by Jacky Gray
After a week of such excursions, he gathered a deal of information about the comings and goings at the quarry. It seemed obvious to him the men were being poorly treated with scant opportunity to take breaks and barely a half hour to eat their lunch. But without actually working there, he could not dig deeper.
18 – Yuletide Blessings
Lyran always loved this time of year; the crisp, cold mornings, the stillness and beauty of snow-laden fields and, more than anything, the peace and goodwill of all men, and even women, toward each other.
For twelve short days, neighbourly disputes suspended, family feuds truced, and people celebrated from dawn to dusk. Senna always said his belly did the choosing when it came to his favourite; this season devoted the most time and energy into sumptuous feasts. Every other day brought a ritual based around scrumptious food or drink, from wassail and brandy-wine to the five-course meal at the Yule Ball.
But his first favourite had to be the mincen parcels which Senna and Lyrelie made in their dozens. His fondness for sweet things led him to experiment every year with adding various dried fruits and nuts to the recipe, then soaking the fruit in mead and adding a little honey and nutmeg. The previous year, however, saw a breakthrough when he suggested the addition of frumenty pudding.
Of course, everyone attributed the invention to Senna, but she always gave him full credit. This year, Jarl showed them a trick he’d learnt on his tour with Arnaud, where they dipped each parcel in a mixture of beaten egg before cooking. Although it gave them a lovely colour and shine, it made them difficult to remove from the baking tray to which they clung as though their lives depended on it.
The second attempt nearly brought poor Lyrelie to tears as she laboured in vain to remove the sticky mess.
Lyran clapped his cousin on the back. “Sorry, mate. I’m afraid your abilities as a cook have not been improved by studying with one of the empire’s greatest chefs.”
Jarl frowned. “I cannot understand it. I watched dozens of the things being made while I skinned the animals. They simply dipped the parcels and …”
“I think we should forget about it.” As ever, Senna poured her own brand of oil on the troubled waters. “There will be some other technique to doing it correctly.”
“Do not worry, Uncle Jarl.” Lyrelie tried to make him feel better. “No one is as good as you when it comes to providing meat and fish for the table.”
Jarl’s face softened as it always did whenever Lyrelie spoke. “You are too kind, my dear. I’m sorry for adding to your workload. I will try to remember what they did to prevent them from sticking.”
“Maybe next year.” Senna dried her hands on her apron before removing it. “We should be getting on or we’ll miss the vote for the Wassail King and Queen. We can bake another batch tomorrow in time for the Clove-gifting.”
The four of them donned their cloaks and gloves and stepped out into the chilly day as the bell sounded noon. Not for the first time, Lyran felt blessed to be surrounded by his family.
~*~
Jarl clapped along with the others as Eanje stepped up to receive her crown as Queen of Wassail, thinking how fetching she looked in her pale purple gown. One of the women behind him whispered about how they’d never hear the last of it from “her ladyship.”
Her companion sniggered. “For all her airs and graces, she’s no more than a serving wench at the Waggoners.”
“Aye. I’m surprised she has any of them fine frocks left; I heard she sold them all to pay the rent.”
Jarl wanted to shame the shrews to silence, but more than anything, he needed to keep his head below the parapet.
Unfortunately, the villagers had other ideas as Domenyk, the youngest council member, called for silence. “The contenders for Wassail King are as follows: Tabern.”
The man jumped onto the dais holding up a victory fist to accompanying jeers and cries of “fraud.”
“You did it last year.”
“And the three years before that.”
The tavern-owner bowed low to his detractors. “And very well I must be doing it, to be continually voted in.”
Domenyk frowned. “The other two are Jarl and Tasker.” A huge cheer went up from the quarrymen, with much slapping of backs.
Jarl glanced at Lyran, gesturing to his newly-mended arm. His cousin had taken off the splint that morning, but insisted he continued to wear the sling for a few more days. The last thing he needed was to damage it again lifting the woman in and out of trees. Lyran merely shrugged.
The magister cleared his throat. “Well come on, you laggards. We do not have all day.”
Jarl cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, magister, but I must withdraw from the vote.” He gestured to his arm.
“You haven’t won it yet.” The man’s eyes glittered. “Get up here.”
Sending up a prayer the vote would go against him, Jarl hopped onto the dais, standing next to the other two. The vote consisted of people moving to the left for Jarl, the centre for Tasker and the right for Tabern. Tasker’s crowd was smallest, so they re-did the vote between the two remaining contestants. In addition to most of Tasker’s backers, a few people swapped from the right of the room to the left, giving Jarl a clear majority.
Domenyk raised Jarl’s good arm in victory, and there was no mistaking the sneer in his voice. “If you cannot manage, maybe some strong men will help lift your Queen into the trees to perform her duty.”
Bowing to Eanje, Jarl saw her embarrassment at the implication. “On the contrary, she is so slight, I shall only need one hand.”
She curtsied as he gallantly took her arm and helped her off the dais, maintaining a circumspect demeanour.
