by Jacky Gray
At his behest, she narrated a commentary of the creation of the poultice to replace the one she’d just cleaned away. She explained how the mix of herbs changed subtly depending on the state of the repairing flesh, as each herb had different properties.
“Just like the crystals. They all have different powers. Which reminds me, you would benefit from an elixir, but my crystal dish is by your bedside. I’ll run up and get it.”
~*~
Jarl watched her retreating rear with a lazy smile. She’d no sooner reached the top of the stairs when the front door burst open. Thinking it might be Lyrelie, Jarl reached for his chemise which Senna had removed to change the poultice. His lustful thoughts at the pleasure she’d given in such an innocent act were halted by a loud clattering.
“What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?” Domenyk’s oath exploded out as he scrabbled on the floor for his dropped cane.
Jarl knew his eyes glowed with his recent lascivious imaginings and the very devil got into him as he balled up the chemise and used it to wipe the moisture from his neck. “Reason it out, Magister. What does it look like?”
The man’s face could not have been darker if his head were a beetroot. He raised his cane as though to strike, while his anger propelled out a string of unintelligible grunts interspersed with recognisable words. “YOU – SHE – HOW? – HARLOT!” He smashed the cane down on the table, missing Jarl’s good arm by a whisker.
This made Jarl want to laugh out loud, but he contented himself with a raised eyebrow. “I have no idea who you’re talking about, but if you wanted Senna, she’s upstairs. We had a rather … hot night.”
Senna chose that moment to call out. “I thought you might benefit from a clean chemise, so I’ve found one of Lyran’s. Her footsteps could be heard on the stairs.
As she walked into the room, the door slammed, and she gestured at it. “Who was that?”
Jarl shook his head with an innocent shrug which must have reeked suspicion. “It made me jump. Perchance the wind caught it?”
“I couldn’t have latched it when I collected the eggs.”
“I could have a look at it for you.”
“Not at all. You need to conserve all your energy for mending. Here, this should fit.”
As she held out Lyran’s chemise, Jarl heard his friend’s voice. “Go on, she likes a cuddle in the morn.”
It felt for all the world like permission, and Jarl needed no further prompting as he grabbed her waist and pulled her into his lap. “So, I’m to have his shirt, his bed and his woman. I must deserve his cuddles as well.”
She swatted at him. “Be off with you.”
He pretended disappointment. “Ohh. But I like a cuddle in the morn.”
“Lyran! I know you are there.” Her voice melded exasperation and humour. “Can you not give us some privacy?”
Echoes of Lyran’s disembodied chuckle made them both join in as Jarl finally claimed the kiss he’d waited his whole life for. The one where she responded as though she did indeed love him.
~*~
Just for a moment, as she sat in his arms, Senna allowed herself to dream about the way her life had turned out. She’d been lucky enough to find two men to love, and now it looked as though she would get to spend her life in happiness with the second of them.
How blessed was she?
While the new poultice steeped, they spent a pleasant hour at the table while he drank his way through three beakers of crystal elixir. As she sorted the rosemary and thyme into bundles for air-drying and the platters to dry more quickly in the kiln, he asked interminable questions. His interest in the techniques for making the various infusions and oils which would form the basis for many of her remedies went beyond normal curiosity, and she dared to dream that he might take a share in the time-consuming activities which devoured hours of her day.
Finally, the poultice was ready, but he was in a playful mood as she attempted to apply it. As she cuffed his straying hands away for the third time, she became quite stern, but she hoped he knew it was only out of necessity. In her mind, the sooner he healed, the sooner they could get up to the kind of mischief he wanted. Cocking her head to one side, she mused about the possibility of the Archdruid’s availability. If he could do it today – no, tomorrow – what gown would she wear?
“I don’t know where your thoughts are straying, but I would go with you. Do you care to share that last one with me? Or the one before – in fact, definitely that one. It looked decidedly lusty.”
