Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  “No more tears, my love.” Eloise’s whisper alerted her to the idea that, although the soul had left the body, she remained close by. This was in accordance with what she’d been brought up to believe; that it took a while before the spirit truly departed.

  Closing her eyes, she caught the aroma of rose and jasmine, her aunt’s favourite scent, and smiled. By their reactions, it seemed both Lyran and Jarl smelt it, too.

  When the ceremony ended, the two insisted on driving the cart with its precious load along the stone avenue, all the way to the long barrow for the mourning.

  Over the next five days, there was no shortage of people willing to give up an hour to maintain the vigil on the slim chance she had not died, but was merely asleep. Between them, Jarl, Lyran and Senna covered the hours of darkness.

  Senna awoke often to find the two men reminiscing about incidents from their childhood and she smiled at the bond between them – it had never been as strong. Although Jarl regarded his battle injuries as a huge encumbrance, without them, he would never have spent his mother’s last few weeks tending to her needs.

  As the sun headed westward on the fifth day, the same people gathered outside the long barrow for a short blessing before her body was lowered into her final resting place, overlooking the magnificence of Silbury Hill and other places which had been dear to her in life.

  ~*~

  Standing at his aunt’s graveside, Lyran could not shake the feeling that time was running out. He needed to ensure everything was in place for when his life ended, but this tussle with Domenyk had him concerned about what might happen to Senna if his cousin returned to the battle grounds, which was his stated intention. He decided he would make it impossible for Jarl to leave – at least until Samhain.

  The mere thought of Domenyk’s parting leer made him shudder, remembering back to when the snake’s wife died two years earlier. He had done most of the preparations alone as the man professed to be so distraught he needed constant solace.

  In keeping with her nature, Senna had fussed over him, but every time she tried to pull away to help Lyran, the magister began a new round of noisy sobbing.

  Senna was too tender hearted to recognise the ploy, and it had the secondary effect of distracting Lyran away from his task. In his jealous state, he failed to register the significance of the faded bruising around the wrists, ankles and nether regions on the body. He thought no more of it until he spotted similar markings on one of the village girls he treated for an unexplained sickness.

  As he gazed into the flames flickering around Eloise’s remembrance altar, inspiration came to him. The easiest way of achieving both of his objectives would be to share his concerns with Jarl and involve him in the investigations. His cousin was on drinking terms with many of the quarrymen, so he would be perfectly placed to root around for information.

  Persuading Jarl to spend another day in the village was another matter altogether.

  He despaired of talking some sense into the man as he watched him trying to fold clothes with one hand. “Why are you in such a hurry to go back to the battlefields? You are neither use nor ornament to any commander.”

  “That’s where you are wrong. I didn’t spend years touring Frankish and Spanish cities without picking up a talent or two for espionage. No-one can uncover dirty secrets so well as I.”

  “So you’ll do it for the crown, but not for your own cousin? Shame on you.”

  “What do you expect me to do? Offer my services to the quarryman with this?” He pointed to his useless arm. “They will injure themselves laughing.” With his good hand, he attempted to balance the saddlebag on his shoulder, but several of the contents fell back onto the bed.

  He stuffed them back in, his annoyance obvious. “Or is that your intent? To fill up the register with …”

  “Jarl.” Lyran retrieved a belt which had fallen to the floor, and lifted the saddlebag, placing it on his own shoulder with ease. “Give me a chance. At least stay till Samhain.”

  He glanced round the room, his expression torn.

  Finally, Lyran understood the reluctance. Jarl did not want to spend another minute alone in a house where his mother had just died. He clapped his good shoulder. “Come on. You will stay with us.”

  17 – Unexpected Guest

  Senna hummed to herself as she scooped out the insides of the seventh turnip while Lyrelie and Freya marked terrifying faces on the ones she’d already hollowed. Jarl did the intricate carving around the eyes and mouth with a lethal-looking knife. She declined to enquire about its normal purpose for fear of morbid tales.

