I was approximately at the age of fourteen winters when Ingrid came into my life. This was an event that broke the quiet routine I had adopted for myself under Ivar’s care. It was after a brief lunch that a young woman came and stood by the closed smithy. I was occupied in the smithy with my own food, while Ivar ate the filthy communal meal with the rest of the townsfolk.
I had never been able to bring myself to eat the disgusting common Fayre with the rest of them: In a huge cauldron that was rarely washed, was boiled vegetable and herb and whatever other scraps the cook saw fit to throw in. To this was added any meat that could be found. I made it my own habit to eat only what I could identify, and to wash my hands prior to any meal. Therefore, I often ate alone at the smithy while Ivar and the rest of the townsfolk ate their questionable shared meal in the town square.
I was quite surprised by this strange young woman who stood by the door, not even bothering to knock. It seemed that she was waiting for someone, and I was quite intrigued. So, hidden in the smithy, I studied her carefully. She was two heads taller than I. Fairly long blond hair, almost white in shade, reached half-way down her back. It was braided into one pigtail, and tied with a simple leather ribbon. Her face and frame were wider than mine and fuller, with a chubby, porcine nose that at first glance made her resemble an unattractive beast. Despite my initial exaggerated reaction, she was quite fair upon the eyes. With blue eyes and an absent-minded expression, she cast her gaze towards the town’s square. I could not take my eyes off her.
When Ivar finally approached she smiled broadly, going to him and speaking in a language I’d never heard before. I walked towards the window to catch a better view. Ivar appeared stunned, then, after recognizing her, smiled broadly. As they embraced I found myself walking backwards, deeper into the smithy, as if the power of their affection physically drove me back. For a moment, I thought she was his bride, and I knew what envy was.
‘How unfair that a man of his age should have a young maiden for a wife!’ I thought.
“Adam! Come on out!” Ivar called, and I lost the train of my thought obeying his command absentmindedly.
“This is my daughter, Ingrid! Is she not beautiful?” He asked, on the brink of joyous tears. My eyes moved from him to her, and now it was her turn to study me. I didn’t like the small shifts in her facial features as she studied me. She probably thought me coarse, brown, and dirty. I smiled, ashamed of myself.
“Ingrid, this is my apprentice Adam, who seems to have gone mute all of a sudden,” Ivar said, and my embarrassed smile grew.
“It’s a p-pleasure to meet you, Mistress,” I said. She smiled at my words in a way that revealed her open distaste of me.
“Adam, fill a couple of buckets at the well,” Ivar commanded. I obediently complied with his order.
“A bit too raggedy to be a smith, don’t you think?” Ingrid told Ivar, ignoring my presence as I walked away.
“Perhaps he is, but he does his work well,” Ivar said. As I entered the smithy I paid heed to the first part of the sentence describing me as being too scraggy. My fists clenched, and my knuckles whitened as I walked to the table. In my mind I had another enemy now, one that I could not pummel into submission.
Losing my appetite, I tossed my meal aside. I picked up the buckets and the yoke, and left the smithy, hearing their laughter behind me. They were probably making fun of me, I thought. I carried the buckets as if marching to war, trying to figure out how I was going to tackle this new enemy. I barely registered a lone figure — armored and covered in rags, studying me. I figured he had the plague, or was disfigured somehow. My mind drifted back to my own little world, unaware of the mortal danger I faced.
Upon returning I heard them laughing still. I opened the door and pretended the buckets were as light as air as I lifted them again to enter the smithy. Unfortunately, I nearly dropped both buckets and spilled the water. Ivar got up from his seat to help me while Ingrid just laughed and gave me that expression again, as if I were some sick puppy.
‘Great, Adam’, I told myself. ‘Try to show that you’re strong and you end up showing just how clumsy you are!’
“You should be more careful, Adam,” Ivar told me.
“Yes, Master,” I replied.
“Remember what I taught you. If the buckets are heavy for you, place yourself in a balanced position, mind your breathing, and lift carefully,” he said, and I grew angrier still.
“Yes, Master,” I replied, and hoped he’d leave me be.
Later that evening I waited outside with my wooden sword for Ivar to give me another fencing lesson. God knows I had plenty of rage in me to work out. Was that lone figure still lingering outside? I couldn’t tell, as if under a spell of some kind. My mind drifted back; I wanted to fight. I noticed something was wrong when Ivar didn’t bring his own sword.
“Adam, put the weapon away, we need to talk,” he said. I did as instructed, frustrated and scared of what he was about to say. I looked nervously at him as he began.
“Adam, Ingrid is not for you,” he said flatly. It took me a few moments to understand what he was saying, for my mind had been expecting news of another sort, such as ‘now that Ingrid is here, we’re not going to train anymore’ or ‘now that Ingrid is here, I’m not going to have enough room for you, too’, rather than this; Ingrid not being for me. I couldn’t have cared less. Yet my face flushed red as if burning up and my fists clenched of their own accord.
“We come from different places — you and I, so I don’t expect you to know this,” Ivar said.
“Know what?” I asked.
“Where we come from — Ingrid and I, it is considered ...” Ivar said, looking for the proper word “… very wrong for a woman of her stature to be involved in any way with someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” I asked, not really sure what was wrong with me, but angry nonetheless.
“A low-born orphan,” Ivar explained.
“She’s noble?” I asked, understanding full well the difference between nobility and commoners.
“In our race, yes, she’s high-born, and you’re not of our race,” Ivar said.
“I understand,” I said.
“It’s not that I don’t care for you, but some things shouldn’t be; some things can bring shame to my family.”
“I understand,” I repeated a bit more loudly, and I fully did. Where I come from, I was the high-born — the chosen, while she would have been the low-born — the outsider.
“Good night, Adam,” Ivar said. He turned and went back to the smithy. I was angry — as angry as I had ever been. It seemed that everything angered me: the very face of Ingrid, the way she spoke to me as if I was beneath notice; Ivar’s ‘talk’ with me. I knew she was taking over my life, pushing me away and depriving me of what little I had. I could hear them laughing inside, probably making fun of low-born me.
So I left the smithy and in the darkness fought against my shadow, imagining the faces I had now come to hate. If only I could pound someone. Was I being followed? How my blood raged for a fight, and for what? I was overreacting; I was half-past crazy. I realized that nothing I had done or thought since noon had made any sense. My rage was gravely misplaced. Ingrid is Ivar’s daughter; she doesn’t even know me; so why would she belittle me? And dear Ivar, who has shown me only kindness over the years; surely he’ll not forsake me now that a closer kin has reappeared in his life.
I walked alone, traveling the dark, muddy roads and alleys, thinking, trying to understand — trying to make sense of everything. Tired and cold but then calm, I went home to the smithy. Ingrid slept in my bed, and Ivar pointed with his finger for me to go downstairs. I slept in the smithy that night and those that followed.
