Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  As they discussed whether to hurry across and vouch for the boys’ characters, the woman had appeared and the man had put his weapon away.

  Cedany had lost interest in the proceedings, distracting with her chatter about what an exciting day it had turned out to be, and how she’d seen several different sides of Baxter’s character, all of which impressed her.

  Lareeta had listened with half an ear as part of her attention followed the drama with the chests and the skill of the woman in driving the four-wheeled carriage. She had felt inadequate as the only female incapable of driving a vehicle, but her musings had been interrupted by the sight of the woman throwing herself into Taron’s arms. The hussy seemed perfectly content to stay there, but it was impossible to gauge Taron’s reaction to the situation as he had his back to her.

  The sound of her name brought her back to the present. Baxter had asked a question and they all waited expectantly for an answer.

  “S-sorry. I did not hear. Can you repeat the question?”

  “I asked where you will be lunching so I can take you there. Unless you would rather go home first.”

  “Yes, please. That would be lovely.” Again, all she could think of was blessed solitude so she could sort out her tangled thoughts. The idea of food made her nauseous; maybe she would simply retire to her chamber and sleep for the rest of the day. But it was not to be.

  Taron jumped off the cart and helped her down, standing close as they waved the other two off. Cedany would dine with Baxter’s family, so she would be alone in the house.

  Knowing this, he asked if he might have a quiet word before she went in.

  “I’m sorry, Taron. I really do need to get out of this sun and lie down.”

  “Could we not sit on the bench for a moment? It is in the shade, and I have something important to discuss.”

  The tone and expression were so unlike him, she nodded, preceding him to the bench under the willow tree where she sat.

  Ignoring propriety, he took her hand, his tone formal. “Lareeta. Would you do me the honour of walking out with me? I wish to ask you properly to be my sweetheart.”

  13 – Popping the Question

  So began the most enjoyable summer of Lareeta’s life: long hazy days when she felt truly loved and cherished. Assuming the mantle of betrothal, they met in public, more often than not with Cedany and Baxter, and soon became established as a courting couple around the village. It was a different matter when they went to Marlborough, whether for the cloth market or to attend the early mass at St Mary’s. He would always treat her with the decorum expected by the townsfolk for a spinster.

  After their first memorable visit, she had waited for words of her father’s disapproval to be sent via Rielle. When nothing came after an entire moon, Lareeta had to reason that the sour-faced woman in church had not said anything or, if she had, Lareeta’s father had not been informed. Feeling emboldened, she suggested another visit.

  Cedany and, more especially, Baxter had enjoyed the mass sufficiently to go again, so they repeated the experience several times in the following moons, without ever seeing her mother’s housemaid. Even Taron became quite proficient at recognising the different parts of the service, and he joined in the responses with a pleasing – if unexpected – baritone.

  For her part, Lareeta joined in the esbats every full moon, enjoying the emphasis on feminine aspects as the Archdruid’s wife led the ceremonies. The idea of being outside among nature, and witnessing the moonrise, made the entire experience exciting and magical, although she always wore an extra layer and her warmest cloak. She loved the gentle energies of the moon circle and the opportunity for women to commune with their powerful healing and nurturing abilities, sharing a common purpose. A contrast to the sabbats, which, although held outside, in the sun circle, were either at sunrise, noon or sunset, and always led by men.

  The fates conspired to arrange things so Taron’s first formal meeting with her parents went perfectly. The week before, her mother waited outside the early mass, approaching the group and introducing herself to the others as Dimia, Lareeta’s mother.

  Lareeta had envisioned this moment and had prepared her speech. “Good day, Mother. I wondered if we might bump into you some day. My friends and I come here when we can because the mass in Avebury is nothing like as grand – they don’t even have a choir.”

  “Someone said they spotted you at the early mass, but I thought it would be too far to travel, especially at that time – you must leave at an ungodly hour to get here for the Terce bell.”

  “It doesn’t take so long in a trap.”

  “I suppose not. I thought I saw someone who looked like you heading off toward Avebury a few weeks ago.”

  “It could have been; we don’t come here every week.” She felt the curiosity of the others and tried to ignore it.

  “I even visited Rielle; she had no idea, but she told me you come over for the cloth market every moon.”

  The implication was clear: why do you never visit us? But Lareeta knew her mother knew the answer and so would never ask the question aloud.

  “So, I came early in the hope of spotting you, and here we are. Next week you must all come to the later mass and then dine with us. Your father will be pleased to see you.”

  He will? Lareeta doubted it. As she formulated her excuses, the others outvoted her, saying it was too good an opportunity to miss.

  Having them there proved to be an excellent choice as Baxter’s scholarly disposition meant he had studied widely. He kept her father entertained with his detailed knowledge of many different topics, employing a combination of flattery and genuine respect. But his phenomenal ability to listen with the appearance of absolute interest had the man’s habitual frown relaxing to the point where she almost detected a smile.

