by Jacky Gray
Halfway through, she realised the wine had intensified her light-headedness, so she nibbled on some bread, desperate not to draw attention to her indisposition. Knowing the way her father’s mind worked, his instant conclusion would be that she was with child. She cringed at the thought of how he would deal with even the suggestion of scandal.
As her father repeated his tribute to Taron, she felt her insides churning and concentrated on her breathing. Sweat dampened her brow, and she wished Senna could have been there.
No sooner had the thought transpired, than Lyrelie tapped her shoulder, presenting a kerchief soaked in peppermint. The girl pushed a small linen purse into her hand with a whisper. “Ginger crystals. Put one under your tongue and let it dissolve.”
Before she could express her gratitude, the cries of “Taron and Lareeta” alerted her to the fact her father’s speech had ended and all eyes were on her. Banishing the nausea, she raised her goblet, accepting the salute with a small sip and a large smile at her husband.
Taron kissed her cheek before rising to address the gathering.
Wiping her face, she breathed in the calming scent, while slipping one of the crystals into her mouth, immediately feeling relief. Glancing over to Lyrelie, she caught the strength of the powerful healing energy the girl directed at her and smiled her thanks. Lyrelie blew her a kiss which appeared as a pink heart, winging its way through the air.
Lareeta followed its progress until it fluttered directly above her head, where it burst open and she had the impression of hundreds of pink rose petals scattering around her.
Even as she dismissed her fanciful imaginings as the result of too much liquor with no food, she felt warmth surrounding her body which corresponded exactly to where she’d seen the rose petals fall. Instead of wanting to hide in a hole, she felt perfectly able to cope with the rest of the speeches, even laughing at Baxter’s rather lumbering tales with tenuous relevance and weak humour.
It all seemed to be going well until the last guest left, then her father’s smile disappeared. Pulling her to a corner of the room, he hissed at her. “How dare you lie to me?” His face twisted as he continued. “I cannot believe you have so little respect for me that you would bring that sort of people into my house under false pretences.”
Lareeta froze, unable to fathom what had turned him from a doting father into the bully she’d grown up with, but she suspected the liquor on his breath had something to do with it. She glanced round the room, looking for support, but her mother and Taron were on the other side, collecting the gifts which had been left for them. She wanted to shout out, but she had lost all power of speech.
He forced her to face him as he snarled, “I knew you were nothing but trouble, right from the start.”
She closed her eyes against the unjust accusations, helpless to defend herself against the unwarranted attack.
Garvenal continued to set the blame for every ill at her door. “… bringing that dog into the house to kill my sons and weaken your mother so she couldn’t have any more.”
His tirade stopped and his grip on her arm loosened as she heard a cold voice she did not recognise.
“You do not deserve to have such a beautiful and talented daughter.” Taron’s arms surrounded her in loving protection as he drew her to him. “She has grown and thrived despite the bile and hatred she has suffered at your hands. A man like you has no right calling himself a Christian.”
“How dare you talk to me like that after worming your way into my house under false pretences?”
“With the greatest respect, Sir. Your wife invited me into your house. I have done nothing but treated both of you with absolute deference. My wife does not deserve these upsetting accusations, so I wish you Godspeed.”
“Just a minute. You cannot take my daughter away.” His voice rose with something akin to fear.
“I can and I will. I intend to treat my wife with a lot more care and consideration than you have ever treated yours.”
“She’s not your wife, you married under false pretences.”
“I assure you there was nothing false about it. I have been learning the ways of her religion in the same way she has been learning mine. Our handfasting bound us legally in wedlock last week. No court can put us asunder when we have been bound twice in front of so many witnesses.”
Taron led Lareeta toward the door, but her father was not finished. “You will never set foot inside my house again, and I forbid my wife from having any contact.” The words lacked conviction as his cornered pride felt the need to lash out. “From this moment, Lareeta, you are not my daughter.”
Before she could respond, Taron jumped in, defending her once again. “You have never treated Lareeta as a daughter, so she will not suffer the loss of your continual and undeserved misuse. As for her mother, she can make her own choices about whether she wishes to visit her daughter and any grandchildren we may have.”
“Gah.” Spitting out the word, he strode out of the room.
Lareeta let out a shaky sigh as the bad energies which had kept her in their thrall released. “Let’s get home. I have reached my limit.”
“Presently, my sweet. But we cannot leave your mother alone …”
“Of course you can. I have survived worse than this.” Dimia sighed. “If I learned one thing about Garvenal, it’s that his pride will not allow him to lose face. Especially in public.”
Taron took her hand, bowing over it. “You are the bravest woman I have ever met, and it is clear to see Lareeta owes her courage, resilience and beauty to you.”
She pulled him toward her and reached up to kiss his cheek. “I’m only glad she got someone like you to take care of her. It is of no matter to me which religion you follow, so long as you honour and take care of my baby.”
“You knew? When? How?”
“Not immediately. You studied hard to understand Garvenal’s religion. For which I commend you. But on a few occasions you missed certain things which a true Christian would have known from an early age.”
