Gunnilda meets the so-called King

Gunnilda had failed to reckon how exhausted a brisk march up the hill slope would leave her, but it had been worth it: the “fine men” were still in the square.

The laughter of the blue one carried as far as a shout: clear and loud without the grating edge of a guffaw. Bertie laughed to hear it. Gunnilda grit her teeth. If they laughed because they had spied Alwy’s blond head bobbing up the hill, then their piece would be garnished with an extra ladle of sour Gunnilda sauce.

“All right!” she shouted as she huffed up into the square. “I’m going to start at the top and work my way down! Which one of you is the so-​​called King?”

The blue one lifted his boot from the stump and turned. A broad grin gleamed out of his beard, and his sunburnt face so crinkled with merriment that it was painful to see. Nevertheless, he did not sneak an amused sidelong glance at his friends, but only smiled over the fence at Gunnilda.

“I am so called he! And you must be called Gunnie, if I’m not mistaken! Hallo, Alwy!”

Alwy giggled at the attention. Gunnilda snarled. “Gunnilda to you!”

The man stepped over the rope, still smiling. “Gunnilda. I beg your pardon.” He lightly crossed his arm over his belly and gave her a slight but determined nod. “Sigefrith, Lord Hwala, so-​​called King of Lothere.” He swept his arm back towards his unsmiling companion. “Cenwulf, so-​​called Earl.”

Gunnilda scowled, uncertain how she dared address him. It was apparent he was a “fine man” indeed: his clothing was simple but new and clean, and her housewifely eye judged the cloth as finer than anything she could afford to buy.

But any man could dress himself in borrowed or stolen finery – this man was sturdy, strong, and tall, with good teeth, clear skin, lustrous hair and eyes. He had not spent his childhood subsisting on mildewed turnips or wasting from worms or the mange.

His accent was heavy enough that he must have come from far-​​off. And it was troubling that he had not put “so-​​called” before the “Lord.”

While she worried, Sigefrith turned his smile from her to Alwy. “And this must be Bertie! Name of God! I expected a helpless, puny little runt from the way you described him, Alwy! He’ll be helping you on the farm in no time!”

Alwy giggled, but Gunnilda said, “Oh, no, you don’t! Don’t think you’ll be softening me up by fussing over my baby! Oh, no, you don’t!”

“I didn’t – ”

“And just who do you think you are? Playing a trick on poor Alwy? You strangers? When he never done anything to you? When he wouldn’t never hurt a fly!”

Alwy protested, “Sometimes I do kill flies when I see ’em, Gunnie.”

“They know what I mean!”

“No, we don’t quite know what you mean,” Sigefrith said. “We didn’t play a trick on Alwy, to my knowledge. We were only discussing business. Quite frankly.”

Gunnilda huffed. “Discussing business.”

“That’s right.”

“With Alwy.”

Sigefrith’s patient expression softened into a smile that gently crinkled his face, making him appear boyish but for the squareness of his jaw. “That’s right.”

Gunnilda frowned. “And didn’t you maybe notice at some point during this business discussion that maybe something wasn’t quite right with Alwy?”

“Hmm. Perhaps if you told me what you meant…”

“Don’t play stupid with me! I mean, something wasn’t quite right with his head?”

Alwy hastened to explain, gleeful as ever to tell his sad tale to a new audience. “It looks all right on the outside,” he assured Sigefrith, “that’s how come you can’t see. But when I was little, me and my brothers used to ride our pigs, and see who could stay on the longest, and last one to fall off won. And one time…”

He laughed and slapped his thigh, overcome with mirth at the memory. Gunnilda flushed and glared left and right, daring anyone else to laugh. The tavern-​​keeper – only half-​​hidden behind the so-​​called Earl – clapped his hand over his mouth and jostled the furrier beside him with his elbow. The so-​​called Earl did not laugh, but that was no great feat, since he appeared not to know how. Sigefrith simply smiled at Alwy and waited patiently for him to catch his breath.

“And one time,” Alwy chortled, “my pig got tired of playing that game, and he crashed right through the fence. Except the pig crashed through the bottom part and kept on going, and my head smacked into the top part and I stopped right there!”

His laughter came to an abrupt halt, and he heaved a mighty sigh. He concluded in the doleful voice that he had so often heard used to describe him. He lacked only the slow shaking of the head.

“And I ain’t never been the same since.”

“So!”

Gunnilda set her teeth and glared at the stranger through hot tears, daring him to smile indulgently, daring him to chuckle. She dared him to look on her with pity, just as hard as she dared him to judge her for what she had done.

Sigefrith looked down on her, sober without being stern, grave without being dire.

“I see. Well, I shall tell you what I did notice. I noticed that I had before me a man who knows more than I ever shall about raising pigs, and who listens patiently and asks questions when he doesn’t understand. Who trusts his wife’s counsel, and who is full of love and praise for his family. And who speaks with a refreshing lack of vanity, greed, and guile. And keep in mind that I’m not looking for a secretary today, who can keep my accounts, but good farmers – good men.”

He lowered his head and looked up at her from beneath his brows, with an expression that seemed intended for scolding, but a definite twinkle in his bright eyes.

“Now tell me, Gunnilda, at what point should I have concluded that there was ‘something wrong’ with Alwy?”

Gunnilda was mortified. If she so much as blinked, a tear was bound to fall.

A slow smile bloomed on Sigefrith’s face – not triumphant, not killing, but conspiratorial, as if he were certain she hid a similar smile of her own.

Gunnilda blinked rapidly and managed to catch all her tears between her lashes. And then – she could not help it – her mouth proved the stranger right.