Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  Trained in Oxford by a tailor to royalty, Taysen now owned drapers in three of the largest towns in the area. He and his wife, Rielle, an accomplished embroiderer and lace maker, designed several ranges of clothing to suit the pockets of people too busy to make their own clothes, but not rich enough to employ a dedicated team of clothiers.

  They employed several seamstresses in a custom-built workroom, providing work for a team of tanners, cordwainers, weavers, and lineners in neighbouring villages. But Ranly spoke of Senna’s parents as though they were little more than serfs.

  “I see from your expression that you will not be dissuaded, so it falls upon me to provide the manner of wedding befitting the son of an esteemed magister.”

  Lyran closed his eyes, searching for a calm, quiet place where he could fortify himself against the onslaught of unreasonable demands his father was about to make.

  “Of course it’s no trouble, son. I would do it for you no matter who you wed. It has the advantage of raising my profile with the distinguished men in the village, which will do me no harm with an opening on the council. The vote is on the first full moon after midsummer, so the event will be fresh in the minds of those who matter.”

  Lyran opened his eyes, fearful of the implications. “So you will be adding a few names to the guest list, then.”

  “That depends on your definition of a few. The entire council, of course, all the local landowners and their families, and a number of my friends from neighbouring towns …”

  “No. I will not have anyone outside the village. I want to keep this local.”

  “Are you refusing yours and Senna’s grandmothers? They do not live here.”

  “Their invitations have already been accepted.” Of course. A practical voice in his head snatched at the ramifications. Most of the people his father wanted to invite would already have made arrangements for a scant two weeks away, so it would not matter. Lyran smiled, thankful for the respite. He kept his voice neutral. “All right. In the interests of keeping the peace, invite your friends.”

  “I already have. Most have accepted.”

  What? Lyran bemoaned the fact he’d been bested by a master politician. Then the ramifications of his father’s actions hit home. “But there will not be sufficient room in the inn for a wedding feast with that many people.”

  “You think I would allow my son’s guests to wallow in the squalor of an inn? Think on.”

  Lyran’s insides clenched in horror at the thought of letting down the innkeeper who had driven a hard bargain to cater for an already large number.

  “Do not take on so. I’ve paid that snivelling wretch at the Waggon and Horses an obscene stipend to provide ten casks of his finest ale along with his best three serving wenches for the day. And guaranteed him clients to fill his biggest chambers for two nights. Ungrateful wretch wanted to charge them double because he already had bookings from some hoi-polloy. I paid up simply to keep him quiet.”

  Lyran made a mental note of all the people he’d have to apologise to because of his father’s abominable attitude. Starting with Senna. His voice could barely raise a squeak as he tried to assess the damage. “If not the Waggoners, then where …”

  “Don’t you worry, my boy. I’ve made sure the village hall is available. After all, every person in the village will be coming.”

  What the devil? Every sentence brought a new indignity. “You did what? How can we possibly feed them all?”

  Ranly’s smile suggested he enjoyed his son’s discomfort. “Worry not, son of mine. I have secured the services of a chef who prepares banquets for French Kings and Belgian Princes. Arnaud has created a nine-course menu which even the King of England would approve of.”

  Kings? Princes? French chefs? “Oh, Father. What have you done?”

  “No need to thank me. At least until after the meal. I promise they will still be talking about it years from now.”

  As Lyran tried to understand how his father had undermined him so effectively, the man casually rifled through the parchments his son had left on the sideboard.

  “These are your vows?” He scanned the pages, tutting and harrumphing his displeasure. “This is the best you can do? I offered you the services of an expert herald used by nobles all over the country.”

  “Father.” Lyran breathed deeply, trying to curb the anger threatening to overwhelm him. “I told you, I cannot speak well in public. The speeches must be short, and meaningful to me, or I will stumble and falter.”

  “Nonsense. All you need is a little practice. No son of mine should be allowed to expose himself to the ridicule of his peers and betters by delivering such derisible, unschooled words. People will think you simple.” His anger betrayed the proud, shallow man within him.

