by Jacky Gray
But this was not the message of the dream. Cal’s connection to animals had revealed itself at an early age, and this was partly responsible for him being who he was. He recognised his peaceful, solemn disposition as being similar to that of a cow, an animal he had a lot of affinity for. The dream showed him how he could distance himself from the potentially damaging effect of the callous remarks by likening his tormenters to sheep and mice. Perceiving them as their animal counterparts took away all their power to affect him.
Cal wondered if it worked in all cases, whether recognising the animal energy of people he loved would help him to understand them better. The first person coming to mind was not his girlfriend, but her mother.
Although wise like an owl, Senna’s true nature was that of a wolf-mother. She clearly had the strong pack instincts of wolves, but her selection as Winter Queen at the Yule celebrations had shown her to be a leader.
Lyrelie was more complex to place – outwardly she had the joyous beauty of a butterfly, but inside, she shared her mother’s owl wisdom. His skin mottled into goose-bumps as he realised the power of this technique. Next up was his father – a true cart horse – and his mother resonated with the same nourishing cow-energy he did.
He had heard Lyrelie and her mother describing people’s different energies from a healing perspective and resolved to attempt this technique on everyone he met. Intuition told him this gift would have uses in the future.
The twinge persisted, interrupting his theorising. He tried Lyrelie’s suggestion of holding onto the aching part, pressing into the flesh as he rotated his arm. It didn’t help as much as when she rubbed in a healing salve, but it eased the pain better than a mere rotation. Cal smiled at the thought that he needed to pay her a visit to pick up another jar of the powerful unguent which was her version of the Black Hilt’s recipe. He longed for the time when he would no longer need an excuse to visit her; even better, a time when seeing her was part of his everyday life.
Maybe he could get to the bottom of what still troubled her now all the peril and secrecy of her mother’s handfasting had passed. He’d tried asking her what ailed her, but she would merely smile, and suggest the fault lay with her increasing efforts and responsibilities as her mother’s assistant. When he attempted to discuss that, she always found some way to distract him. ’Twould be churlish to complain. He relished every stolen kiss with her as their affection deepened.
~*~
Lyrelie smiled at the enthusiasm of Freya’s younger brother and sister as they vied with each other to see who could make the most wicks for the candle-making. Although the lad made them slightly faster, his plaiting of the hemp threads was not as neat as his sister’s and he quickly turned it into a speed contest.
Freya had no patience for either of them, and Lyrelie reasoned it was unfair of her to judge her friend’s behaviour. Although she found their antics endearing, she could easily see how it would pall if she had to endure them for the number of hours her friend did on a daily basis.
Freya flinched at her sister’s squeal. “Please, can you have a care for the other people in the room? They do not benefit from your constant squabbling over every task.”
“But I must be the best. I have made five more than she has.” The lad’s posture suggested he set store in winning.
“You may be faster in the plaiting, but your weave is not as tight as your sister’s.”
The lad’s lower lip wobbled. “You only take her side because she is a girl.”
Lyrelie kept her expression devoid of any emotion. “I am shocked you would think that of me.”
He flinched at her words, obviously well tutored in good manners. “I am s-sorry, Lyrelie. I meant no disrespect.”
“I would never imagine it of you. But it is a lesson well learned. The best is not always the biggest or the fastest.”
“Like the hare and tortoise?”
“Exactly. You are a good student. Your sister’s wicks are better because they will keep the flame burning longer.”
“Will you show me how to improve?”
“Of course.”
When the youngsters eventually tired of the activity, Freya sighed her relief. “I really do not understand how you manage to be so nice to them, they vex me so much. You are a saint.”
“Not at all. You are the saint for not showing how much they irritate you. I think if I had to live with their squabbles every day, I would be seeking asylum.” She frowned. “Either that or be drawn toward violence. I commend your deep reserves of patience and tolerance.”
Freya laughed. “Mother has expressed that sentiment more than once. Apparently, I was never that bad.”
“Only because you had your parents’ undivided attention at their age. Mother always tells me how lucky I was not to have to share her and Da with others.”
“But your parents are so much more important than mine. There is only one healer, but so many farmers and seamstresses …”
“Freya! How can you possibly think that? Alfun has the respect of every farmer in the district because he ministers to the welfare of all the animals in the area. And your mother has made dresses for the royal court.” Lyrelie could not disguise her shock at her friend’s unfounded words. “What has brought on this malcontent?”
Refusing to raise her eyes from the ground, her friend shrugged. “I cannot say.” A sniff. “It merely seems that everyone around me leads such exciting lives, whereas I am destined to do nothing more than wield a needle and thread in a tiny village.”
Lyrelie’s instinct suggested the cause. “It’s Verat, isn’t it? You think he will leave you. What has happened?”
After a moment’s pause, Freya shook her head. “You will probably think me dull, or say I am imagining things.”
“I cannot think of anything less likely for me to think or say. I know you are not dull and, although you have a good imagination …”
“Oh, Lyrelie. I think Verat may be in love with Eanje.”
Lyrelie sucked in a breath, unable to believe her ears. After all her doubts about Cal’s relationship with the woman, here was her best friend expressing the same concern.
