Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  “Goddess save us from that terrifying sight. There are bairns present.” Much as she wanted to point out that Ranly’s only effort had been to employ Arnaud, Senna held her counsel. She did not want to dowse her husband’s high spirits with unkind remarks. Or even worse, have him think her capable of such unworthy thoughts.

  Smiling, he squeezed her arm. “I know he’s pompous and self-serving, but underneath it, I believe he has a good heart. Unfortunately, he no longer has the love of a good woman to help him present that side of his character to the world.”

  Senna almost choked on the morsel of honey oatencake she’d just bitten off, and it turned to dust in her mouth as his generous insights put her to shame. Taking a swig from her goblet, she gasped as the thick, spicy mead hit the back of her throat. She struggled to maintain a calm face when every part of her from the neck up was engaged in a battle to prevent the most unladylike display of coughing and spluttering. Her self-control meant the only outward manifestation of her distress was a slight moistening of her eyes.

  Unfortunately, her husband surmised an attack of sentiment, his response to which was to hug her to him to staunch what he took to be her tears. Although she normally loved his warm displays of affection; so different to that of his father, this was neither the time nor place as her poor body now had to cope with near-suffocation. Senna wondered if the traditional, “till death do you part,” idea might happen a little earlier than either foresaw.

  4 – Unexpected Behaviour

  “Put her down, man. Can you not wait till you reach your chamber?”

  Despite the sentiment of Jarl’s words bringing mortifying embarrassment, Senna breathed again as Lyran relaxed his grip.

  “Away with ye, boy. Am I not allowed to comfort my wife without your lewd observations?”

  The “boy” remark, an age-old tease, rankled every bit as much as it had done many years ago when Lyran had used his seniority to pull rank on Jarl, ensuring he went first. Or got the biggest slice of pie/cake/whatever.

  Senna took the opportunity to sip some small beer and regain her composure, holding on to the beaker as they cleared away everything they could in preparation for the cheese course.

  The fortified damson wine enhanced the flavour of the Brie, Roquefort and Stilton cheeses, but Senna could only manage the tiniest nibble of each one.

  A glance round the room satisfied her that everyone was enjoying themselves. On Jarl’s left, Shayla was deep in discussion with Senna’s parents. Knowing them, it would doubtless be something to do with clothes and styles where the girl lived in Oxford. They liked to keep up with fashions, modifying ideas for use in their own designs.

  This left Jarl isolated and, because Lyran was chatting to Cora and Alfun, she felt honour-bound to talk to the man. For the first time in her life, she felt shy and hesitated, searching for a suitable topic. She still disapproved of his offhand line about bulls which had upset Alfun, but something more fundamental pickled the words in her brain.

  He watched her confusion, his face impassive.

  Strange sensations filled her body and mind as she tried to examine how she felt about her inappropriate reactions to her husband’s cousin and best friend. Particularly where Shayla was concerned; she had no business being affected by whatever woman Jarl chose to befriend.

  The mystifying incident when the world stood still as she walked to meet her groom had disturbed her, especially after the peculiar dreams she’d been experiencing for the past few full moons. Before she could straighten her thoughts enough to formulate a suitable question for Jarl, the village crier rang his bell and asked everyone to be silent for Taysen, the father of the bride.

  “Thank you all for sharing in the day, and I’d like to offer particular thanks to Magister Ranly for providing this magnificent feast.” He paused at the spontaneous applause to which the man raised a goblet in acknowledgement. “If anyone should need a tailor to let out their waistband after all that rich food, I’m afraid I will not be available today.”

  When the chuckles died down, he gestured at the servers. “I think a huge thank you must go to these talented men and women who have worked tirelessly to fulfil our every need.” Another applause-filled pause.

  “Apologies, my dear friends, for you have doubtless heard more speeches today than you are comfortable with. While you charge your goblets with this very fine brandy-wine, I would just like to say that my beautiful and talented daughter, Senna, is very lucky to have met such a fine, generous man in Lyran. And he is much luckier to have met her. I’m sure they will have a long and loving life together, and I’m expecting my first grandchild by this time next wheel.” He waited for the expected reaction.

