Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

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  Nature’s Tribe #2

  Twelve Days of Yule

  Jacky Gray

  Notes for the reader:

  Because this is set in medieval Britain, there are several words you may need to look up in the glossary, e.g. they use moon instead of month, eve instead of evening and occasionally wheel instead of year. Hopefully the rest are self-explanatory.

  Jarl is pronounced like Jar (plus the l)

  Eanje has a silent E, pronounced Angie.

  To Karen – for sharing this magical journey with me

  To Paula – for polishing my stories till they shine

  Contents

  1 – Day 0: Yule Eve Preparations

  2 – Day 0: Mother Night

  3 – Day 1: Solstice - The Yule Log

  4 – Day 1: Yule Ball

  5 – Day 2: Unexpected Patient

  6 – Day 2: Unwelcome Visitor

  7 – Day 2: Hoodening

  8 – Day 2: Mummer’s Play

  9 – Day 3: The Wheel of the Year

  10 – Day 3: The Ceremony of Light

  11 – Day 4: The First Birthing

  12 – Day 4: Waes Hael

  13 – Day 5: Topsy-Turvy

  14 – Day 5: The Second Birthing

  15 – Day 6: Clove-gifting

  16 – Day 6: A Proud Man

  17 – Day 7: The Barding

  18 – Day 8: Freya-Day

  19 – Day 8: Joyful Return

  20 – Day 9: Queen of Winter

  21 – Day 10: Spell-Casting

  22 – Day 11: Broken Promises

  23 – Day 11: Sword Dance

  24 – Day 12: Feast of Fools

  Epilogue: A Fine Romance

  Glossary

  1 – Day 0: Yule Eve Preparations

  “Mama, the other girls will be here shortly. May I please be excused to go with them for the gathering?”

  Senna paused in her vigorous mixing of the aromatic minced-meat mixture, returning an escaped tendril to the snood covering her hair. Regarding her daughter’s eager face, she tried in vain to maintain a stern expression. “Am I to make the mincen parcels on my own?”

  “No, Mama. We only need enough for the first three days. You said yourself it’s unseasonal warm; they will spoil by sixth night.”

  “I’m not making the ones for the Clove-gifting. But you know what your gram …”

  “A dozen mincen parcels at Yule will bring luck the wheel round.” After mimicking her grandmother’s saying, Lyrelie twisted her features into a scowl which marred her normally pleasant countenance. “But you’re not Gram, and you don’t have to follow all her old-fashioned …”

  “Lyrelie!” Senna poured enough admonishment into the single word to give the girl reason to mind her manners.

  “Sorry, Mama.” Her daughter’s gaze dropped for a moment before she made amends. “Here, let me roll the dough for the parcels.” Her father’s smile brightened her face, fairly tearing Senna’s heart apart.

  Taking an edgy breath, the healer tried in vain to follow the advice she handed out with aching regularity. Calming advice to those who sought her elixirs in the hope of curing whatever ailed them. What ailed her was the first Yuletide without the comforting presence of her beloved husband, Lyran. A sigh caught her unawares as it fluttered that disobedient wisp of hair.

  Senna didn’t want to take the spiced wine she normally counselled for grieving widows; forgetting him was the last thing she wanted to do. Unaware she’d closed her eyes, Senna stiffened at the unexpected feel of her daughter’s arms stealing round her waist and Lyrelie’s cheek resting on her back.

  Her daughter squeezed, ever-so-gently. “Don’t be upset, Mama. Remember, Da will always be in your heart.”

  Senna cleared her throat, seeking a light tone. “Why would you speak of your father, today?”

  “Because this was one of his favourite Yuletide tasks.” Lyrelie divided a third of the dough into twelve. “He could eat his dozen in a single day, so he always ensured you made enough for his sweet tooth.” She formed twelve small balls, each one destined to be flattened into a circle by her rolling pin.

  The muscles around Senna’s lips pushed past sadness, heading for wistful. “It was his idea to add some of the frumenty pudding mixture to the meat.”