“See. I said you would not believe me. It is hopeless. If you could hear the way he …”
“It is anything but hopeless. The wretched woman seems to have every man in the village under her thrall.” As she detailed the incidents with Cal, and her mother’s unease about Eanje’s influence over Jarl, her friend’s eyes widened.
“Really? Jarl too? I thought they were related, because she seems so thick with his cousin, Shayla.”
Letting out a shaky sigh, Lyrelie nodded thoughtfully. “That is encouraging. I wondered why I never heard much gossip about the pair of them. I merely assumed people would not speculate in front of me.”
“But rumour has it she has many gentlemen callers to that house, let alone all the men she flirts with at the Waggoners. I’ve never heard either of my parents speak ill of anyone, but they have both taken a dislike to her.” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “I don’t mean they would spread gossip; I merely overheard …”
“Don’t worry yourself, so. Everyone knows how generous and fair-minded your parents are, and you take after them in every way.”
Freya hugged her. “Bless you, my sweet. I am a little reassured by your comment. However, if you could see the way Cal gazes at you when your attention is elsewhere, you would never doubt his affection for you. I am always reminded of a mother hen’s fierce protection.”
“Whereas Verat looks upon you as he would the tastiest of meals. Sometimes I would swear he wishes to eat you.”
“Lyrelie!” The outrage in her friend’s voice barely disguised her pleasure at the notion.
With a chuckle, Lyrelie turned the conversation to their duties for the Brideog vigil on Imbolc eve. As the oldest of the maids within the village, they were responsible for organising the bride-bed and entertaining the younger girls in the village through the long night. Between them, the
y came up with a design for the headdresses the girls would make, ready to wear during the procession on the day itself.
Freya seemed in a much better state of mind when Lyrelie left, carrying her share of the candles. Normally a brisk five-minute walk, the treacherous compacted ice forced a much slower pace. The current snowfall brought its eerie calm, dampening all sounds, and the streets were deserted, shutters tightly shut against the cold. The short winter days meant the sun never rose much in the sky and the thick black cloud sucked the last bit of light from the greyness. Normally, darkness held no fear for her, but something in the air caused her to imagine unseen assailants in the shadows and flinch at the slightest sound.
She turned the corner onto her street and a cruel wind whipped the snow into a frenzy. The gentle swirling turned into a vicious attack as frozen chips of ice bombarded her face. A stray gust tugged at her cloak, which billowed out so the ties at her throat threatened to choke her. Her efforts to get the heavy material under control required two hands and she dropped her sack, whose contents delighted in spilling over the ground.
Crying frozen tears of frustration, she let go of the cloak, only to have it repeat the billowing and strangling. As the hood covered her face, she became aware of a pair of strong arms surrounding her, helping to tame the wayward cloak.
Cal! Where did he spring from? Her instinctive reaction to snuggle into his arms shattered as her senses scrambled together the information. Although about the same height as her sweetheart, he didn’t have Cal’s unique smell. The voice confirmed it as he suggested she hang onto her cloak while he retrieved her things.
In the dim light, she could tell his hair was very dark, possibly black, whereas Cal’s was a light brown. Strangely, no part of her experienced fear at this potential attacker. Doubtless this had a lot to do with the proximity of her mother and Jarl – the house was close enough that they would hear should she need to shout. Even more curious, he seemed to know where she lived as he escorted her to the right door.
With a deep bow, he handed her the sack and she caught a flash of brown eyes before he turned to leave.
“Wait. I don’t know your name.”
“Your humble servant, milady.” A swift incline of his head and he disappeared as the door behind opened.
As her mother fussed over her, Lyrelie shivered. Something about the stranger’s dark energy compelled her to keep silent about the brief encounter.
~*~
Jarl truly felt his cup runneth over. After so many years imagining a life with Senna, the reality outshone his dreams by far. Sitting in her rocking chair, with his wife dozing in his lap and a fire blazing in front of them, he could imagine no more contentment. Since the feast of fools, he’d not heard another word from Lyran, but he supposed his cousin’s ghost no longer felt the need to intervene in their lives. He’d achieved his objective at the handfasting; Senna was no longer in danger from the ruthless magister. Neither of them had seen hide nor hair of Domenyk in the past few days. Ranly mentioned something about him being called to York on church business. The journey would take around six days in the summer, even more in wintry conditions, so they should be free of him a while longer.
As far as he knew, Senna had not heard from her dead husband – at least she had not mentioned anything if she had. But she had rarely discussed her conversations with Lyran, so he could …
His musings were interrupted as the door burst open to admit Lyrelie, looking as though she’d been doing battle with the elements. He sensed his stepdaughter’s distress and tried to alleviate it with humour. “If you must go out in a blizzard, do try not to bring half of it into the house with you.”
She had not latched the door properly, and a gust blew it open again, attempting to leach the room’s warmth as flurries of snow forced their way in to perform their crazy dance before settling on the floor seeking to wash it as they melted into puddles.