  “Please join me in raising your goblets – to Senna and Lyran.”

  “To Senna and Lyran.” The entire room joined in the toast with one voice.

  Senna blinked away tears as Lyran stood. “Thank you dear father-by-marriage. We shall do our best to fulfil your request.” He gestured to Senna. “I could not wish for a more loving or lovely woman to share the rest of my life with, but the person I would like to thank above all others is my dearest friend, Jarl. Without him I may never have met Senna. Raise your goblets, please, and toast my lovely wife. To Senna.”

  As everyone directed their good wishes in her direction, Senna was accosted by an unbidden memory of meeting Jarl, many years ago. Instead of teasing her like most of the village boys, he’d been kind, showing her how to use a milkmaid’s yoke properly.

  When he introduced her to Lyran, several moons later, she’d recognised a kindred spirit and, although the three of them formed a tight childhood bond, the connection between her and Lyran had flourished with their shared interest in all things healing.

  Her musings were interrupted as she realised Jarl was giving his speech as best man. He was halfway through a story from their youth involving a fierce bull.

  “It was hard to tell who was most scared, but I do remember Senna ran fastest. She leapt the fence first, but Lyran’s boot caught on a nail and he started to fall back.” The two men shared a grin.

  “You don’t need all the details, but let me tell you I never want to be that close to an angry bull, ever again. And our troubles didn’t end there. We managed to escape, only to land in a huge nettle patch. That’s when I knew it was a good idea to have a couple of healers for friends. Nettle stings are no fun, but they found the right leaves to stop me scratching my skin raw.”

  Senna blushed as she remembered where the nettles had managed to leave their venom as the two boys had rolled through the patch. Jarl’s cheeky grin said he knew exactly where her thoughts had taken her. In an attempt to ignore his attention, she helped herself to a handful of the sweetmeats, popping the marchpane in her mouth and allowing it to dissolve on her tongue, bringing a burst of sweet, almond flavour. She felt his gaze upon her.

  “Yes, I am lucky to have spent my childhood with these two special people and I wish my best friends every happiness together. Please join me in toasting two of the nicest people in the world. To Lyran and Senna.”

  ~*~

  Returning to his seat after dancing long enough to raise a thirst, Lyran poured himself a beaker of ale and glugged it down thirstily. He sat back in his chair, needing a moment’s pause before re-joining the merriment of the dance. Glancing over, he spotted his wife in the arms of his cousin as they cut a dash through the line of couples in the lively ribbon dance. Not for the first time, he thought what a splendid couple they made together. His lips tightened as he looked away; not wanting to dwell on this disturbing vision.

  Although no part of him hungered for food, his sweet tooth could not resist taking a handful of the colourful sweetmeats, popping one in his mouth. His face soured at the cloying sweetness of the candied violet; his least favourite. Allowing himself a moment to reflect on the day, Lyran focussed on the minor flaws, searching for things he needed to decipher. Small tensions had arisen between him and Senna, particularly over his father�
��s behaviour, but he hoped she would understand his reasons for indulging the man’s excesses.

  More pressing was the troubling business with Jarl. Something he disliked having to do, but he had no choice in the matter. He’d hoped to resolve it long before now, but with everyone wishing to seek him out and share in his special day, it was difficult to get away for a private word with his cousin. No sooner had the thought begun than the dance ended and the village crier rang his bell to announce the cutting of the cake would begin shortly.

  He watched as Jarl escorted his wife, both of them flushed and breathless from the dance, laughing like two dear friends. Why would that cause a tightening of his chest cavity? Shaking off the gloom threatening to spoil the happiest day of his life, he welcomed her with an embrace.

  “Oh Lyran, that was such fun. We must ask them to play it again so you and I can pair up, it’s the most thrilling routine I’ve ever danced.”

  Alfun joined them, grinning as he escorted Cora. “Glad you like it. I asked the minstrels to prepare something fun and exciting and the leader suggested this dance they’d discovered when they visited the Scottish Isles.”