  “And the honey, don’t forget that.” Another one of those heart-stopping, Lyran-shaped smiles.

  In her mind, Senna envisioned her husband’s face with joy instead of pain. As she spooned the mixture into the dough circles, her cheeks twitched, taking a shot at wry.

  When the knock sounded at the door, Lyrelie’s rapid glance made the auburn curls bob around her shoulders. Her dilemma was clear; she still had a batch of circles to roll out, and would not want to shirk.

  Senna’s expression warmed. “Go on, join your friends. And remember to be careful climbing up for the mistletoe.”

  This time, her daughter’s grin was purely her own. “You say that every time, but I will never leave it to the boys. They break all the berries off.” Rushing to the dresser, she dusted the flour clinging to her hands into a dish. It would be used to thicken the broth; nothing was wasted in this house. She rinsed her hands in the sluice pail.

  Picking up the trug, she yelled out gaily, “I’m coming,” to the waiting gang, whose impatient mutterings could be clearly heard through the open window.

  With a kiss on her mother’s cheek, the whirlwind of love and light disappeared.

  Senna gave thanks to the universe, for gifting her with such a treasure. Every day, she brought her father’s energy into the room and, at sixteen, she was already a skilled healer.

  She paused in her task, her thoughts driven by an unknown source. Irreverent wit tinged the idea that Lyran’s abilities and courage had been the death of him. Fearless in his quest to heal the sick, he’d been first to the quarry after the accident, quickly fixing up the injured and organising their removal to safety.

  Any vestige of humour dissolved as she remembered the quarryman’s account: her husband had been buried in a secondary landslide which killed him instantly.

  Shaking off thoughts which could do nothing but lower her spirits, Senna focused instead on what was left to do before she could allow herself a goblet of spiced wine and a visit with the neighbours.

  Her birthing bag was stocked and waiting in preparation for two ladies close to their time. Lareeta was still several weeks away from the birthing, and currently visiting her parents in a nearby town.

  Yesterday’s examination of Marena revealed all was going well; she was an experienced mother with a supportive husband. Senna had no qualms about leaving her be for a few days; she’d doubtless be called once the birthing had progressed sufficiently for her presence to be required.

  Apart from her patients, she’d promised contributions to many of the shared festivities. Three skins of honey ale hung on the door ready for the Wassailing; her own recipe with her great-grandmother’s secret ingredient harmonising the roasted apples, honey and nutmeg.

  Alfun, the farmer in charge of the Field Blessing, had commissioned her to create thirteen blessing charms: herb-infused faggots, which would add their magic for a good growing season.

  It was not purely a selfless act; her home benefited greatly from the making of these aromatic concoctions.

  Lyrelie had helped to cast the spells, finishing each one with red and green ribbons which secured a quartz crystal, the power stone at the centre of each twig bundle.

  Her daughter: apprentice wise woman. Did that make her a wise girl? Undoubtedly. Senna’s mind drifted past suitable names.

  A loud, persistent thumping at the door brought her attention sharply back to the present. This
normally heralded some kind of medical emergency, and she reacted instantaneously, dropping everything. With cheeks flushed from foreboding, she opened the door, anticipating at least a broken limb or gaping wound.

  The dishevelled man bearing a huge slice of ash tree in his arms had neither of these.

  “Senna. I’m sorry it’s so late, but … what’s amiss?”

  She stumbled back at the force of nature filling the doorway. “I’m well, Jarl. Oh.” Her body had other ideas as normally sturdy legs lost their ability to support her slender frame. A rainbow of colours danced in front of her eyes, and she slumped forward.

  Jarl lost his normal reticence, reacting with warrior speed. Dropping the log, he stepped inside to catch her.

  Before she had time to voice her concerns, he lifted her as though she weighed no more than a child, and laid her on the wooden settle as though she might break.

  He raised her legs higher than her head. “Excuse my familiarity, but I’ve seen Lyran do this for women amidst a fainting.”