“There do seem to be a lot of rules. My religion is much more about celebrating and giving thanks rather than …”
“You do not need to tell me. My grandmother followed the old ways until she passed, and I attended an esbat or two in my youth.” She winked.
“So how did he discover? Was it the man he sent to investigate?”
“Goodness me, no. Like your father, he is so blind to the existence of any other ways, he only went to the church. And the priest spoke so highly of you he naturally assumed …” She shrugged. “Baxter’s story about leaping the bonfire alerted Garvenal’s attention, and he overheard Sawyer discussing how different the mass was to the sabbat.”
Lareeta spoke up. “Mother. If there’s any possibility you might get hurt, you must come with us.”
She shook her head, sadly. “I promise you he will not touch me. His bark is far worse than his bite.” With some effort, Dimia brightened into a smile. “But please do not allow your father’s liquor-fuelled anger to blight this day. I should have kept a closer watch on how much of the fine brandy-wine he imbibed. You are lucky to have each other, and as soon as you are settled, I will come to visit you.”
Even as Taron insisted she would be very welcome, Lareeta wondered if her mother would have the strength to disobey Garvenal. Her next words suggested she would.
“As for your father, give him time. I have never seen him as happy as he’s been these past few moons. His pride is hurting now, but he will come round. Eventually.” She hugged them both.
Taron took his wife’s arm, pulling her to him with a fiery light warming his gaze. She thrilled as he kissed her with a promise of the passion they would share that night, free from any barriers, imagined or otherwise.
*sniffs and blows nose*
Please excuse me, but I’m so moved by what that poor girl had to endure before she finally got what she deserved – a fine man, our Taron.
You could have some fun deciding for you
rself exactly what kind of penance Garvenal should pay. There are definite ramifications in the next three episodes of this saga. But only you can decide if he’s suffered enough – if not, feel free to take it up with Ms Gray.
I’m not going to say much about this last part (the title gives it away a bit). Suffice to say that I get to play quite a major role, as befits a hero of my calibre.
‘Nuff said!
Danger and Disaster
Part 4 – Samhain
Seven months later
16 – Burying the Dead
Senna looked down at the motionless body, her heart heavy at the thought of her duties. She had performed this task many times, and it never got easier. But she’d never had to do it for family before, and the anguish on Jarl’s face brought a fresh set of tears to her cheeks.
In an effort to distract herself, she remembered back to the first time she had assisted Lyran with this final duty a healer would ever perform for a person.
He had instructed her at every stage. “The preparation for the body is the same whether they choose fire or earth for their remains. We always start by washing the body with the parting potion.”
She dipped a linen in the warm water and sniffed. “I can smell ginger and lemon balm among other things.”
“Of course. Do you want to start at the head or midriff?”
“Why not the feet?”
“Because then we can both work downward. The feet tend to be the hardest to clean, so it’s better to end there.”
“The middle, then. Do I have to repeat your blessing prayer at each limb?”
“Only if you want to. I try to ensure my thoughts are free of sorrow or anything bad, as a mark of respect.”
She set about her task, cleansing the woman she had barely known in life. And what little she had known did not encourage nice thoughts; Magrid had spent the last few years of her life complaining about most things. Nothing Senna did to try and ease the woman’s pain met with anything but a sour face and a grumble. The woman’s sense of her own self-importance was such she expected Lyran’s presence for the slightest problem.
Her husband glanced over, his grin cheeky. “I imagine right now you are struggling to have any pleasant thoughts. Magrid was not the happiest of souls.”
“How can I stop the memories of her nasty nature? She made Lyrelie cry on more than one occasion, and …”
As Senna raged, he stopped what he was doing and took her in his arms, nuzzling her hair. “Poor Sennalina. I know it is hard, but try to be your normal, generous self. I imagine most of Magrid’s bitterness stemmed from the fact she could not have children of her own.”
“That would make me very sad. Imagine a world with no Lyrelie.”
“I would rather imagine a world filled with the oatencakes you and she made for me last week.”
His ploy worked, and the woman’s dark, damp hovel filled with laughter as they worked together in harmony.
Jarl’s voice broke into her reverie. “Is there something I can do? I know Lyran normally …”
“Well he cannot do it, so I will have to.” Senna spoke more sharply than she intended, hearing an echo of the bitter shrew’s tone in her voice. Mortified, she apologised, throwing off all memories of her first funeral so she could concentrate on her latest.
After calming herself, she said the blessing prayer, then glanced at him. “You do not have to stay while I prepare the body if it is too disturbing. I can manage.”
He gestured at the arm strapped to his body. “I cannot help, but Lyran would want me to support you. I have dealt with a dead body or two in my time.”
She acquiesced, on condition he sat to rest the wound in his leg. As she worked, he reminisced about their shared childhood.
“Do you remember the time we explored the long barrow?”
She smiled. “One of the older lads dared us to go inside. You were a little reluctant, so Lyran went first.”
He answered quickly, his tone defensive. “You were not there when the boy told us tales about how they used to leave the dead bodies out in the open for the wild animals to strip off the flesh.”
