by Jacky Gray
“Will it spoil if you leave it too long after preparation?” Lyrelie had a small suspicion that her mother was not telling them everything.
“I hope not. It contains many of the spices Lyran says help to preserve it.”
The others happily accepted everything Senna said without question, trusting her judgement and expertise. Not that Lyrelie distrusted either of these, but something about her mother’s energies did not ring true.
“Soon, daughter mine. We will explain when everyone has left.”
The lack of reaction from the others suggested they had not heard him, so she did not speak aloud, merely reassuring him she would happily wait until later. Her shoulders tingled with warmth, as though he had hugged her, and Senna looked up sharply, with a frown.
Lyrelie filled her smile with loving reassurance before sending it in her mother’s direction. She received an equal boost of energy in return, all of which went straight into the leaves she was chopping.
They prepared enough to fill Senna’s cauldron and, as it simmered, they all shared a goblet of spiced wine and the turnip, parsley and onion bread she’d made.
“This is delicious.” Cora’s smile said it was exactly as she expected.
“I call it my defence magic mix. I have another one for poison, which includes dandelion, parsley and valerian.”
“What a good idea.” Marena sipped her wine. “If you have a pot with the herbs already mixed, they can be added to any dish.”
“But in moderation, only a small quantity every day; it is quite possible to have too much of some of the stronger ones, like fennel.”
Marena paused, the loaf halfway to her lips. “You said I should avoid it when I’m nursing.”
“True, but I have only used the smallest of quantities. You will be fine.”
“Thank goodness. I was enjoying this far too much to leave it.”
“But it’s good that you reminded me. I advise you and Paulina to make a separate mix without the fennel for later on in your pregnancies; it can have some strange effects.”
Lyrelie spoke up. “We should make sure people know about that. Maybe we can make up some of these magic mixes for people to buy, then we can be sure they are getting the right quantities of everything.”
“That would take a lot of time. However, we could run a session at the meeting house every Friday where women can get together and share the effort between them.”
“Just like we have done now. What a great idea. We can suggest it at the sharing meal.”
As Cora spoke, the door opened and the menfolk returned from their meeting, not waiting to be asked as they tucked into the bread, giving their seal of approval.
Lyrelie and Cal stopped for their supper, and the menfolk outlined the schemes which had been put in place to protect the village.
Afterward, Lyran joined them, remaining invisible because it used less energy. They listened wide-eyed as he explained the importance of the potion’s secret ingredient.
~*~
Jarl straightened from the map they’d been poring over for way too long, stiff from so many hours in meetings organising things. Stretching, he could tell Dennon had the same frustration. They were men of action, used to getting things done, not pontificating over plans and details.
The tithing deputies had been sent to the neighbouring towns and larger villages within a thirteen mile radius, hoping to establish a contact who would be willing to work with them to create an early warning system. He sorely wished he’d been one of them, but Ranly insisted they had need of his military expertise.
Cal led a discussion with the chiefs who all had their own ideas about staffing the various projects. Ranly listened patiently to each proposed system so every man had the opportunity to be involved with all of them. Brom favoured a three-week turn-round, but Cal objected.
“That would not be fair to anyone who starts off digging ditches. It is the least favourable job, and the bulk of the work will be done in the first three weeks.”
“You’re not wrong about that; a one-week turn around seems much fairer.” Ranly looked at Brom.
“Aye, but the ditches will take longer than three weeks, especially if you dig them to the depth Jarl suggests. But I see your point. It is hard work, and most men will not be accustomed to it, so a week is likely enough.”
Cal nodded. “It makes no sense to exhaust people, making them more susceptible to the disease.”
“It’s a solid solution to begin with.” Brom grinned. “And when everyone has decent access, we could think about a common trench connecting them all …”
Leaving them to it, Jarl stretched his legs and, on his way back, he heard raised voices in a small ante room. Alfun and Farmon had joined forces to oversee the division of labour among the itinerant workers so every farmer had adequate support. They had different ideas about the number of men required to do each task, which caused the dispute. Approaching the table, Jarl admired their novel way of using wooden tokens to represent each worker, placing them on a map according to the size of each farm.
Studying the distribution of the pieces, a solution came to him. “Have you considered that some of the smaller farms could join forces to share the labour? They could alternate between fields on each farmstead.”
“That would work.” Alfun shuffled three tokens.
“You are right.” Farmon moved another couple, holding a spare token in his hand. “It may even free off some men to be deployed elsewhere.”
Jarl returned to the main meeting as they reached the next point on the agenda: how to deal with burying the dead. Ranly had given this some thought, speaking at length about the dangers of touching the bodies.
One of the chiefs suggested they could use armour, leading to suggestions about where they would find some. Amid the hilarity, Cal showed his astute thinking. “Will the bodies be burnt or buried? And in either case, where?”
As the discussion raged again, Jarl congratulated himself on insisting the lad should be brought in as a deputy. Few men had the breadth of experience, or capacity for learning he had; most of them could barely read, let alone write. Knowing how little time he had left, he was sure Cal’s involvement at this stage would make it easier for him to achieve the destiny Gaia had chosen for him.