  Senna chuckled at the man’s discomfort; her husband’s childhood friend had always been shy with women. She’d watched Jarl resolutely ignore the eyelashes batted in his direction by many hopeful maids, and even their mothers. He had no idea how attractive his lean frame, muscled torso, and gentle nature were to a certain type of woman. But not you? An inner voice mocked as she breathed in the outdoor scent of a man who spent his days stalking prey.

  He sniffed the air. “I always love the smell of your kitchen. It reminds me of Mam.”

  Senna’s mind floundered for a reply which would not cause painful memories to the man who lost his best friend a few moons after losing his mother. She gestured at the blessing faggots nestling in a woven basket. “I’ve been spelling them for a few days; this may be the cause of my momentary frailty. They give off a powerful aroma which besets the senses with a potency they cannot handle.”

  Jarl’s eyes flickered to the basket. “Mam always said you were the most powerful enchantress she’d ever met. Sometimes, I worry you don’t know your own strength.”

  Her head tilting slightly, Senna’s eyes narrowed. He quoted her own words back to her: an accusation she’d made to him many years ago, when the three of them were inseparable. Not much older than Lyrelie was now. A glance at his face confirmed his use of the phrase was not happenstance. A glance she regretted before her eyes had completed the move. A glance revealing the depth of his feelings for her.

  Surely not! The heat radiating from behind his eyes pierced through the protective glamour with which she’d surrounded herself for the past year. It was as though he could reach deep into the core of her being, where the vibrant, fertile goddess who’d lain low for the past twelve moons was surfacing to an awakening.

  She felt, rather than heard, the low growling of the virile maleness he kept well buried beneath several layers of affable pleasantry.

  Their visceral connection exploded to fill the room with a sizzling energy which crackled and sparked between them like lightning on a summer’s day.

  Senna came to her senses first. “I’m sorry. I have detained you, too. You must have many more Yule logs to deliver.”

  Her words stirred him to retrieve the enormous log, rolling it next to the fire. Wiping the dirt from his hand, he gestured toward the sluice pail. “No, yours is the last.”

  Sitting up tentatively, she consented for him to wash his hands.

  Wiping them on the cloth, he made his entreaty. “I was hoping to stay awhile, and maybe sample Lyran’s special mincen parcels.”

  She blinked and sprang to her feet, gritting her teeth against the second wave of dizziness threatening to renew her acquaintance with the wooden floor. Hurrying to the table, she regained the safety of her stool, and picked up the rolling pin to tackle the last few parcels.

  Without a word, he picked up a spoon and plunged it into the bowl containing the minced-meat mix, depositing just the right amount of filling into the centre of each parcel. When he’d finished the batch, he watched her technique of pulling up the sides around each mound of filling, securing the edges with the help of the beaten egg. He attempted his first one, submitting it to her critical eye. His tone was uncertain. “Like this?”

  “A worthy effort. But your fingers are larger than mine, which is why you have fewer pinches. Apart from that, it will pass muster. I cannot help but remember your claim last year to have worked in a French chef’s kitchen.”

  “Aye but Arnaud would never allow me near the pastries.” He waggled his hands. “Fingers too large.” He tackled a second one, receiving a more enthusiastic note of approbation. As they worked in companionable silence, Senna couldn’t help but compare him to Lyran. Her husband’s lightness of heart meant the task would be accompanied by a constant stream of funny stories about his day, and the occasional song. The memory of how he would insist she join in tickled the corners of her mouth, seeking a response.

  “As I was in the woods one day, a troubled creature came my way …” Jarl’s rich tone was almost as unexpected as the fact of his singing. His song told the tale of a fair maid trapped in the body of a braying donkey.

  The chorus invoked a number of “hee-haws,” and she picked it up quickly, joining in with gusto as she took a batch of parcels out of the kiln, sliding them onto a cooling tray.

  A loud rapping at the door halted the merriment, and she dusted her floury hands into the dish, and wiped them on her apron. Crossing the room, she already knew who it was. Only one person used the carved bone handle of his walking cane to deliver two sets of three raps – his calling signature.

