenly used. "Ryeamund Thorsen does not sleep in the barn. He cuts wood with the men in their full beard. Now, if you would not have him dining naked, would one of you get done poking and prodding him like a new bought goat, and see to the man's clothes? We have been on the merchant's errand for too many moons. Come on now, you can sit with him at the feast, if it pleases him."
One of them gathered up all their clothes, to take them to be washed. Another started gathering up their armor, to clean and oil them.
"The Bear did say, we were to burn this man's clothes, they were all full of holes and Odin only knows what else. We are to bring him a new tunic and trousers. The Bear said, we can not have people thinking the north star can not afford to clothe his own kingsmen."
"You all well know, your armor and tools will be on pegs, as is usual. It will take some time to clean and dry out those leather boots, and to soak some oil in them. We have a stack of foot-furs."
"Bear said it is a gift for the new man, and you are not to worry about it. The Wolf is here again, he said not to hurry, he will join us for the boar. He said to tell this one, that he has some presents for him."
The woman rubbing Ryeamund's big shoulders said as she left…
"This be a Thorson, you say? More like an Odinson. I see all you men in the bath, do I not? I have never seen such a beast, as this one. I hope he does want stabled in the barn…", as she turned on her heel and strode out.
"Ryeamund. Do you know much, of wenching ?"
"Oh, that. I was a farmer, Arroch. I know how to make a baby."
"No, Ryeamund. Wenching is… what you do before you pick a wife out, and make children. Did you not tend to wenching, in your village?"
"Oh. You mean, pinching and slapping the women in the tavern, then? No, you need not worry. Father always said he would take an ax-handle up the side of my thick skull, if he heard I was acting like a fool in the tavern. I will not embarrass you in front of this Bear fellow. He is your brother. This is his house. Father would not approve of me being rude in another man's house."
Theyer said, more dryly than ever.
"There, Arroch. You see then, you need not worry about our new man."
"Yes. What was I thinking. Ryeamund, can I ask you something?"
"Anything. Are we not brothers now? What then, man."
"Is there… perhaps, some true purpose to you coming up here? I mean, other than your pigs you want."
Ryeamund sighed.
"Okay. In my village, we call it a man's goblet dream. You know, a few horns of wine, and you have to hear his wishes, if he could have them."
"Yes… go on…"
"Well… this is mine…"
And, Ryeamund explained his goblet dream. He admitted he can ignore almost anything, and the almost part? Was that he doesn't like being known as the descendant of cowards and weaklings and drunkards. The cast-offs of the "real men" of the far north. The big men.
That his dream, such as it is. Was first and foremost to try to set the example that the men of the south, though they were smaller men, they were not cowards. That was why he was so happy to get to test himself on the 'pig men'. He wanted to know what he was made of. He wanted to return home, and let all the men know, that he had taken care of that.
And, how foolish it was, because a man that knew sword work would have him. But, he wanted to be a 'real' fighting man, not just some fool having sport in the village for everyone's amusement.
They thanked Odin silently the rag was still over the almost sleeping man's face. Not a one of them, could believe what they were hearing.
Arroch spoke quietly.
"Ryeamund? You already have one or two trophies, and you were not even up the corridor yet. You are BludenBruder to the King's own men. You have been named a Thorson. If you return home tomorrow? All your dreams have been fulfilled."
"Really? I rather thought the pig-men were, sort of a first step. You jest me…"
"Ryeamund… Wulfgar is our best man. You have not been here a full day yet, and the King's top man is out there waiting for you. They said he brings you gifts. That man you charged out in front of? You snatched their trophies. We do not want to send you back… we want you up here, with us. You are one of us now."
Ryeamund tore the rag off his face and sat up, looking for all the world like a little kid who just got a new pony for his birthday.
"No wink?"
"No wink, man. Tomorrow? I have to report to the king and Wulfgar, on our errand, and what we oxen saw down there. Theyer? Perhaps, you could see to this man having a couple of pigs. A man that wants a few pigs, should have them, do you not think."
"Aye."
"Sooth, could you see to a few goats?"
"Oh, aye. They all but give the things away."
"There, then. The Bear will love hosting Wulfgar in his great-house, every man in the kingdom will hear the man stayed for a feast in his house. Ryeamund, would you mind staying here for a few days? Until I return?"
