Another two years passed by in a boring, sluggish fashion. Most days were the same. Rarely did anything happen – the most interesting thing that had happened was the hanging of a thief during the previous spring.
The last vestiges of adolescence fled from Leofric and Wulfstan's faces and bodies though they still had a long way to go before they could be really called men. Ita and Donngall found themselves hoping that Wulfstan had stopped growing now, as he'd outgrown all his clothes and had to stoop every time he entered or exited the hut – he towered a full head and shoulders above everyone else in the village¹. Even in the high-ceilinged church, it felt like he would knock his head against the arches before sitting in the pews. At the least, the too-long limbs he'd had for years had finally become, mostly, proportionate. Leofric, while he fit in with the rest of the population height-wise, made up for their difference with biceps that were the size of Wulfstan's head. One willowy and pale, one stout and sun hardened.
During this time, the women of the village had started taking much more interest in the Smythe boy and his not-really-a-brother brother. There had been no marriage propositions from parents nor any courting yet, but, when Wulfstan and Leofric went to the market, they could feel the hopeful, inquisitive eyes of the young women and their fathers who wanted to marry them off to a good man. Even if they didn't like outsiders, they knew it was smart to marry into a family of freemen – it was not an opportunity to pass up.
It made Wulfstan's skin crawl.
He could live with being looked at, in a way filled with yearning or with ire – he knew he looked out of place, so he'd grown used to being observed, hated, really. Even if he wasn't so freakishly tall, there were mutterings and judgment enough about the unluckiness of his hair colour. That it was of the devil. When eyes weren't aimed at Wulfstan, though, that was a different story – every time someone's eyes lingered for a moment too long in Leofric's direction, he felt like he was going to perish. The idea of the man being coveted by so many women, of the thoughts hidden behind those curious, coquettish giggles when Leofric flashed a friendly smile at them gave the impression of a swarm of bugs crawling under Wulfstan's skin. They didn't know him; they didn't like him; they saw the freedom that the Smythe's ancestors had bought after years of toil and wanted it for their descendants without all the work.
An unbridled fury bubbled just below his surface. That gnawing feeling in his stomach had never gone away, but he'd grown used to it until Leofric had become an item of desire in the unwed women of the village. With every set of eyes that wandered towards the sun-kissed, brunet man, Wulfstan practised whatever self-restraint he had to stop his always-sharp nails – no matter how he chewed them back or cracked them when working the fields, they would be back within a day – from gouging those lustful eyes out of those presumptuous faces. Their wants were unpure and greedy, disgusting and unfair to foist upon Leofric. It was vile to project that upon the man, they had not right to look at him that way.
Wulfstan did not understand at all why he felt so intensely about the matter. He had no right to feel like that; it made no sense for him to be so angry. They were men, they were similar to brothers, and it was their duty to continue the Smythe family line by marrying good women and siring as many children as they could. Women showing interest in Leofric was a good thing from that point of view. He had no right to be like this towards Leofric. It was something he kept very secret – Wulfstan knew Leofric would be scared, confused or maybe disgusted by the strange thoughts of the man he saw as his good friend. His only friend. His family.
No matter how he mulled it over, Wulfstan could not figure out why the hell he felt so goddamn angry about it. All he could think was that there was something loathsome and wrong within him.
Shaking his head, Wulfstan pulled himself out of his mind and smiled his patented grin at the customers coming and going from his and Leofric's stall. His pointed canine teeth glinted in the sun but, despite how strange they looked, they gave him enough of a boyish, disarming charm to take away from his imposing height. He despised how he had to pretend to be joyous in the faces of the villagers who'd rejected him socially for years. "Good, fresh wheat and barley for sale! Perfect for baking and mead making!"
Leofric was taking a few minutes break, sitting on the ground with his back pressed up against the wooden pillar holding up the top of their market stall. With a straw hat pulled down over his eyes, it was obvious he had fallen asleep in the welcome warmth of the day. It was nearing midday now; they had been peddling their wares since just past dawn – it made sense for Leofric to need a nap. The man didn't rest near as much as he should, slowly taking more and more of the responsibilities of running the farm from Donngall.
It was of no consequence. Wulfstan didn't mind at all – if anything, it was a good thing. If Leofric was hidden behind the table, shaded from the sun by the coarse hemp lain over it, it meant there would be fewer eyes that didn't belong to Wulfstan looking at the man. He would allow Leofric to sleep for a while longer as they had a long day ahead and only one of them didn't ever feel the need to rest.
"Ayup, lanky! How are sales today? Where's your Leofric at this time?" A deceivingly jovial voice called out, one that anyone at the market was familiar with. Wulfstan looked up quickly, an uneasy curve to his wide smile as he came face to face with Godwin Ward. That always unwelcome face continued to haunt the periphery of the Smythe's lives since they'd set foot in this village. "Look at this – half of your goods are gone and it's barely past noon! Good on you, lad." He didn't really sound as pleased as he should have, a tempered spark of aggression dulled at the back of his throat. There always was a vague hint of a threat when the man spoke to the Smythe boys.