Lyran waited with an anxious expression. “I’m sorry, Cousin. I did not mean to subject you to his scorn. You should be fine to lift her. I kept it bound at least two weeks longer than it needed.” He removed the sling, and walked with them to the cart. “I didn’t want you using your bow before your arm had a chance to heal properly.”
“You said it needed at least three moons.”
“I may have exaggerated the severity of the fracture. And underestimated your powers of recuperation, and the efficacy of Senna’s salve.” He shrugged as they reached the cart festooned with pine boughs and coloured ribbons, fluttering merrily in the breeze.
Jarl tightened his lips to prevent the grin giving away the truth of Lyran’s assumption. His cousin knew him far too well. “Very well.”
“Actually, this will exercise it splendidly, but do take care and be guided by your body. If it hurts …”
“Thank you, Cousin. I will know what to do.” He offered his arm to Eanje, encouraged when she barely leaned any weight on it to mount the cart.
A troupe of brightly-clad Morris men led the procession, the bells jingling around their knees to scare away evil spirits. The merry group sang their way to the first apple tree, and Jarl turned away as Eanje removed her frock.
But her modesty was preserved as, underneath, she wore a short kirtle and divided skirt which gave her much more freedom to climb the trees. Over this she donned a sleeveless tabard in the same purple as her frock, so most people would not realise she had changed.
“Impressive.”
She nodded, soaking the first piece of bread in a beaker of wassail, handing it to her attendant as they reached the tree.
Jarl helped her down from the cart as the singing stopped, and had no problem lifting her up to the first bough, which she climbed with the ease of youth.
Placing the bread in the heart of the tree, she recited the short blessing to help nourish it over the winter months.
Jarl cleared his throat, trying to find his heartiest voice as he led the traditional blessing song:
“Apple tree, apple tree, we come to wassail thee,
Bless this tree to bloom and fruit next wheel.
Hat fulls, cap fulls, five-ringed barrel fulls,
Apples a-plenty, Hip, Hip, Hurrah.”
At the final h
urrahs, the assembled crowd clapped and banged drums and pots and pans and generally made a terrible racket to ensure a good crop in the coming season.
The village crier rang his bell to signal the work was done, and the party headed off to the next tree. After the thirteenth tree in the village was completed, each family filled a beaker from the wassail skins, and took a loaf of bread. The King and Queen blessed them, then the crowd dispersed to bless the rest of their trees, with neighbouring families banding together to create goodly crews.
~*~
Senna hurried to the village hall, pulling the hood of her cloak tighter as the wind whipped snowflakes into her face. Beside her, Jarl strode easily, unaffected by the harsh weather as he carried the two heavy baskets filled with food and clothing as though they weighed no more than a posy of flowers. The man took every opportunity to exercise his arm, determined to regain his former strength.
When they reached the hall, she expected him to drop off the baskets and make a hasty retreat. Like several of the Yule activities, the Clove-gifting primarily involved women, and men were few and far between. But he came all the way in, depositing the baskets on the table laid out with food, even unloading the packages for several women to sort them for distribution among the poor and needy.
All the while, his attention seemed distracted as he continually scanned the room. When the food had been emptied, he carried both baskets over to the clothing table where her mother’s team of girls were in charge of sorting and displaying the garments.
Cora reached over the table for a hug, and then took the baskets, exclaiming over the quality of the items.
Catching up with the news since yesterday, Senna did not notice Jarl’s absence.
Her friend winked. “It seems our king and queen have found a lot in common apart from wassail. No, don’t turn around or they will know we are discussing them.”
With great restraint, Senna waited a moment before trying on a cape, twirling slowly as though showing it off. Her gaze swept the room, spotting them deep in conversation over by the door.
“They make a handsome couple.” Cora loved a romance. “I thought so as they were crowned the other day.”
“I think she’s much too young; barely older than Freya.”
Her friend’s brow furrowed. “Hardly. She must be at least in her early-twenties. But she has the dignity and bearing of someone much older.”
“That will be due to being brought up with the gentry.” Senna could not help her sour tone, nor the unworthy thoughts poisoning her mind. Something about the girl brought out the worst in her.
Cora’s eyebrows shot to her forehead. “If I did not know better I would suspect a little envy. Were you hoping Jarl would make a match with Lyrelie?”
This shocked Senna into facing up to the absurdity of her reaction regarding her husband’s cousin. She merely did not want any kin of hers to be taken in by a girl with Eanje’s reputation. Normally, she refused to believe detrimental gossip without evidence, but the girl was reported to have had many inappropriate dalliances in the few moons since she’d arrived in the village. “No, of course not. Lyrelie will marry for love, and I do not believe in marriage between cousins. Or with such a large difference in ages.” She frowned. “There is merely something about this girl I do not trust.”
“Maybe you would do well not to listen to the gossips.”
Senna blinked. When had she become so superficial her friend would think that of her?
19 – Courting Catastrophe
Jarl knew what he was about to do would not endear him to many people in the village, but he would not allow the opinions of virtual strangers to influence his actions. Incurring the wrath of his family, however, was not something he relished. Particularly when they had been good enough to give him a cot and meals for so long. Nothing he could do about it. He got Lyran on his own while Senna was still occupied by her charitable endeavours.