"With hot baths? And fresh bread? And women putting horns of mead in my hands every time I turn around? People washing my things for me? I am to have new clothes? No, I will not have this, I tell you… my Father would not approve…"
And Ryeamund gave a big, slow 'one eye' to Arroch and the oxen.
They all laughed and winked back at their 'little brother'. Ryeamund thought he had died and gone to some paradise. The young women were back with their clothes, and had to explain to Ryeamund how to tie on his new leather foot-furs. He had to wear one of the Bear's own giant tunics, on account of his build. They rolled the sleeves and trouser legs up and pressed the folds with a hot iron, so they held.
Ryeamund was amused running his fingers over the "finery", as he called it. The women left, and told the men whenever they were ready, the Bear was looking forward to hosting a new man.
Theyer hinted around about the girls, and if Ryeamund liked them. He said they were fine things to look at, but since everything else was going so wonderfully, better than he would ever have wished? That the women thought him a 'beast, fit for the barn', was no matter of any kind. He promised he wouldn't have any sport with the women for not liking him.
Ryeamund walked out, leaving the three to look at each other. Surely, the man was playing with them.
Sooth said it first for them.
"I am telling you. Remember the custom the woodsmen made? Ryeamund has… I don't know what it is, but… the head woodcutter fellow hit that peg square on the top. Ryeamund is a fine reckoner… but… honest to Odin himself, it's true."
"What?", they all wanted to know.
"He takes the words. He hears nothing, except exactly what those words will mean. I tell you, he has no idea that wench likes him. He honestly believes what she said. That he is a beast, fit for the barn."
"Well, what do we do? He is going to be around big men in their goblet every weekend. We can not fix him, as if he were a broken wheel on the cart, man!!"
"You fools… Wulfgar is right out there. You heard the wench, Wulfgar brings him gifts. We tell Wulfgar this, Wulfgar is… the head woodsman now. Wulfgar will make the custom. The one eye? Poof. No problem."
"Do… you really think it is as simple as that?"
"Do any of you use your head for naught but a place to stick yer helmet? You show me, one single kingsman, in the entire kingdom… that will not obey any custom, that Wulfgar proclaims. Name me one man, that will not. I am waiting…"
"Aye… he is right. Wulfgar need only say it tonight. But once… the men hang upon his every word. By Woden's day next week? It will be in every village."
"All right… I will go and have a word with Wulfgar. I report to him before the king, and he is here. Let us… enjoy the feast. It is not often we get to toast a new BludenBruder."
"Aye. Only way this night could get better, were if Ryeamund had his coin off him, and back in your hand."
"Why is that, Theyer?"
"Have you so soon forgotten your fool's crown, Ox ? The Bear is an even more proud giant than ever you once were. Imagine Ryeamund having sport with him. Imagine the coin on the odds… why, we could buy Ryeamund his very own farm, if we can get the odds up any."
"Theyer. You are a sly little oxen. I like it, man. I like it. I like very much you are thinking of Ryeamund and a farm, instead of your own coin purse. Good man."
"Aye, Arroch. Do we not have our very own great-house? Do we not each have our own farm? Do we not pay no taxes, for we are kingsmen? We want for nothing. Our new man deserves this, as well."
"Aye… I will see about getting that coin off his neck. You two? See what you can do. With idle words, mind you, to get those odds up. Don't make it obvious. These bear cubs will think they are looting our purses."
"Pity. We only have so much coin. You know the custom, the coins must be upon us."
"Aye. That is why I want you two getting us odds. And as I say, be sly. Let them talk you into it. They must think they are looting us. Then? For once, the ox will gore the bear. Now, let us go and feast. I want some color in Ryeamund's face by tomorrow morning. The man is pale. By Odin, even Thor himself needs meat."
Arroch felt that icy twinge down his spine again. The fly in the ointment was taking itself out, it would seem. Wulfgar had gifts? That coin was as good as off the man's neck and back on his own. Odin was seeing to it for him. But, more importantly, the wench had seen it as well.
She called him Odinson. She all but proclaimed him Thor in the flesh. What better way to honor a possibly reborn Thor, but to give the man his own farm, as was his heart's desire.
Arroch muttered to himself as he dressed alone, the last one out the bath…
"Now, if Odin would just see fit to send me a big bag of coin to cover a bigger wager on his own son? I would not fear half as much, being declared a madman when I share my plans with my men…"