  It seemed to be an insurmountable impasse, but then his father played his trump card. “How do you think your mother would feel to have her only son portrayed as weak and ineffectual? Her dying words were that you should make me proud. Do you think these pathetic excuses for vows will bring anything but shame to either of us?” He paused for breath and Lyran felt himself returning to the ignominies of his childhood.

  Ranly ranted on, regardless. “She always took pride in your intelligence and accomplishments.” He rattled the parchments. “This is the product of a youth still wet behind the ears. Where is the skill or poetry in something so brief?”

  Lyran had no defence against such an assault. His memories of his mother were so tenuous he’d spent a lifetime believing what his father told him about her. With great reluctance, he succumbed to his father’s wishes, allowing a scholarly herald to rewrite the vows, extending them into long, complex pieces of pseudo-poetry to impress the magister’s friends. His small rebellion was only to use two of the longer versions, the other three he kept to the concise originals.

  Unfortunately, he had no opportunity to warn Senna of the alterations, so when it came to the ceremony, he watched in horror the effect of his extended first vow. Knowing how much effort it took to remember the thing, he could not afford to allow her confusion and disapproval to affect him. So he did something he’d never done before and closed himself off to her.

  This, of course, made it ten times worse as their connection was normally so strong they could almost read each other’s minds. He watched helplessly as the anger built up inside her, powerless to do anything to explain or reassure. Thankfully, as he recited the original third vow, she managed to control her anger, suppressing it through the augmented fourth vow. After that, it all went to the original plan. He heaved a shaky sigh of relief as the Archdruid moved on to the ring ceremony.

  Releasing his wife from the kiss, he read the question in her eyes, but now was not the time to explain with so many pairs of eyes upon them. He hoped they would share a private moment sooner rather than later so he could explain the extent of his father’s machinations. For now, their task was to lead the wedding procession from the sun circle to the village hall, and he drew breath as he realised the extent of the preparations which had gone into the event.

  As they walked through the entrance, the trees surrounding the henge were strung with ribbons and garlands, as was every tree, bush and hedge bordering the route to the grand wooden structure. Tears filled his wife’s eyes as she acknowledged the amount of effort which had gone into this display.

  ~*~

  Senna couldn’t help but admit she’d never seen anything quite like the grandeur of the village hall, finding it difficult to believe all this work had been done on the behalf of herself and Lyran. The decorations along the way had overwhelmed her, but this was beyond beautiful.

  Part of her parent’s contribution had been the fabulous gown made from the finest linen with silk panels adding flare to the skirt which twirled when she spun, adding its own joyful abandon. Her mother had embroidered tiny yellow buds into the bodice, connected by green strands to match the circlet of summer flowers on her head. The veil was similarly edged, matching her bouquet. Someone, and she suspected
Cora’s hand in this, had ensured the hall was decorated with the same colours, with a hint of peach in the napkins and centrepieces gracing the tables. Large yellow and green bows had been tied on the back of every chair of those sitting at the top table, and yellow, green and white garlands festooned every wall.

  Cora’s delight at her reaction confirmed her suspicions. Before the rest of the guests appeared, she hugged Cora, Shayla and her parents, thanking them for their efforts on her behalf. When she tried to hug Ranly, thanking him for his part, he stiffened, his face set with an expression she could not fathom. Somewhere between anger and embarrassment, it certainly did not invite any more displays of affection.

  Ignoring it as the nature of a soul in pain – as Lyran liked to describe him – Senna focussed on the etiquette surrounding the most complex feast she’d ever attended. It took some time for the multitude of guests to be greeted and seated, and during this time, many smartly dressed staff circulated with what Ranly called “entrees” – platters of tiny nibbles which delighted the palette, accompanied by prunelle, a rich, dark liqueur which satisfied any hunger pangs for those who had waited a long time since breaking their fast many hours earlier.