  The task was made harder by his left arm being immobile, but he managed to wedge each one on his lap while he worked. He showed his latest effort for them to admire. “How many more of these do we have? You’ve blunted my best fish knife.”

  “All of them.” The girls chorused.

  “It’s the only way to ward off the evil spirits. Ouch. What did you do that for?” Freya rubbed her ankle, glaring at Lyrelie, who tried surreptitiously to gesture at Jarl.

  Senna glanced over in concern, but he walked to the sideboard, placing the turnip with the others. He pretended not to notice as Lyrelie hissed, “his mother died,” in a whisper so loud it could wake the dead.

  He caught Senna’s eye with a wink as he gathered up the leavings. “Shall I add these to the pot?”

  She grinned. “If you’ve scored the rind so it will soften.”

  As he lifted the lid, an earthy aroma filled the room. “Mmm, what can I smell?”

  “I have no idea.” She grinned at the familiar jest. “I can smell turnip, parsley and chives. And, of course, the remains of last night’s broth.”

  He sniffed again. “Aha. Rabbit, was it?”

  “Uncle Jarl, you are such a tease. You know full well it was lamb.” Lyrelie squealed as he turned around, wearing a grotesque wooden mask.

  Lyran walked in at that moment wearing an equally horrifying mask, with two smaller ones dangling from his hand. No one said a thing, so he lifted the mask.

  Jarl shrieked like a girl. “Agghh, it’s horrible.”

  “Ha, ha. What a wit.” He turned to the table, shaking his head. “With all the fun and games, it’s no wonder you aren’t finished.”

  “Oh, Papa. That’s not fair, we’ve been working hard.”

  He nuzzled Lyrelie’s head. “I know, daughter mine. I’m jesting. We’ll finish in the twinkling of an eye now I’m here.”

  Returning to the long barrow after such a short time brought poignant memories, but Senna followed Eloise’s instructions and focussed on celebrating lives rather than deaths. They added their best three lanterns to the others, and the overall effect was of a group of cheery smiles, rather than anything scary.

  When it came to the part of the ceremony where the Archdruid invited them to remove their masks and commune with their departed souls, Senna did not sense Eloise’s presence. Neither, from their lack of reaction, did Jarl or Lyran.

  As they did every year, the weeks between Samhain and Yule passed quickly, a combination of the shorter days and the wealth of activities required to last out the dark days of winter. The women foraged in the woods in teams, ever alert for the wild pigs and occasional boar. They gathered the last of the nuts, berries and fungi, sharing the hoard between them. Each of the various herbs, fruit and vegetables required preparation for storage, whether dried or preserved in salt, vinegar or honey.

  Nothing was ever wasted, and any remaining wax from the candles was melted and poured into jars to make new candles. It was also the busiest time for healers with the usual array of snuffles and illnesses brought on by the damp, cold, and lack of sunlight.

  This year, the season was brightened by the addition of Jarl’s presence. The patience honed by his military activities came in useful as he sorted through piles of herbs, laying them on muslin racks for drying. He disappeared for several hours every day, returning with something for the pot.

  Best were the eveni
ngs when the four of them would gather round the fire, wrapped in blankets with beakers of warm, spiced wine or ale, swapping tales about their day or singing songs. On the occasions when Lyrelie stayed overnight with Freya, they returned to the camaraderie of their youth, reminiscing over badly remembered adventures.

  ~*~

  Jarl had hoped the years spent away from Senna would diminish the attraction he felt for her. On their brief meetings whenever he stayed with his parents, he had no doubt this was true; he no longer experienced the overwhelming need to make her his every time she smiled at him. But after a week spent in close proximity, he was once more in her thrall. Not her fault on any level; her every word and deed reflected how much she adored Lyran. But he could not help the fact no other woman had ever come close to fitting him as perfectly as she.

  Out of respect for all three of them, he strove hard to maintain the relationship of their younger selves. He fell back into the position of older brother; treating her like an “irritating little sister” – her words. Anything other than that would have resulted in bad blood between him and the cousin he thought of as a brother.