She chuckled at his expression.
“It was no laughing matter. He said they left the bones unburied in the chambers, and the skeletons got up and danced on full moons.”
“It was full moon, as I recall.”
He shuddered. “You followed Lyran inside that dark hole with not so much as a torch. Utter madness.”
Senna smiled. “Lyran always had an unnatural interest in anything to do with death.”
He nodded. “He always knew he would die young.”
Turning her head sharply, she frowned. “Really? He never mentioned that to me.”
Jarl’s expression froze and his eyes darted round the room.
“What did he say?”
He shrugged. “Nothing more than fanciful notions because of his dreams.”
She smiled. “Oh, those. Yes, he always had strange ideas about his dreams, encouraging Lyrelie to share hers. They examined each one for portents.”
As she finished anointing his mother’s body with the strong-smelling oil, Jarl stood, releasing tense limbs.
An elusive memory skittered across her brain, and she paused. “Although recently, they have been predicting with more and more accuracy.”
He seemed keen to move on to the next step, helping her to smudge Eloise’s body with sage and rosemary before binding it in the shroud ready for the ceremony.
~*~
Lyran regarded the angry man glaring at him, wondering exactly what he had done to offend him so much. He tried to recall which of his many dealings with Magister Domenyk could have caused the man to hate him so.
When he arrived in the village five years earlier, he’d gone out of his way to ingratiate himself with all those people he considered important. Lyran’s father was a high-ranking magister about to embark on his three-year office as council leader, so Domenyk’s pursuit of his son made sense. Particularly given Lyran’s standing as village healer.
But the way the man pursued his wife made it difficult for Lyran to find anything to be civil about. At the start, it had not mattered, because the presence of Domenyk’s wife prevented him from behaving badly. With the semblance of propriety to maintain, he could do nothing more than try to charm Senna without jeopardising his credibility.
The magister took Senna’s normal pleasant self as encouragement to flirt outrageously and, although she never responded with anything but polite courtesy, it fuelled jealous feelings Lyran had never before known.
“Well? Are you going to stare at me all day or present some evidence to back up your outrageous claim?”
“The facts speak for themselves. Since your new directive at the quarry, there has been a large increase in the number of accidents. The evidence is a matter of record; each incident is noted in the register.”
Domenyk snorted. “I have seen some of the entries and cannot imagine why you would bother me with such nonsense as bleeding fingers and bumped heads.”
“The law states such a register must be kept, but if you examine the entries, you will see the underlying causes are because the working conditions have deteriorated. The men work too long with no break, and sometimes in darkness.”
“Am I to be held to account for the fact the sun spends less time in the sky in winter? If these men want the same wages as in the summer, they must work the same hours.”
He rose from his desk. “I’m sure you have better things to do than worry about a few scratches and bruises. If it makes you feel better, I’ll have one of the officials investigate the matter and write a full report.”
Holding the door open, he ushered Lyran out, touching his arm with an obsequious smile. “Oh, and do give my regards to Senna. I haven’t seen her lately; I hope she is blooming with good health, as always.”
Knowing full well what the man meant, even without the leer, Lyran nodded, stilling his desire to punch away the impertine
nt expression.
As the Nones bell rang, he cursed the man for keeping him waiting so long – he should be somewhere else.
~*~
Senna glanced up in surprise as her husband burst through the door, bringing a flurry of cool October air to disturb the calm.
“At last. You would be late for your own funeral.”
“Jarl. I’m so sorry, man. I received an urgent summons from Magister Domenyk, only to have him …”
“Shhh. It is of no matter. You are here now.” Senna hugged away the energies of remorse and frustration. “I assume you wish to pay your respects to your aunt?”
“Of course.” He bent to kiss the shroud, with the age-old greeting. “Merry we met, merry we lived, merry we part.”
As her husband cradled the body for a final hug, Senna saw Jarl’s eyes fill with the tears he’d managed to hold back until then. Lyran turned at the sound of a sob and the two of them stood awkwardly, neither wanting to give their grief full rein.
Seeing the need for physical contact, she tugged Lyran toward his cousin and the three of them embraced, releasing healing tears.
Warmth and light filled the room and all three heard Eloise’s voice as she admonished them. “You promised me a merry part – do I not deserve laughter and dancing?”
Jarl drew in a shaky breath. “Oh, Mother. Can we not have a moment to grieve for our loss, first?”
“Indeed, my son. But then you must celebrate my life with love and joy. And so much ale you fall down.”
Lyran chuckled. “Goodbye, Eloise. I will look after him.”
“Mind you do. And you, Senna, will support them both as only you can. May the gods go with you, my dears.”
Her energy blinked out like a snuffed candle. Before they had a chance to remark on the strange occurrence, a knock sounded at the door. The cart had arrived to carry her body to the henge for the blessing ceremony.
All the way through the Archdruid’s wise words about the cycle of life, Senna was drawn back to the woman’s words. She teared when he spoke of how Eloise had been such a valued member of the community, bringing light and love with her compassion and ready wit.