“I hate to impose on your good nature for so long, but I have a favour to ask.”
“Psh. ’Tis no imposition for family. We are here to support each other. And you have eased our burden in many ways. Ask away.”
“I would stay with you a while longer.”
“Done. Stay as long as you need. It makes sense to share our hearth and meals rather than going home to a cold, empty house.”
“That is what I wish to discuss. Shayla’s husband Quinn has some business in the area and she asked if they might stay there for a few weeks.”
“And you have no wish to spend time under the same roof; I quite understand.”
“Not at all. But I have taken on a housekeeper to clear the house and look after it during my long absences.”
“Since when?”
Jarl shrugged. “Since I found out most of her wages were being held back in lieu of rent and she is unable to find suitable accommodation elsewhere.”
Lyran let out a long breath, shaking his head. “If you are talking about who I’m thinking of, you had better be prepared for the backlash. That young lady has upset an awful lot of people.”
“For no other reason than her privileged upbringing. It’s not her fault her father was lost at sea or her only relative could not keep his hands off her.”
“Apart from her astonishing beauty.” Lyran winked. “I never saw it myself under all those powders and creams. Although I will admit she is more appealing now she has lost the glossy artifice.”
“Lyran. She’s only a few years older than Lyrelie.” Jarl’s outrage caused a laugh.
“I did wonder if you realised the way everyone gossiped about the two of you after Waes Hael.”
“People will always gossip; it’s what they do. But she does not deserve to have Tabern taking advantage of her because she has no one to stand up for her.” Jarl shrugged. “And it will suit me not to have the house standing empty while I’m away.”
“You are leaving? What about the quarry? Now your arm is fixed, you could get work there.”
“It’s not easy; there are few openings. If something doesn’t happen at Yule’s end, I will be looking for a new commission. I had an offer of work at the northern borders.”
“Have you not had enough damage to your body? Fighting is a young man’s game.”
“Impudent wretch. Not at the front. This is training some of the locals in military techniques. The nobles want the ability to protect their borders from the raids.”
“I wish you well with that. I know Senna would be greatly relieved to hear you were no longer endangering your life every day.”
When she heard of his scheme, Senna made her feelings plain. “You are inviting all manner of trouble associating with that girl. She is not well liked in the village.”
“And yet she was voted Wassail Queen.”
The dark expression crossing her face suggested Senna had her own theory about that, but she merely pursed her lips. “I’m simply suggesting you be aware of the trouble she attracts, that’s all.”
“So far, she has worked hard to clear out my parent’s personal effects, washing and mending things for the Clove-gifting. I’m impressed by how much she has achieved in a week while still working at the tavern in the eves.”
“I wondered why we never see you till long after the Waggoners closes its doors.”
“I cannot let her walk home alone in the dark.”
“It is only a matter of time before ugly rumours start. You will end up having to wed her.”
“Not at all. Shayla and Quinn will be staying here.”
A spontaneous smile lit her face. “How lovely. I haven’t seen much of her since their handfasting.”
“London is many more days’ ride than Oxford.”
“He is good for her; they looked very happy together.”
“I believe they are. And they are happy to share the house with Eanje.”
Senna’s expression suggested otherwise. “Has Shayla met her? I would be surprised …”
Jarl touched her arm. “Please, Senna.
Give her a chance. It is not like you to take against anyone this way.”
Again, she pursed her lips, her tone stiff. “It is your life; you must live it as you see fit.”
That eve, sitting with his friends at their regular table, he discreetly watched Eanje at work, wondering if there was any basis for Senna’s misgivings. It definitely seemed that she underplayed her obvious assets, covering her lustrous locks with a demure caul. Instead of the figure-hugging kirtle revealing glimpses of exposed flesh to tease the male customers, she covered up with high necklines and loose, long-sleeved garments. No doubt the reason for Tabern’s unreasonably high charge for rent.
Similarly, instead of being over-familiar with customers, encouraging their lewd behaviour, she treated them all with sweet civility, charming smiles and humble obedience. For the most part, the men responded with courtesy. On the rare occasions one of them would attempt to take a liberty, she allowed them one warning before taking measures to protect herself. As Tasker had discovered, to his cost.
“Fancy yer chances with that one, eh?” The man gestured at her with his glass. “I cannot think what made me want to try. She ain’t even that bonny.”
“Tha’s not what you said a coupla moons ago when yer couldna keep yer eyes off her.”
“Nor his hands, neither.”
Amid the laughter, Tasker muttered something dark about how she was worth looking at a couple of moons ago. Jarl wondered if she was playing down her looks just to reduce the amount of “manhandling,” as Brom described it.
But she certainly seemed to have a good head on her shoulders as she maintained a professional distance from him on every public meeting. He imagined how the quarrymen would have reacted if they knew he escorted her to his house every night. Her discretion had demanded he did not wait for her inside the tavern, but that eve, as he joined her, she turned on him.
“You cannot be seen to be lusting after me like a lovesick swain. The gossip will be bad enough when people find out about my housing arrangement.”