  No one ever knew the cost of his restraint but, on one or two occasions, he sensed the connection between them sizzling as it had done on the day of her handfasting. Always after their defences had been weakened by liquor, and usually involving physical contact. Like on the first night he spent in their healing cot, after burying his mother.

  They had stayed up late, following his mother’s instructions to drink “so much ale you fall down.” Lyran was groggy, but she and Jarl helped him upstairs between them. He stumbled on the edge of a chest, landing on the bed where he fell instantly asleep.

  Senna giggled as she tried to remove her husband’s boots.

  “Shhh. You’ll wake him.”

  “Even the dead do not sleep as sound as he. Especially after so much ale. Yet you are nowhere near falling down.”

  “I suspect I’ve had more practice than he. Let me help.”

  The boots removed, Senna tugged at his tabard.

  “Leave his clothes. Let him have the shame of waking fully dressed.” Jarl grinned. “At least, I imagine he would find it a shame. I sleep in my clothes more often than not.”

  Hands on hips, she shook her head. “Maybe you are right. But at least help me remove his tabard, he gets hot in bed.”

  The intimate detail sent Jarl’s mind dizzy with visions of the two of them sharing a bed, and what they got up to. He drew the line at removing his cousin’s breeches, excusing himself to use the privy.

  When he returned to the house, Senna had poured another beaker of spiced ale for him and the remains of the spiced wine for herself. Without Lyran or Lyrelie as chaperone, he found himself at a loss for conversation which didn’t involve his need for her. In his bed. Fulfilling the dreams he’d ignored his entire life.

  Thankfully, she had steered the conversation toward his escapades in France, a matter he’d never shared with anyone, least of all a woman.

  “So you actually had to be a real part of Arnaud’s team?”

  “Of course. The subterfuge would not have worked unless I could pass the scrutiny of the eagle-eyed staff. I actually learnt to prepare and cook meals.”

  “How fortunate. Maybe you can help us at Yule.”

  He pulled a face. “I don’t know if I will be here then.”

  “Oh you must. You cannot think of returning to battle until your injuries are healed. I could not bear to think of you putting yourself in danger because you are not sufficiently fit and well enough to do your job properly.”

  Her hand on his arm distracted him away from her words as he breathed in her subtle scent. This was torment, indeed. He struggled to focus on her next question.

  “You mentioned how you were sometimes part of the team of servers. Did you have to sing and dance as they did?”

  He shrugged. “I can turn a heel if I need to.”

  She sprang up. “Show me. Your mother ordered we should dance, and so far we have been negligent in adhering to her wishes.”

  Even before he took her in his arms, Jarl knew what a disaster this would be. Her enticing smell was enough to send his head reeling, but the feel of her body pressed close to his in the small space was nearly his undoing. Thankfully, Lyran’s loud snoring brought him to his senses, and he yawned, pleading a long day.

  The carer in her responded instantly as she hurried to fetch blankets for the healing cot in the corner. As she made her way up the stairs, he shrugged out of his habitual sheepskin jacket. But removing his boots with only one hand proved impossible in his state of inebriation and he overbalanced, knocking over a chair which clattered to the floor.

  She was there in an instant, fussing over him as she tugged off his boots with considerably more ease than her husband’s.

  “I brought you one of Lyran’s nightshirts.”

  It explained her swiftness at reaching his side; she was already on her way back down. But he could not manage to remove his loose chemise, let alone don his cousin’s narrow garment with his current incapacity. And the idea of her helping him … he rejected the notion outright.

  “Thank you, but no. I will manage. Goodnight, Senna.”

  His terse statements deflated her and she withdrew as though scalded, stumbling over the chair before righting it. He hated the tremor in her voice as she bade him goodnight, innocent of the strong feelings her sisterly concern had evoked.