~*~
Senna paused, a dress in each hand, thinking of the futility of her actions. It mattered not a jot which one she took. Better to take the oldest one she possessed, Lyrelie might find good use from the ones she left behind. She should not be wasting time vacillating about clothes, but spending every precious moment with her daughter. Throwing a threadbare shawl in the bag, she secured it closed and hurried downstairs.
“That was quick. Usually you cannot decide without considering the entire contents of your clothing chest.”
“I did not want to leave you with all the work of making the meal – you are a guest.” She took the opportunity to hug her daughter.
“This is my home; I could never be a guest.” Lyrelie pulled away to continue her task. “And anyway, you have already done most of the work. Why are you smiling?”
“Sorry. I forget you are a married woman, mistress of your own hearth.”
“I forget, too. It seems as though we have eaten more meals here than in the cottage for the past three weeks.”
“That is my fault. I could not have done without your help getting everything in place and organising these weekly meetings. It could not have come at a worse time of year with all of the fruits of the harvest to process.”
“Except that it has had a remarkable effect on the village – people working together in harmony to help each other. And any chore seems easier when you do it in jolly company.”
Senna smiled. When had her daughter become so wise? This oft-repeated thought sustained her through many a moment when she was tempted to sink into a melancholy and weep for hours on end. She was sad that she didn’t have the courage to tell her daughter what was about to happen, but Lyran forbade it, pro
mising to ease her through it with the help of Cal and Ranly.
All the way through their – final – Sunday lunch together, she struggled to focus on the many topics of conversation which kept the others entertained. If Lyrelie or Freya noticed her distraction, they did not comment, but she knew Cora did.
“Ahem. I said, do you think Shayla will be showing yet?” Alfun nudged his wife, who patted Senna’s arm.
“Sorry, I was miles away.”
“No doubt already in Devizes, planning which market stalls to visit with Shayla and Eanje. I pity the poor trader who has to put up with that trio of terrors.” Jarl winked.
“Oh, I forgot Eanje would be there. You will tell her we are all missing her, won’t you?”
Senna nodded, wondering when Freya had ever spoken to the woman. With a shrug, she realised she didn’t know everything that went on in the small village. This made her inordinately sad, and she took a piece of bread, spreading freshly-churned butter while she sent her tell-tale tears back whence they came.
Sitting in Jarl’s cart, wrapped in an old travelling cloak, she snuggled up to her husband’s body, hoping to steal some strength. Those wretched tears again asked permission to fall and she saw them off with a sniff.
Jarl held her close. “I cannot believe how we made it through without choking or breaking apart. That had to be the hardest meal of my life.”
“Lyrelie’s not that bad a cook.”
“I didn’t mean … humph. Sometimes, you can be positively wicked, wife-of-mine.”
“Only sometimes?” She grinned, but even that made her eyes glitter.
He grinned back, positively twinkling, and then sobered. “You did remember the potion, didn’t you? I would hate to get all the way there to find you’ve forgotten to bring the one thing …”
“Oh, no. I forgot it. Stop the cart.”
“Are you sure? I saw you pour it into the bottle, but when I looked again, it had gone.”
“No, I cannot remember. You must go back. I’m sure I did not put it in the cart.”
“Well, it’s a good job I did, then.”
“What? And you call me wicked.”
“Sorry, my love. I just wanted to see you smile properly.”
That did it. The act of smiling undid all the barriers she’d raised and the pesky tears overflowed, cascading down her cheeks. As he hugged her to him, she was reminded of a few days earlier when Lyran informed them it was time to take action.
Jarl protested he had several things to accomplish first, but his cousin convinced him of the urgency.
“We have run out of time, and if it doesn’t happen by Sunday, there will be grave consequences.” Lyran had the grace to chuckle after realising his careless word choice, but their laughter was tinged with sadness.
The journey went well, and they reached Devizes in good time. Shayla and Quinn received them with delighted hugs, saying Eanje had gone out to meet a client, but should be back soon.
Retrieving the tonic, Senna frowned. “On a Sunday?”
“I don’t think he’s what you would call a Christian man.” Shayla’s casual comment alerted Jarl.
He paused in his act of unloading the bags, his tone sharp. “Have you met this client?”
“Of course. He and his wife are childless, and they have taken a shine to Eanje. I think they regard her as the daughter they never had.”
Senna released concerns Jarl obviously shared as his tone lightened. “What time are you expecting her?”
“They usually escort her back.” Shayla frowned. “Is something wrong?”
Senna took her arm as they went in. “We are merely over-cautious because of all these horrors about the pestilence.”
When Quinn returned from stabling Jarl’s horse, he nibbled one of the oatencakes she offered, appraising his visitors thoughtfully. “You two are up to something. I sensed it at the handfasting. No matter what you say, man, you will never persuade me to uproot from here to live in your house.” He gestured proudly at the impressive room. “This one is much more comfortable, as you can see.”
“What about my house? Will that suit you?” Senna could not waste any time pandering to their finer feelings.
Shayla gasped. “What are you saying?”
“Merely that Jarl and I will not be returning there for a while. We have been summoned to share our knowledge of healing and protection.”