  “It was wonderful. Does it have a name?”

  Alfun frowned. “You tax my brain after all these fine beverages. Banadas something or other.”

  Cora glanced at him, her expression cheeky. “It’s a wonder any of us can stand, let alone speak after so many different wines. I think it sounds like Bandansur, or something similar.”

  “Bandadansur.” Shayla pronounced it with a Scottish accent. “Banda means ribbon, so it’s ribbon dance.”

  As she turned away, Cora’s face showed how little she’d taken to the blonde woman, which was not like Senna’s best friend at all. Maybe it had something to do with the way Alfun grinned at the woman, wagging his finger in her face.

  “That’s the one. Brandydancer.” He toppled forward and Jarl caught him before he landed on top of Shayla.

  “I think someone’s maybe had a little too much Brandy-wine. Come on, old friend, I think you need some fresh air.”

  As Jarl shouldered the shorter lad toward the door, Lyran caught Cora frowning at Shayla as she watched the men exiting. Senna took a step toward Cora, but she had no time to resolve the discord as the enormous cake was wheeled toward them and she joined him to perform their duty.

  Little about this day had gone the way he devised it, so why would he imagine the cake would be any different? Lyran had attended several handfastings where the “bridal-cake kiss” had resulted in one or other of the newlyweds falling into the mass of pastries.

  Until it came to his turn, he never realised how important it was for him to maintain a dignified persona in front of all those in the village hall who judged him with stern faces. Not the villagers – they accepted and loved him as one of their own – but his father’s pompous associates. None more than the man himself who always seemed to be waiting for his son to fail.

  Arnaud had taken great delight in creating something far removed from the normal haphazard stack of scones, biscuits and sweet rolls, piled as high as possible. The French chef had baked four large fruited loaves, and these formed a base upon which successively smaller loaves were stacked, resembling a pyramid shape. The normal baked pastries were stacked around this, loosely adhered to the loaves with honey.

  Lyran faced Senna across this truly formidable structure, and leaned toward her, concerned that she should not ruin her beautiful gown with honey stains. The superstition rang large in his mind – a lifetime of prosperity was assured if they could complete a kiss without toppling the pile. But how were they to do that when the top of the mound came up to her shoulders? His solution was simple – if they clung onto each other’s elbows, they could support each other as they closed in for the kiss.

  Amid the applause at their success, Lyran instructed the two men in charge of the cart that some of the cake should be sent to Councillor Osman’s house as soon as possible.

  “Certainly, Sir. Your wife already asked that we should reserve three portions from each of the courses, I’ll add it to their basket.”

  Of course she had. His beautiful wife would never allow someone she knew to go without. Her benevolence was not limited to material goods, however; she was equally as generous with her time, energy and anything else she could share. Scanning the room, he saw Senna clearly trying to mollify Cora; no doubt about something Alfun had done. Or hadn’t done. Then he remembered Alfun’s malady immediately before the kissing.

  This could be his chance to catch Jarl alone and put his request. After ascertaining the tall Viking was nowhere in sight, he strode to the door, hoping his evident purpose would deter any guests wishing to delay him.

  Unfortunately, the fates were not done with their sport as he reached the fresh air, only to have his knees buckle so he had to grab the sturdy porch frame to stay upright.

  “Not another one who can’t hold his liquor? I’d have thought better of you, Cousin.” A chuckle accompanied Jarl’s dry tone.

  “That’s not funny. I feel ill.”

  “If you are sick, ’twill clear some of the poisons from your body. Or so some healer-fellow tells me.”

  “Go and …” Lyran’s curse was lost as he staggered away from the building’s entrance to expel the contents of his stomach. Wiping his mouth, he closed the short distance to where his friends stood. He took a sip from the beaker Jarl offered, rinsing his mouth and spitting it out. Thank you.”

  “So you don’t want me to go and do whatever impossible act your imagination conjured?”

  “No. I appreciate you taking care of men less able than you to fill their bodies with liquor without redress.”