  She invaded every dream that night, and he vowed never to put himself in such a vulnerable position while under his cousin’s roof.

  To combat the strength of his feelings, he stayed away as much as he could in the next few days, pouring his energies into regaining his hunting skills and Lyran’s investigation. He quickly renewed old acquaintances at the Waggon and Horses, where Tabern welcomed him like a long-lost friend, setting a beaker of ale in front of him.

  “It is good to know you missed me.” Jarl toasted him.

  “More like he missed your coin. You could always drink us under the table. His profits halve when you are abroad.” Brom, one of the stalwarts at the quarry, raised his beaker, then tipped it over, depositing a solitary drop on the table.

  With a grin, Jarl asked for a pitcher of ale and joined Brom and his friends at their corner table. No sooner had the greetings finished, than a serving wench brought the pitcher.

  “This is for Jarl. I take it that’s you.”

  He waved at her to put it on the table without even turning round, but the nudges of Brom’s mates alerted him to her displeasure even before she spoke.

  “Will that be all, Sir?”

  Thinking it was a strange turn of events when a serving wench wanted a tip for doing her job, he scrabbled for a coin, offering it to her with barely a glance.

  Snatching it out of his fingers, she huffed a sigh and flounced off.

  Frowning at the collective merriment, he turned to watch a comely sway in her retreating figure.

  “Not a good idea to get on the wrong side of that one.” Brom tapped the side of his nose as one of his mates tutted.

  “Aye. Ye’ll end up with a beaker of ale on yer head.”

  “Nah, Tasker. She only does that to people who take advantage.” He shook his head. “Trying to manhandle her. ’Twas no more than you deserved.”

  “Aye, well, she shouldna waggled it in my face if she didn’t want it grabbin’. And what a handful.”

  Jarl laughed along with the rest of them, despite feeling uncomfortable at their bawdy talk. The poor girl was someone’s daughter – imagine if it were Lyrelie. He glanced at the bar to find a pair of shockingly blue eyes glaring at the table as though she’d like to tip the entire pitcher over them.

  She could not have heard the banter, but her angry posture suggested it may not be the first incident. His instinct was to apologise, but right now, he needed to appear solid with this gang if he were to ferret out the necessary information.

  It did not take long fo
r the pitcher to empty; Jarl topped up the beakers of the four men often, while managing to eke his out. Thankfully, they’d been supping for a while before he arrived, so they had a good head start. He stood, waving the empty pitcher. “I think we can manage another of these.”

  They saluted him, and he wobbled a little, trying to give the impression of inebriation. When he reached the bar, Tabern was nowhere to be seen and those blue eyes flashed a challenge.

  “I would like another pitcher, please.”

  “So, you do have manners, after all.”

  “My apologies. I meant no offence.”

  Her snort suggested disbelief as she took the jug.

  He wanted to make amends, and not merely because she was quite a beauty. When she wasn’t frowning. “I’ll wait while you fill it so you do not have to suffer at the hands of my companions.”

  “You think they will be impressed by you doing the work of a wench?”

  Jarl could not hide his surprise at her insight and, now that he looked, she seemed a lot older than Lyrelie. Not quite a matron, but certainly no maid.

  She pointed out the door as though he’d just asked a question. “The privy is out there. I’ll await your return.”

  As he emptied his bladder, Jarl decided there could be certain benefits to this investigation.

  Unfortunately, his first attempts to build up a picture of the working conditions had been far less productive. Even the mildest enquiry met with a closing of ranks and furtive glances, as though the men had been threatened with dire consequences for talking out of turn. He had to resort to his secondary plan.

  On his first scouting foray, he discovered a small wood nearby and, on making enquiries, found it to be common ground. This gave him the perfect excuse for his presence in the area as he honed his skill at using a crossbow with one hand. A hedgerow overlooking the quarry afforded an excellent position for spying on the dealings unobserved, and was a good source of rabbits and other small animals. He set several traps, disabling all but one as he did not want to reduce the wildlife population too quickly.