Her laughter rang out, for a moment disguising the discreet tap at the door. Jarl’s sharp hearing picked it up and he drew her attention.
“Come in. You’ll have to lift the latch; my hands are sticky with poultice.” As she called out, she felt him tense – who could he be expecting?
Lyran’s father strode in, his face thunderous as he bolted the door, swirled off his cape and hung it on the peg. He strode to the fireplace and stood hunched over as though trying to summon up the most vitriolic insult.
23 – Day 11: Sword Dance
They exchanged glances, struck dumb by his obvious anger. As he rubbed his hands together and held them over the fire, Jarl started to rise, but she held him down, trying to keep her voice calm. “Good morn, Magister Ranly, how lovely to see you.”
At her words, he turned, his expression bringing the warmth of the sun into the room. “Thank you, my dear. It’s lovely to see you too. I shan’t embrace until you’ve cleaned up. Good morn, Jarl. Glad to see you on the mend.”
Fully aware of the effect he had on them both, he glanced in the direction of the empty kettle-pot, and then met their incredulous expressions with a wagging finger. “I suppose if no one is going to offer me a brew, I must make one myself. Unless you have some of Lyran’s fine brandy-wine …”
Lyran. This smacked of his doing. Senna pointed to the dresser. “Please bring three goblets. I feel we shall need some fortification before hearing your news.”
Scooping the last of the poultice, she spread a final layer on Jarl’s shoulder, adding a burst of earth energy as she packed it in. She felt him flinch and realised her hands were burning with the strength of her heightened anxiety. Plunging her hands into the sluice pail, she scraped off the last of the mixture, and swilled her hands clean. By the time she returned to the table, wiping her hands, Ranly had poured three generous measures.
He raised his goblet for the toast. “To Lyran. May he rest in peace.”
They clashed goblets, repeating the toast, and sipped.
Senna could tell he wanted them to question his unusual behaviour, but she held her tongue, wondering what further mischief that errant husband of hers had cooked up.
Ranly could hold his peace no longer. “You may be wondering why I was a tad annoyed when I first got here.”
Jarl spluttered his mouthful of liquor, but said nothing.
Senna decided to have some fun of her own. “Annoyed? Can’t say I noticed. It seemed a natural entrance to me.”
Jarl choked back a chuckle as the older man’s eyebrows sought a familiar position, meeting above his nose.
Ranly harrumphed, glancing at Jarl. “Well, I had just overheard that dullard, Domenyk, talking to his steward about the arrangements for tomorrow. He plans to crown you King of Fools.”
“That comes as no surprise. But why should that incur your anger?”
“Because immediately afterward, he plans to reveal you spent the night in Senna’s bed and denounce her as a harlot.”
“He said this to his steward?”
“No. He has more sense than that. But, like your good selves, my son has been whispering in my ear about a number of things. Apparently he is able to get inside the heads of people and read the thoughts. And talk to them.” He grinned. “I’ve had more conversations with him in the past week than … I can see by your faces you believe me.”
He took Senna’s hand in his. “My dear daughter. I cannot apologise enough for treating you so harsh
ly. There is no excuse, but I hope you will forgive a crusty old man for his grief.”
She hugged him. “Of course I do. Papa.”
He knocked away a tear and shook Jarl’s hand. “You, my boy, were the best friend my son ever had and, like him, I would like to give my blessing for this union. With one condition.”
Jarl tensed. “Which is?”
“That you allow me to give away the bride.”
Amid the tears and laughter, Ranly hugged them both, but he quickly stood to excuse himself. “I have some business to attend to, but the Archdruid is expecting you at sunrise on the morrow. Lyran tells me you can still fit into that white gown, but Lyrelie and Cora have some surprises waiting for you.”
He beamed at their shocked faces. “And as for tonight, we have a cunning plan to ensure your safety. Expect me back here shortly before sunset, and make sure you have that crown ready.”