“You mean the King? I never realised you had met.” Quinn’s eyes widened as his wife stood.
“I cannot imagine who else would have the power to make them leave home. This calls for a celebration. Fetch that good wine you were saving till the birth.”
“No need. We have brought something much more suitable.” Senna wished for some of Eanje’s Mummering skills as she tugged at the stopper. Her hands trembled so much she could not manage it, and Jarl’s strong hands relieved her of the bottle.
“Bring a goblet for Eanje; she will need some, too.” As he divided the liquid between the five goblets, Jarl had a wee task. Senna diverted their attention, warning that the wine contained a special potion formulated by Lyran to fend off diseases.
Quinn led the toast. “To Senna and Jarl on their new adventure.” He sipped, wrinkling his face. “My. I wasn’t expecting that. It’s strong, like a mulled wine. Should I have warmed it?”
Senna’s head cocked as she considered it. “Maybe the next one. Lyran suggests we should have a beaker every week to build up our body’s defences against this pestilence.”
“Of course, if you moved to Avebury, you, and that little one, would have the added protection of the henge.”
“Oh, cuz. You know how to reach our weakness.” Shayla patted Jarl’s arm. “Last night we discussed the very same thing. Our main concern was how Eanje may get treated after the awful episode with that monster.”
“That should not be a problem.” Even as he spoke, Jarl’s face suggested he gave too much away.
Senna stepped in before Shayla could voice her question. “Not with your exceptional skills in disguise. Why, Magister Ranly walked straight past her.”
“And of course, you will have direct access to the second best midwife in the land. Lyrelie’s skills are fast outstripping those of both her parents combined. What? Don’t give me that evil eye, you said so yourself.”
Senna punched her husband, hoping the pantomime had distracted their sharp minds from decoding the many slips she and Jarl had made. No such luck as Shayla frowned.
“You spoke of Lyran as though he were still alive, formulating potions and suggesting the dose.”
“This strong wine must have gone straight to your head. It’s obviously a recipe from one of his old notebooks.” Quinn swiped another oatencake. “Mmm, these are delicious. You must give Shayla, or rather her housekeeper, the recipe.”
Senna hesitated. Unless Lyran put in an appearance, as he originally suggested, it would be difficult to explain. She suspected his absence had something to do with Eanje’s delay and she glanced at Jarl, seeking advice.
Shayla set down her goblet. “I only ask because I’ve been having the strangest dreams about him lately. They are very vivid, as though he is still alive, warning me about this pestilence and suggesting we move back to Avebury.”
“Senna. Excuse yourself to go to the privy.” The urgency of Lyran’s voice almost made her jump. It was too soon; she hadn’t explained the full situation to Shayla.
“She will soon know. You must go. Now.”
“Please excuse me.” Senna stood. “I’m afraid I must … all that travelling, and then the wine.”
Shayla jumped up. “Of course. I’ll show you.” She was singularly proud of their indoor privy, separated from the main rooms by a corridor, “like in a grand manor house.”
Waiting until she heard Shayla’s retreating footsteps, Senna slipped out. At the other end of the corridor, a door led to a large back yard. Following Lyran’s directions, she made her way into the stables where Jarl’s horse welcomed her
with a familiar whicker.
Hugging his neck, she whispered his task. He nudged at her hand and she let him take the remains of the oaten cake she’d saved for him. She buried her face in his velvety skin for a moment, wishing there could be some other way, but Lyran had made it quite clear. The destinies of the three – four – of them had been preordained from before they were born. They were all connected.
Lyran indicated where Eanje had hidden the necessary items. Senna wound the pink scarf round her neck, adjusting it until satisfied with the position.
She felt the girl’s proximity. Knowing she could put it off no longer, she crept out to her worst nightmare.
A few paces from the stable entrance, Domenyk held Eanje in front of him, a knife at her throat. Jarl stood at the back door to his cousin’s house, his face a mask.
The monster’s voice gloated. “Finally. All the players are in place. Sorry my dear.”
His arm jerked, then he threw Eanje’s body to the ground, blood staining her bodice. Grabbing Senna, he delivered the same fatal slice, even as Jarl charged across the yard, shouting, “Noooo!”
As she slid to the ground, watching the knife enter her husband’s heart, Senna’s only thought was that Eanje had not drunk her goblet of potion.
Shayla and Quinn ran into their courtyard to a devastating scene as Jarl and his wife fell on top of Eanje. Fate stepped in at this point, and Jarl’s horse bolted out of the stables, rearing up at a man they barely recognised.
By the time the horse had trampled his head, crushing his skull, not even his own mother would have recognised him. The horse reared up many times, his hooves crashing down on brittle bones which splintered under the assault.
~*~
Cal would never forget the absolute anguish on Lyrelie’s face for as long as he lived. Which wouldn’t be long if all went to plan. A while after her parents left, Lyran prepared Lyrelie for their deaths which, to be perfectly honest, Senna and Jarl had hinted about several times since the double handfasting.
Lyrelie wanted to rush after them, but her father gently advised her of the futility; they would be dead before she reached them. As he reminded her they’d gone to a better place, like a different home, she replaced the cloak, her face awash with grief.