  Lareeta could barely disguise her shock, and caught her mother observing her reaction to the complete stranger sitting in her father’s seat. Beneath the neutral expression, she detected sadness, and her heart, hardened by so many bad experiences, began to soften. Although her hurt ran deeply, her love for Taron made room for forgiveness.

  She appreciated her mother’s efforts to get to know Cedany, taking an interest in what went on in Rielle’s workroom, seemingly impressed by the opportunities provided for “young women from good homes.”

  Even as she cringed at the implied snobbery, Lareeta saw how it appealed to Cedany, who often felt a little awkward when the other girls spoke of their home life surrounded by brothers, sisters and parents.

  “And what do you do, Taron?”

  A small cough gave away his nervousness, but he’d obviously thought about his response to the expected question. “Until recently, I was apprenticed to the village blacksmith, but then my grandfather finally decided to give up his carpentry business. My uncle is the chief woodsman for the village, so my cousin runs the workroom. He has kindly taken me on.”

  “My goodness, not one trade, but two. How very enterprising. Did you hear that, Garvenal?”

  Without waiting for her husband’s reply, Dimia pressed on excitedly. “You may be the very person I need to talk to about my grandfather’s chest. The lid has warped and the iron work on it has rusted.”

  As she explained how the chest had suffered from years of neglect after sitting under a leaking roof, Lareeta happened to catch a conversation between Baxter and her father regarding the complicated system for calculating the dates for the Easter period.

  Lareeta held her breath, concerned the lad would reveal his ignorance, but this topic had obviously vexed him to the point where he’d investigated it thoroughly. As her father complimented him on his lively mind, the potential for disaster hit her for the first time. How would her father react if he found out they worshipped the old religion? She had visions of the four of them being thrown out on the street with angry words and threats.

  Then reason set in as she realised that, because her mother had discovered them at mass, her parents would assume Lareeta’s
three friends were Christians. Garvenal’s belief in the religion was so absolute, it would never have entered his head to imagine otherwise. She sent up a prayer that his arrogance meant he would never entertain the notion of discussing other religions in his house. Thankfully, the topic never arose.

  Somehow, they made it through to the end without discovery, and her mother invited them to repeat the experience soon. “Next time you come, I hope you will consider taking my trunk for repair.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” He bowed graciously over her hand.

  As they walked to the cart, Lareeta debated with herself whether to mention anything about her father’s view on the old religion. She was reluctant to say anything they might find insulting but, more than that, she did not want them to be put in a position where they might have to lie.

  On the journey home, her friends were full of how lucky she was to have such wonderful parents and to have grown up in such luxury. She smiled and agreed while inside, her eight-year-old soul wished it had been so.

  Two weeks later, Taron was keen to prove himself to her parents, but Baxter had already made arrangements, so just the two of them went. He reasoned it would work out better because it meant there would be room in the cart he borrowed from Sawyer.

  Lareeta could not allow him to inadvertently be put in an awkward situation over her father’s stubborn, narrow-minded views, so she suggested ways he could respond to Garvenal’s inevitable interrogation without lying. In the event, she need not have worried. Two other couples dined with them, and the men obviously had matters of great importance to discuss. They occupied the top end of the table and barely exchanged a word with their wives, who were happy to sit in the middle, gossiping with their hostess and making the young couple feel welcome.

  Both women shopped regularly at Rielle’s and were keen to find out more about the type of girls who made such “elegant” and “refined” gowns. When they turned their attention to Taron, he charmed them with his manners and took a genuine interest in their lives. They got very excited when they discovered he supplied buttons to the haberdasher, asking about more decorative styles.

  By the time the meal ended, Lareeta could not have been more proud of the way he handled himself among such challenging company. Truly her man had many talents.

  When they returned with the repaired chest, even her father was impressed by Taron’s workmanship. Although, being him, he had to find fault with the colour not being an exact match.

  Taron explained that the wood would darken with age, but it would take years for it to blend exactly. “A tinted wax could be added to darken it, but it can never be lightened, so I erred on the side of caution.”

  “Take no notice.” Lareeta’s mother stepped in to reassure. “I think you’ve done a wonderful job.”

  Garvenal cleared his throat. “We thank you. How much for your time and the material?”

  “I couldn’t possibly accept any remuneration. Please accept it as a gift in return for your hospitality.”

  When Dimia tried to insist he take something, her husband overruled her with a sharp tone. “Do not pressure the boy.” He turned to Taron, gentling his manner. “Thank you very much. You are generous indeed.”

  On the journey back that afternoon, Taron seemed lost in his thoughts until they reached the outskirts of the town. “The way your father spoke to your mother was quite disrespectful. I would suggest it’s not the first time he’s treated her ill. Am I right?”

  Lareeta nodded, not wanting to offer any more detail.

  “He has the manner of a proud man, quick to anger. True?”

  “Yes. It is my understanding many men of his persuasion are similar.”

  “By ‘his persuasion,’ I understand you to mean highly religious.”

  She sighed. “Is there a purpose to these questions? I would rather leave the past in the past and concentrate on the future.”