Startled, Wulfstan nudged the side of Leofric's thigh. He called back to the approaching off-duty watchman in a voice that was slightly strained, his hackles raised, hoping that his nerves were not showing on his face. "It's been our fortunate week, mayhap. What brings you here, Mr Ward?"
"My lady needed some wares for the home. You know how it is." Godwin smiled, a mischievous, unpleasant glint in his eyes. "Ah! You don't – I forgot you haven't got yourself a woman yet." There seemed to be some mocking disgust in his voice, almost pity but not quite. It was something else, but Wulfstan didn't really know what the hell it was.
A grumble from behind the table and Leofric tugged at the pantleg of Wulfstan's trousers. In a tired Gaelic drawl, he asked, "What is it? Did I oversleep on you?" While he didn't speak it half as often as his Mam and Da, it was still his first language, so Leofric tended to slip into it when tired or when talking to his family and Wulfstan. This was an unusual occurrence, though, him speaking in it out in the village.
Wulfstan, having picked it up through the years he'd lived with the Irish farmers, swiftly hissed through his teeth that were still gritted in a smile, "Godwin's here. Get up will you." As he saw realisation flood into Leofric's eyes, Wulfstan turned back to the blond man and let out a strange chuckle. "No, no, neither of us are married yet – we're still in our youth."
Godwin was right in front of the table now, a more obvious malice in his eyes had appeared during the Gaelic conversation happening right before him. It was unsurprising – he had made it very obvious he didn't take too kindly to people he viewed as 'outsiders' in his familial village. While the man was not going to do anything other than flash them a dirty look, maybe a muttered curse, Wulfstan still felt a metaphorical shiver – he could assume, he didn't know what that really felt like – run down his spine whenever he had to interact with Godwin Ward.
That strange moment in the field remained in the forefront of his mind, even after two years.
"Why ever not? I've seen all the pretty girls peeking at youtwo working out here. Down the ol' tavern, I've heard their fathers getting mighty annoyed at finding them staring out at the fields while you two are ploughing them. Young boys should be jumping at the opportunity those girls are offering." Godwin looked up from the sheaves of wheat and barley. A gross tone dripped from his words. "Shy? Or… saving your 'maidenhood'² for someone special?" It seemed he was about to open his mouth to speak more, say something that would turn this conversation for the worse. Something that Wulfstan didn't want him to say at all as he watched Godwin's eyes darting about.
An arm was flung around Wulfstan's shoulders, yanking him down by several inches so he was closer to Leofric's height. Mouth too close to Wulfstan's ear, the brunet man let out a boisterous laugh, unaffected – entirely unaware, probably – by the vicious undercurrent of Godwin's words. Of the peculiar implications that he seemed to be thinly, so very thinly, veiling. "Ah, we 'ave all the time in the world for that! Why should I be so worried about marriage when I 'ave my good brother 'ere for company?"
It was as if everything at the market stopped, even though Wulfstan could see everyone still bustling about, doing their own things. However, it still felt so impossibly silent that he could hear a pin drop. For some reason, Wulfstan felt that Leofric had said something so impossibly, ridiculously stupid without realising. Perhaps it was all in Wulfstan's head, a side effect of the muddling tugging around his heart, the strange thoughts that plagued his mind he still couldn't untangle after five years.
Not a single word was said for an eternity, though it was really only a few brief moments. Godwin blinked. Wulfstan froze. Leofric remained oblivious.
With a dismissive sound, Godwin said, "You'll realise that a 'brother' can only do so much for you. Especially one who's not even your blood." He scoffed. "He's no wife, farmer boy." Godwin turned on his heel and wandered down the muddy street, glancing this way and that at the wares on sale, looking for whatever it was that his wife had asked him to buy. A hissed mumble fell from his lips; one he didn't expect anyone to hear at all. Of course, Wulfstan didn't need to strain even slightly to hear him say, "Fucking freaks in my village."
"Why do you look so strange?" Leofric whispered directly in Wulfstan's ear, the Gaelic gentler, more earthy than his English. It tickled Wulfstan, making him both want to pull away for fear of the feeling it pulsed through him and lean towards him, enjoying the way Leofric's body pressed against his body. "Wulfstan? Are you alright?"
Unable to actually feel the warmth that came from the arm over his shoulder, Wulfstan could almost imagine how it felt – he'd read enough, heard enough of the enjoyment and loveliness the hot skin bodies usually had, to be able to picture it. However, he was unable to thaw, to feel more than nothing on his skin. Even under the sun, he remained like the halted river frozen over in winter. So, all he could do was imagine. He shook his head and lied. "It's nothing."
Wanting to break that contact, unable to handle it any longer, Wulfstan easily shrugged off Leofric's arm, stood back up straight and turned back to greet the new potential buyers walking over.