The afternoon passed in a whirl of activity and preparations as Senna grasped the full extent of her dead husband’s reach. Several pieces of the puzzle came together as she finally understood the reason behind Lyrelie’s absence for the past two nights. Many of the strange thoughts in her head about Jarl, Domenyk, and almost every aspect of the enchanted Yuletide period started to fit together. All the serendipitous coincidences began to make sense. Since his death, Lyran had been looking out for her in ways she could not imagine.
Ranly had been busy. A closed carriage brought Dennon and Aleksi to her house along with a couple of the Black Hilt sword dancing team, who proceeded to cover up their faces with a black paint which disguised them effectively. The distinctive uniforms included bright-red ribbons around their knees, into which were sewn tiny bells which clinked and jingled as they walked. Aleksi took every opportunity to stamp his feet, chuckling at the resulting din.
Senna helped Jarl to don the chequered tabard in blue and yellow, concerned about disturbing his bandage. He fidgeted as she tied the short cape, objecting to the brightly coloured strips of material, disliking the restriction.
The older man produced a couple of brown-haired periwigs to disguise Jarl’s distinctive blond hair and Aleksi’s shaved pate. Dennon’s beard did a good job of altering his appearance. The whole outfit was topped with a stiff-brimmed hat with a yellow band into which a shock of feathers had been sewn.
The man gave them a short lesson on how to hold the instruments they were supposed to be playing, then all five got in the carriage to ride to the hall.
Ranly escorted Senna to the hall shortly before sunset; as Winter Queen, she had a place of honour at the top table. But he insisted on sitting beside her and, as at the Barding, he remained minutely attentive, preventing Domenyk from making sly digs or casting aspersions at her. She was gracious, behaving as though she had no notion of his abhorrence.
As the light meal of a game stew and apple muse made with honey and almonds was served, she scanned the room, trying to spot the three protectors among the band, who played a string of lively tunes.
When the dancing began, she became lost in the antics of the captivating squire who called the dances and narrated a commentary of the moves. His entertainment abilities rivalled that of the Bard as he goaded and insulted his crew, the audience and anyone who took his fancy. Wandering round the hall, he made a jest of being horrid to everyone except Senna, who he called, “My fair lady queen,” and made obeisance to her every time he passed the table.
The group divided into two teams, the larger of whom danced mostly with short batons of wood which they clashed with each other in perfect synchronisation with the music. It was fast and energetic, with four, six or eight men in each dance, so there were always several men standing out to catch their breath.
The other team had eight wiry, younger men, and their sets usually had five men, who linked to each other in a continuous chain with flexible swords. She marvelled at their complex, breathtakingly fast routines which featured athletic jumps and summersaults around the swords.
She took her eyes off them for an instant as she searched for Jarl, and a large round of applause had her turning back to see one of the dancers holding aloft a five-pointed star made from the interlinked swords. He crashed it down atop their heads and they all grabbed the ends of two swords, unravelling the star with breathtaking speed. She kept a watch, and they repeated it several more times in each dance.
At the halfway point, the squire called upon her to assist, and she glanced at Ranly, who nodded reassurance. Bowing gallantly, the huge man led her to the centre of the hall, declaring loudly that this wouldn’t hurt a bit as long as she stood very still. As everyone chuckled, he said in a low voice, “Be brave, my lady.”
Senna’s courage was pushed to the limit as the eight sword dancers surrounded her, twirling long, solid-looking swords around their heads as they circled, weaving in and out with perfect precision. It was all very well for the squire to joke about standing still, but she could feel herself wavering. Her body struggled with the effort of remaining immobile for such a long time after the stresses of the past few days.
Closing her eyes, she tried to tap into that still, small place her courage hid when she was under fire. A great roar went up from all the dancers, and she opened her eyes to see them charging at her from all sides, the tips of their swords pointed directly at her.