Tutting, Senna chided him. “Hold your sharp tongue; can you not see she’s trembling in fear? Have a mote of sympathy for the poor thing …”
“It’s not fear, mama, merely cold. The storm came all at once or I would have stayed at Cora’s till it passed.”
Even as she protested, Jarl wondered at Senna’s choice of words which echoed his concern. But the girl obviously did not want to dwell on her experience as she shrugged off the heavy cloak, accepting Senna’s blanket as she crossed the room, seeking the fire’s glow. Maybe she would be prepared to discuss it when whatever had frightened her had loosened its grip.
He changed the subject. “I’ve a mind to bury the hatchet with Brom; he’s been on my mind recently. I had intended to take an ale at the Waggoners, but you’ve convinced me to leave it till the weather improves. Another day will make no difference.”
Senna clapped her hand to her mouth. “What a curious providence; I saw him earlier today, and he had a message for you. Oh, Jarl. I’m so sorry; I forgot to mention it.”
“They called you to the quarry? You do surprise me. I thought they claimed it was too dangerous for a woman.”
“That’s right. The foreman tried to say it was out of respect after Lyran’s death, but I think they did not want anyone connected to him ‘poking around’ there.”
“I definitely got the impression I was not welcome there just before the accident, and afterward …” He could not describe the horror of arriving at the scene just as they pulled his cousin’s body out of the cave, his skull shattered from a rock. The foreman had been wandering around in a daze, suffering from concussion, apparently unable to say what had happened. One of the team of rescuers assured Jarl that Lyran would have been killed instantly by the crushing blow and wouldn’t have known anything about it.
He was dimly aware of Senna sending Lyrelie upstairs to change. Then she squeezed his arm, bringing him back from the dark place with an urgency in her tone.
“Brom came to the house seeking a salve for his black eye. He asked me to impress upon you not to try and meet him at the Waggoners, it is too dangerous.”
Jarl scoffed. “Really? For whom, him or me?”
She tutted, frowning at him. “Both, I imagine, from his expression. I think you should hear him out; he has some important information but cannot risk being seen with you. He said he would wait at your hut after Vespers tonight.”
Jarl sprang up, ready for action, but Senna calmed him down, saying there was at least another hour, plenty of time for supper. He knew better than to discuss the dark matters in front of Lyrelie, it made no sense for her to be party to anything which might endanger her.
By the time the Vespers bell rang, the snowstorm had stopped and he set out with just enough glow from his lantern to find his way to his parent’s house. With no sign of footsteps on the path to the hut at the bottom of the garden, he wondered if Brom had changed his mind. But the quarryman had been clever enough not to leave a trail, and he popped out of the hedge as Jarl opened the door.
Glancing around, Jarl assured himself they were unobserved. He led the man to the back room where the glow from the lantern would not leak out through gaps in the shutters. The light was not sufficient for him to properly examine the injuries to the man’s face, but he recognised the stiffness brought on by pain, surmising the man had taken a thrashing. He had no trouble detecting the difference in the man’s demeanour.
“Jarl, man. Thank you for meeting with me. You had no reason to after the way I treated you last year …”
“Only a fool would be blind to the coercion. I knew you were only acting on instruction from the quarry bosses.”
“Thank you. That means a lot to me. I hated doing it because you are one of the few men who has earnt my respect.”
“Do not take on so. ’Twas to be expected; from what I saw at the quarry, any other behaviour would have put you in danger of losing your livelihood.”
Brom shook his head. “You have no idea of the extent these men will go to. Trust me when I say I had your best interests at heart. Look what ha
ppened to Lyran.” He clutched his arm. “And I will admit to thinking of my own neck. Who would feed my children if I ended up at the bottom of a rockslide?”
Jarl narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying? That my cousin’s death was no accident? But the sheriff assured Senna personally.”
He shrugged. “I suppose no one is immune to bribery if the price is right.”
“Even the county sheriff? Surely not. I saw the report from the investigation, the evidence seemed conclusive.”
“You must believe what you will. I’m only telling it as I see it.” Although his face was cloaked in shadows, the man’s tone and bearing suggested he told the truth.
Something did not feel right. After the way Lyran had watched over him and Senna, protecting them from Domenyk’s machinations, Jarl could not believe he would have missed out essential information like the manner of his death. He needed to connect to his cousin somehow.
Brom hissed out a sigh. “I shouldn’t have come. As I told your good lady, it is too dangerous for us to meet in public. If we do, I shall have to behave as though you are an enemy.”
“So why do it? And why now, a year after the event?”
“’Twas the anniversary. It is as though the man has been in my head for a week or two now, harrying at me to do something before more men fall victim to the appalling conditions.”
Jarl did not trust himself to speak. It appeared his cousin’s absence had nothing to do with a period of grace for him and Senna to enjoy their wedlock. This seemed a more likely explanation. He listened as Brom described how circumstances had worsened at the quarry since Lyran’s death.
Those in charge continued to find ways to squeeze every last minute of effort from the men, working them harder during the short winter months. They now used a healer from Marlborough, and as far as Brom could tell, the accident logs had been scrapped.
“No man is prepared to speak out against the treatment, one complainer lost his job, and when another attempted to reason with the foreman, his wife was threatened.”