"Good, fresh wheat and barley for sale! Perfect for baking and mead making!" He shouted, pretending that he didn't feel anything, that there was no pull on his heart.
-
Standing, awake as he always was, before the crudely cut window in the wall of his room, Wulfstan clasped his hands behind his back. He felt like he wanted to do what he always saw Donngall doing, sigh, but he had no breath to do it with.
It was the dead of night, there was only the tiny, rustling sounds of shrubbery in the light breeze. Foxes called their horrendous cries far off in the brush. That was all he could hear outside of the repeating words that Godwin Ward had said earlier that day.
"He's no wife, farmer boy."
There was nothing that strange within the sentence itself. Godwin had said nothing that wasn't true, and, on a surface level, it was an offhanded comment about the benefits of a wife that a friend or a brother couldn't fulfil. Not that Wulfstan really knew the specifics of it all – he supposed that marriage brought children, which he was sure was the only real difference between friendship and a wedded pair. Ita and Donngall would occasionally hold hands or embrace but so did Wulfstan and Leofric. So did so many of the people at the tavern. Therefore, that couldn't be it either.
Was a wife only ever a woman? It seemed to be the case from what Wulfstan could see. Church always said marriage was between man and woman so perhaps that was the only proper difference. That was all Wulfstan could conclude.
But that sentence didn't feel like something so simple. What Godwin had said felt so painfully pointed, like he knew of Wulfstan's strange, loathsome, unwelcome feelings that he held towards Leofric. Even if Wulfstan himself didn't know what they were beyond knowing they were most distracting. It was as if Godwin knew something about those feelings that made them change from just unwanted and strange to something fundamentally disgusting within Wulfstan. It felt suspiciously like the man was covertly threatening him for even secretly feeling whatever it was he felt.
Wulfstan let out a tiny sound, a replacement for the sigh he couldn't breathe. He walked away from the window, ready to play one of the boardgames he had stored or pull out a manuscript he still couldn't figure some of the words in when he heard a strange noise. It was barely above the sound of Donngall's snoring and Ita's sleep murmurs, but Wulfstan could hear everything within the house. This was a sound he'd heard before but still didn't know the proper origin of.
For the last couple of years, Wulfstan had begun to hear weird noises coming from Leofric's room late in the night. He'd never gone closer to figure it out – there was a tickling feeling at the back of his mind that Leofric was doing something that Wulfstan shouldn't know about. Uncertainty plagued him tonight, though, and that finally helped him to finally shake off that thought, determined to find out now.
Wulfstan had nothing better to do and it would distract him
from Godwin's rattling words bouncing around his skull.
Silently, he pushed open his door and padded across the dirt floor. Not even the hay stirred as he crept over to the off-shooting room on the other side of the hut, the one next to Donngall and Ita's, which belonged to Leofric. Their house was unique in comparison to others in the village – Donngall had decided that he wanted the family to have their own rooms, rather than sleeping in the main area with the pigs, like all the serfs. He had a family of freemen and didn't want to lower himself to the level of the lowest on the pecking order. It was a matter of Donngall's own pride, of course, and it had been a tremendous undertaking for a good year before the home was adjusted.
Pressing his ear to the thin wooden door, he intently listened to the sounds that had become painfully amplified, almost deafeningly loud to his sensitive ears at this distance.
Furrowing his brows, Wulfstan heard an odd, wet noise. It was rhythmic, like the beat behind the tavern songs – slow at some points, quickening madly at others. It didn't seem like it was music for dancing, though. Soft, hitching breathing joined it. Wulfstan found, after a moment, that it was more apt to call it a pant, the sound Donngall and Leofric would make after working for too long, exhausted. Like a dog under the beating summer sun trying to cool itself down, perhaps. He briefly thought that Leofric must be exercising but it made zero sense for him to do that so late in the night.
Unable to piece together what was happening behind the door even after listening, Wulfstan was ready to go back to his room. Seeing as it wasn't obvious and was probably inconsequential, he was no longer all that curious. Boredom seeped back into him.
Just as he took his first step away, he heard Leofric's raspy, low voice call out one panted word.
"…Wulfstan…!" Then an unfamiliar noise, like a yelp of pain but not. Silence.
Startled, Wulfstan paused for only a moment before scurrying back to his room at double speed. As he pushed his door shut, he pressed against it and slid down to the floor. Despite having no clue what he just heard, all Wulfstan could think was that he had been right before.
What Leofric was doing was something Wulfstan shouldn't know. It took no convincing. Wulfstan wouldn't listen in again, he wouldn't wonder.
All he needed to know was that it scared him. But what was scarier was the tugging desire to listen again.
¹ Average male
height was between 160cm to 170cm in 11th century England. Wulfstan is around 190+.
² Maidenhood = virginity. Specifically used for women – Godwin is making an implication/making fun of them.