  Every time a platter passed within reach, Lyran swiped one of the delicacies, inviting her to share it with him so they would not be caught chewing when it was time to greet their next guest. Her favourites by far were the salmon fancies, with a melting lemon cream centre pepped up with a bite of parsley and pepper.

  With everyone finally seated, Lyran and Senna joined the rest of their close family and friends on the top table. Two rows of serving girls danced their way round the room depositing small dishes as their male counterparts filled everyone’s glasses with a spiced wine. The dishes were divided with baked apples in one half, and fresh, seasonal fruits in the other. Pots of cream were put to good use as people savoured the mingling flavours and textures.

  Senna glanced round the room, pleased not to be in the company of Ranly’s “stuffed shirts,” as Jarl described them. Her parents raised their glasses to her, full of smiles as they gestured their appreciation of the exquisite food.

  No sooner had the dishes been cleared away than they were replaced by small bowls, filled with the finest rabbit stew Senna had ever tasted. The thick, creamy liquid contained tender chunks of meat and pearly shallots along with fresh, succulent leeks. But the piece de resistance had to be the miniature herb dumplings which melted in the mouth to give a burst of flavour all of their own.

  The wine goblets were replaced with beakers filled with small beer – a perfect accompaniment to the stew.

  Once everyone had food and drink, the servers seemed to forget their primary purpose as they spread throughout the room. They sang a cheeky ditty with a catchy chorus which told of the newly-weds who had to share their marriage bed with a cow, a goat and a host of other farmyard animals.

  As the poor groom got more and more confused by the animals he was hugging instead of his wife, Lyran wiped the tears from his eyes and joined in the rowdy chorus, along with most of the guests. At the end, two of the older men sang a refrain or two of the ridiculous song, encouraging each table to outdo the others with their enthusiastic renditions. When it came to the top table, Lyran, Jarl and Senna’s father, Taysen, sang loudly, but Alfun’s booming baritone ensured they made more noise than any other table.

  It was a clever distraction as the bowls were collected and replaced by oval dishes. When the youth offered to fill Senna’s beaker with cider, she’d hardly touched the ale. Jarl offered to finish it for her, slugging it back in two gulps.

  She’d had trout before many times, but never cooked so exquisitely the flesh fell off the bones, and never with the skin cooked to a crisp and scattered with salted almonds. The salat of spinach, chard and parsley drizzled with walnut oil added colour and flavour.

  Lyran leaned over. “Are you enjoying this? Not too fancy?”

  She glared at him. “I’ve never eaten food as fancy as this before, but it’s all delightful. I will be copying several of these recipes in the coming months, I assure you.”

  “I cannot wait.” He patted his belly. “I fear, however, people may think I am carrying our child.”

  Laughing, Senna sipped the cider, appreciating how the tart apple complimented the other flavours perfectly. As the well-choreographed team cleared away the dishes, they brought clean goblets and set pitchers of wine and ale on the table, ensuring every person had a full vessel for the toast.

  The village crier stood, ringing his bell for silence. “Oyez, oyez, oyez. Pray join me in raising your goblet to bless this wonderful couple, Lyran and Senna, on the occasion of their wedding.” He raised his goblet. “Lyran and Senna. Good health, wealth, and happiness.”

  The entire crowd rose to their feet, raising their goblets as they repeated the chant, then sipped their wine or ale.

  “And now, please show your gratitude for the wonderful food and the hard work which has gone into making it.” Again, he raised his goblet. “Bless this food, and many thanks to everyone who helped provide it.”

  Even before the toast finished, each of the servers filed into the room in perfect step, holding large plates covered in metal domes. They stood behind their intended recipient on the top table, waiting until everyone could be served together. A loud whistle signalled them to move and, with military precision, they set down the platters, waiting for the second whistle to remove the covers in unison.