  “You’re welcome. I think.” Jarl’s face said the irony had confused him.

  Lyran glanced at Alfun, who sat on the grass, his head cradled in his hands, seemingly asleep. “Jarl. I have a favour to ask of you.”

  “A tip to prevent you embarrassing yourself like that in the future? Drink warm milk before you start swigging wine like a parched man.”

  Lyran clicked his tongue.

  “Or is it advice about your wedding night you need?” His cousin’s eyes lit with mischief. “If it were anyone else, I’d offer to do the honours, but …”

  “Warm milk. The very idea.” Alfun’s groans interrupted before Lyran had time to examine his reaction to the idea of his wife and his best friend together in that way.

  “Oh, Lyran. I think I’m about to die.” The farmer’s outstretched arms beseeched. “Do you have a potion to stop the queasiness?”

  Jarl handed him the beaker. “This is the best cure in the world, my friend. Hair of the dog.”

  As Alfun obediently took the vessel, Lyran narrowed his eyes. “Ale? What does that have to do with dogs?”

  “Old soldier cure. ’Tis said an inflammation arising from a dog bite is best cured by brewing a potion with hairs of the animal.”

  Lyran nodded wisely. “I have heard that remedy. Never set too much store by it myself. But I still don’t see … oh.” He grinned, shaking his head as Jarl laughed at his sheepish expression.

  Alfun finished the ale with a burp and a frown. “I assure you, there were no hairs in that. If there were, I’d be choking on them.”

  Jarl’s laughter increased till he doubled over, clutching his stomach. He waved at Lyran, spluttering out the words. “Tell … him.”

  Lyran explained that the proverb likened the pain caused by the excess of liquor to the pain of a dog bite, and that the extra liquor was the equivalent of the dog hair.

  Alfun’s brows remained beetled as he stared into the bottom of the beaker. “Definitely no hairs.” He howled like a dog in pain, then panted as he snuffled round Jarl as though seeking treats, barking when he got none.

  By now, Jarl was helpless as a kitten, wiping away the tears streaming down his face, and Lyran realised that was Alfun’s intention. His friend was deliberately pretending to be half-witted merely to reduce the big
, strong warrior to a weakling.

  His suspicion was confirmed as Alfun set upon Jarl, tickling him ruthlessly, paying no attention to his pleas for mercy.

  Senna had alerted Lyran to the potential tension between the two men over some remark about a bull. He’d deemed it unlikely, because the Alfun he knew had no vanity about his physique.

  “There you are. You’ve been gone so long, people are beginning to worry. Senna is weary of being asked about …” Cora’s exasperated words stopped as she saw the two men rolling on the ground.

  Glancing over, Lyran understood her concern as she rushed over to them, shrieking. “My poor Alfun. Jarl. Lay off him, you great oaf.”

  She tugged at Jarl’s arm and he rolled over to come face-to-face with her anger. This made him laugh even more as he pointed at her, unable to speak.

  Alfun whirled around, his face a mix of guilt, dismay and mischief. “Cora. You are here. That’s nice.”

  Again, Lyran felt he overplayed his apparent state of inebriation so she would scold and admonish, all the time manhandling him as she dragged him to his feet and dusted him off. The cheeky wink at Lyran confirmed Alfun’s enjoyment of the process; then, like a master, he moaned and held onto his arm where she’d slapped it.

  Lyran suppressed a chuckle as she instantly transformed from nagging harpy into warm-hearted sweetheart, stroking his arm as she crooned tender words of affection. Thinking he could learn a thing or two from the man, he turned to help Jarl to his feet, only to find all trace of the enfeebled, giggling wretch replaced with his slightly-aloof, perfectly-in-control cousin. “But I thought …”

  “Military training. Fool your opponent into believing you helpless and he will soon be lured into making a mistake.” Jarl retrieved the fallen beaker.

  Lyran’s eyebrows shot toward his forehead. “I didn’t realise Alfun had become your opponent.”

  A sidelong glance communicated the absurdity of the statement. “You mentioned a question for me.”