  “I’m sorry if this is painful for you, but I’m quite concerned by what I see. When you are in his company, you change from the strong, carefree girl I know into a cautious, timid creature, fearful of upsetting him.” He paused and, when she did not reply, continued. “I sense you are always waiting for something bad to happen. Something which will excite his anger.”

  What could she say? Nothing which would put him in a good light. As she tried to formulate a reply which would satisfy his curiosity, Taron spoke.

  “Tell me about your earliest memory.”

  Not what she was expecting at all. She took a moment to recall; there were a number of things, but she wasn’t ready to share some of them. Maybe, when the fires of hell froze.

  “It’s difficult, I know. To give you a little more time, I’ll tell you mine.” He went on to describe being on the floor of his grandfather’s workroom, playing with the shavings from the wood he was carving.

  “It’s the smell more than anything. Every tree has its own unique odour; but there is something – I don’t know how to describe it – alive about it. Maybe that’s the wrong word. But it smells like life.” He shrugged.

  She smiled. “I can tell that was a happy time for you. I know what you mean; I always appreciate the aroma of a freshly turned bowl or platter. And I love Sawyer’s workroom because of that.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful, because when we are wed I want to have my own workroom …” He paused, as though embarrassed by the idea.

  She smiled. One of Taron’s most endearing traits was his enthusiasm for his craft, which he did not consider work, or a duty, but an absolute pleasure. But she ignored the tiny word which led to his embarrassment. “That’s good. Because I would love to have a workroom, too, so I don’t have to clear away all my dressmaking things when we need to use the table to eat our food. I would love to have a loom so I can weave my own fabrics and experiment with different mixtures of wool and cotton and even silk …”

  His smile filled her with a warmth she’d never experienced before; the notion that she was worthy and her opinion and ideas mattered. It prompted one of her rare happy memories from childhood. She began speaking in a low voice. “When I was little more than five years old, mother had another child – a boy. She was so happy; they both were. It was near Christmas, and the house was filled with pine boughs and holly and ivy. Every eve at supper, she would light a special candle that smelt of berries and I was allowed to blow it out when the meal finished.” She breathed in deeply. “I remember that scent; it always reminds me of happy times.”

  He smiled. “Strange that both our memories centre on an aroma.” His attention diverted to another puddle-filled stretch of road, and some time elapsed before he spoke again. “You never mentioned a brother.”

  Pain shot through her body, tensing her muscles and spiking her blood.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to …”

  “Jonah died.” She could do nothing about the desolation of her tone. “Three years later. On Christmas day.”

  “I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”

  “Mother was with child at the time and she caught the disease. She nearly died giving birth that day, but the babe did not survive.” Lareeta paused, shaking her head. “Can you imagine what it did to my father, losing two sons on the day which was normally the highlight of his year?” A sob escaped, unbidden.

  Taron secured the reins on a hook and sped to her side. “My poor love.”

  It was too much, and she broke down, weeping tears which had waited over a decade to find their release. He held her until the great shudders wracking her body abated. After that, he steered the conversation anywhere but about her parents or her childhood, keeping it light and amusing, and the topic was never mentioned again.

  Lareeta smoothed down the skirts of her new kirtle, wondering if the ochre fustian fabric was perhaps a little too informal for the important occasion. She’d intended it as Sunday best for the now regular visits to church, but she did not want it to be too sombre. She wanted to wear it for other occasions, such as when she din
ed with the friends she’d made in the past eight moons. She opened the chest, seeking something more appropriate when a voice travelled up the stairway.

  “Are you going to stay up there all day admiring yourself?” Taron’s mischievous enquiry halted her rummaging.

  Picking up the extra shawl he’d bidden her fetch against the chilly November wind, she flew down the stairs.

  His expression suggested he expected some adverse response to his impudence. Despite spending many moons in his company, she still found it difficult to match his level of light-hearted banter, doubtless due to years of being trained never to speak out against harsh criticism. It left her slow to detect a tease, and this had led to many misunderstandings when she first joined the workroom full of lively girls, because she simply did not understand the concept of teasing.

  As she regarded him with a bland face, the sparkle in his eyes dimmed, and his words tumbled out. “I’m sorry, Lareeta. I did not mean it as a criticism. I know you were brought up to believe vanity a sin. Please forgive me; I intended no harm.”

  She could not keep up the pretence any longer as she released an impish grin. “No harm done at all. I merely wanted to repay you for the many occasions you have teased me without mercy.”

  With a grin, he grabbed her round the waist and whisked her around, returning her to the floor breathless and laughing. “You are a minx. I can see I will learn to regret teaching you the art of the tease. Now make haste, or we shall be late.”

  Lareeta swirled her warmest cloak around her shoulders, and picked up her gloves and the fur-lined muff he’d surprised her with after their last visit to the market.

  Taron had explained that the haberdasher had been so pleased with the latest batch of buttons he’d created, she suggested he pick something from her stall as a token of her gratitude.

  He helped her into the trap, and set the pony off at a brisk pace. As he concentrated on keeping the wheels out of the puddles left by the recent rain, she felt an uncharacteristic tension.