  Delighted gasps were their reward as the guests set eyes on the perfectly arrayed cuts of succulent beef and mutton, topped with roasted parsnips and turnips formed into hearts and outlined by a pink sauce. Senna clapped her hands, and everyone on the table picked up in a round of applause. Arnaud, the French chef, took a bow as the servers rushed to serve the rest of the room without the delaying theatrics.

  As soon as everyone had received their meat, the servers came round with the next course, a small dish continuing the heart theme with two tiny mushroom and pine nut tartlets above a triangle of pickled carrots and pears, turned red by the glaze, all encased in a heart of mashed swede.

  The reason for both courses being served together became clear as the servers provided an entertainment, showing off dancing, acrobatic and juggling skills in the tiny space in front of the dais.

  Senna posed the question to Lyran whether they were servers who could perform or performers who could serve.

  “I’m glad you asked that, my dear.” Ranly jumped in before his son could formulate an answer. “Arnaud has perfected this style of banquet in courts all over Europe, and he tells me many aspects of today’s feast were used at the marriages of princes in Spain, France and Scotland.”

  Bolstered by the admiration from several of the women on the nearest table, which he had conspired to ensure held only councillors and fellow magisters, he raised his voice even more. “Several of your servers today hail from Paris, and some from the best travelling troupes in this country.” He nodded to Senna. “As you guessed, many have been chosen for their artistic skills and travel the world with him creating dining experiences which are normally only witnessed by royalty and nobility.”

  Any further self-aggrandisement was curtailed as two of the female servers curtseyed before them and began to sing a song with such beautiful harmonies, every person in the room stopped talking and stilled their hands to get the full benefit. Although the words were unrecognisable, their actions made it clear they played sisters, about to embark on their shared wedding day, each extolling the virtues of the man they loved. What started as a competition, ended with both agreeing they had met the man of their dreams.

  The girls embraced each other fondly to more applause. Several couples lined up opposite each other for the next act, obviously a dance.

  Senna picked up a fan and wafting it, trying to cool herself down in the summer heat. On the other side of Lyran, Cora did the same, leaning forward to speak to her. “These are very thoughtful, were they your idea?” Senna
shook her head. “No, but I’m glad of them. What did you think of the meat?”

  “Exquisite. But I’m truly looking forward to the next one, I love pastries.”

  Next to Cora, Alfun, a farmer’s lad with the waistline to show it, chuckled. “Not as much as I do. I’m hoping for an extra helping.”

  Lyran grinned at his friend. “I think they ordered double portions so you and Jarl would not go hungry.”

  Jarl rubbed his belly. “Glad to hear it. Now the starters have finished, I’m ready for my main course.”

  Senna and Cora groaned while Shayla shuddered. “I have no idea where you hide all the food you stuff into that mouth of yours.” The striking blond pushed Jarl’s shoulder with an intimacy which grated unreasonably on Senna’s heightened nerves. “Papa says you must have hollow legs.”

  Jarl snorted. “The man doesn’t hide his envy of my capacity to eat well and not resemble a prize-winning bull.” After flexing his powerful arm, he raised his beaker and toasted her as the platters arrived.

  Ignoring her perplexing reaction to their warm familiarity, Senna noticed Alfun’s hurt as his gaze flicked down to his own belly, which strained over the belt trying to hold it in. His smile didn’t falter, and not even Cora noticed how his previous lusty enjoyment of every aspect of the feast diminished as he seemed to shrivel in stature, as though trying to hide his bulk.

  Senna focussed on the attractive design in front of her, centred on a cherry heart, normal fayre at wedding feasts. She bit into one, pondering on Jarl’s thoughtless remark. Common sense suggested his intent had not been to wound; he seemed oblivious to the effect on Alfun. It didn’t seem typical of the boy she’d grown up with – every word he’d uttered had been considered, more often than not, calculated to encourage or affirm. She felt Lyran’s gaze.

  “How do you like this royal feast? I cannot decide if I should be pleased by the effort my father has gone to, or annoyed at him for the uncomfortable feeling I’m about to burst my breeches.”