  Despite the apprehension churning her stomach, she composed her face into a welcome and opened the door. “Magister Domenyk. How kind of you to call.” Thankful for the light tone, Senna dodged the ivory handle raised at head height by scant inches, as he prepared to deliver a third set.

  The man was obviously used to having people rush to answer his commanding rap. “Mistress Senna.” He released his grip on the cane so it dropped, catching the handle and leaning on it in a move designed to impress or intimidate. “I’ve come to escort to you to the Bonfiring.”

  Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips in a gallant gesture. His gaze compelled her to raise her eyes and witness his blistering desire.

  Which did not move her to any kind of response.

  Senna failed to understand what a man of his standing could see in the unkempt woman who stood before him in her widow’s weeds.

  His gaze strayed to where her once-glossy hair peeked out of the snood, looking as though nobody owned it. Undeterred, he forged on, barging past to enter her house as he justified his visit. “I understand you’ve made the kindling faggots, I’ll carry them for you.”

  He came to a halt, taking in the scene before him: Jarl, clad in Lyrelie’s apron, put the finishing touches to the last parcel, humming to himself.

  Senna nearly walked into the magister as she regarded Jarl’s performance. When did he don the apron and, more importantly, why? It added an air of ...

  permanence?

  … to the image, as though he was a regular helper in her kitchen.

  He spoke as though unaware of the magister’s presence. “That’s the last of them. The second batch should be ready soon. “Oh, Magister. How kind of you to call. May I offer you one of our mincen parcels?”

  Domenyk stiffened, his face resembling a bulldog chewing a wasp.

  Jarl pushed the platter toward the man’s face, apparently unaware of his anger. “You will never taste finer than these. Made to Lyran’s own recipe, bless his soul.”

  Senna’s lips twitched, recognising Jarl’s intent to establish himself as her protector – a role he’d played discreetly for a while. A regular visitor when her husband lived, he’d always treated her like a sister. When Lyran died, he’d become her big brother. But now, he deliberately vaunted this kinship in front of the magister.

  Forced into accepting the sweetmeat by the many custom
s relating to refusal, Domenyk, bared his teeth as he took a bite.

  Jarl took advantage of the man’s inability to speak to stake his prior claim of Senna’s company, addressing her directly. “The magister’s presence has reminded me we need to make haste so you can charge the blessing charms for tonight’s ceremony.” As he spoke, he transferred the last parcel to the baking tray. “We can bake this batch when we return, so they’ll be warm to go with the mead when we light the log and lay out the boughs.”

  Senna noted the magister’s face turning even sourer. His fury was understandable as Jarl embroidered the deception they’d planned the whole eve. What Domenyk didn’t know was that the younger man described the eve exactly as it had run last Yule.

  After the death of his mother, Jarl had sunk to a very low place, and Lyran insisted he accompany them for each part of the tradition so he would not be celebrating alone. It had eased his despair.

  Dropping the formal title, Senna reached out to the angry man with warmth. “I’m sorry for your wasted journey, Domenyk.” She pressed his arm in an effort to mollify him with a semblance of friendliness. “But as you can see, I already have an escort to the Field Blessing.” She refused to use the word Bonfiring, a modern term the revolutionaries used to reduce the magical aspects of the ceremony to insignificance.

  Domenyk could see he’d been bested by a worthy rival. Whirling around with a contemptuous glare at Jarl he flounced out. His cane’s tapping echoed down the street.

  Reaching to close the door, Senna caught the aroma of lemon balm and dill; Lyran’s favourite. At odds with the floral scent with which the magister liberally dowsed himself, it brought with it a strong sense of her husband’s presence. For a moment, she imagined he’d added his energy to the task of removing the unwelcome guest. But that was pure fancy; wasn’t it?

  2 – Day 0: Mother Night

  As she accompanied Jarl to the henge where the festivities would begin, Senna risked a peek at his enigmatic features. Unlike Domenyk’s dark good looks, Jarl’s shaggy blonde hair and weather-beaten skin would not be considered traditionally handsome. But they added to the Viking energy his name invoked. As did the beard he’d acquired since giving up his position as a trainer to the militia.