24 – Day 12: Feast of Fools
Jarl heard the screams and shouts around him and closed his eyes, unable to handle the enormity of it all. He immediately regretted it as he was transported back by twenty-something hours to the horror of watching eight swords approaching the body of his beloved Senna. He’d gone as far as dropping his bodhrán, preparing to leap through the row of musicians in front of him to get to her.
But the skill and precision of the men wielding the swords meant not a single blade touched her as they all turned at the last instant. The swords formed another one of their cleverly overlapping designs which the leader raised above her head. The squire led her off, urging everyone to “Make a lot of noise for the bravest woman in the village – truly the Queen of Winter.” As the hall erupted with people stamping and whistling her name, he saw the method in the madness. If Domenyk had any thoughts about denouncing her, this outpouring of love and affection meant it could not happen on that night.
Returning to the present, Jarl knew they would have to play their hand carefully. He knew what he had to do, but it all depended on the mood of the people and, so far, Domenyk’s plan to turn them into an angry mob seemed as though it might work.
They hadn’t bargained on how low the man would stoop in his quest for vengeance. It had been cleverly done as the man delayed the start of the feast for an hour, apologising for the delay and putting the blame on the bakers who hadn’t managed to provide the bread due to a mysterious set of disasters ranging from spoiled meat, a problem at the mill, and a fire in the kitchen. While several people rallied round, trying to put it right, he plied the hungry folk with strong liquor and charged Jarl, as the Lord of Misrule to keep them entertained.
Putting him on the spot, Domenyk had demanded to know the five rules by which Jarl would govern for the next twelve days.
Faltering, Jarl started badly. “Firstly, every person must do something every day to make at least one person smile.”
“Let’s start with you – what are you going to do to brighten our day?” He didn’t recognise the man setting the challenge, but rose to it.
“I’m going to insist that anyone who heckles takes a turn in the stocks.” It raised a small titter, but the man was ready for it.
“A fine sort of king who can’t take criticism.”
Jarl knew better than to take on a man like that; sooner or later he would end up being bested. “Secondly, everyone must hug their neighbour when they meet.”
“Sounds like we are to have an extra twelve Freya-Days. Can’t you think of something original?”
Jarl was sinking fast and looked to Senna for inspiration, but she merely shrugged. Lyra
n whispered in his ear and he grinned. “Anyone who speaks to me will have to sing their words.”
The man opened his mouth, and promptly shut it again.
Jarl grinned, getting into his stride. “For the next twelve days, no one is allowed to walk – you must dance everywhere you go.”
“Now, before I give the fifth rule, I would have the Wordy King and Queen show us how it’s done. Remember – every word a song, every step a dance.”
Thankfully, he had the measure of the pair and they played their part well. Nikkei, in particular, was completely adept at swapping between singing – to the king – and speaking to the rest of the room. But he kept forgetting to dance. Suzelle, however, proved to be an elegant dancer, but she kept forgetting to sing,
Between the two of them, they kept the room entertained while he sought the necessary signal from Ranly to say everything was in place. As the audience’s response to the entertainment waned, he finally spotted the man, entering discreetly with Aleksi, while Dennon appeared behind the top table.
Domenyk started a slow handclap, and turned to Jarl, making a paltry attempt to sing the words. “Can you move it on, your Grace, as you have to choose your queen?” His eyes glittered as he stared at Senna.
Jarl stood from his throne and gave his decree. “For the rest of this feast, no one shall speak unless they tell the truth.”
A gasp whooshed round the audience, and even Domenyk’s stooge was silenced.
No one expected Magister Ranly to be quite as light on his feet as he twirled across the room, landing in a bow in front of Jarl. And even those who knew him did not expect the rich baritone as he sang, “I would like to tell my truth.”
Jarl gestured for him to continue, sitting back down.
With another bow, he turned to face the room so he would no longer have to sing. “As many of you know, my son, Lyran, died a year ago because of a tragic accident at the quarry. What you don’t know is that the secondary collapse was no accident, but caused by someone who deliberately intended to kill him.”