Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  Chalette, Freya and Willow joined forces to recreate five of the dishes as faithfully as they could. Surprisingly, Wilona had proven the most adept at finding substitutes for the many herbs and spices which had been imported from hot climes. So the trout with almonds became trout with beechnuts and rowan leaf, and wild carrot seeds were used in place of coriander and cumin. For cakes and puddings, sweet flag roots added a unique flavour somewhere between cinnamon and nutmeg.

  Several of the women got together to learn some fancy footwork to entertain in a short break before the main course. Afterwards, Verat sang a couple of well-known songs, encouraging the entire village to accompany him on the choruses. Then Freya joined him in a cheeky duet he’d written comparing the wedding night of a young couple to that of an older one.

  For the final performance, before the cheese course, Cal had trained a group of the younger men in an approximation of the sword dance, using slender batons of polished ash instead of the swords.

  Raising a specially crafted goblet, Ranly charged every couple present to take stock of their relationship with their partner, whether it be a moon, a couple of years, or several decades. “Be grateful for that special person in your life, and every day for at least the next week, try to do something special which shows how much you love them.”

  ~*~

  Jarl

  As he lay in bed, waiting for Senna to return from the night-time feed, Jarl hoped this might be the night she finally resumed their true marital relationship. He had been extremely patient until now, understanding some of the physical demands of childbirth on her body. Then he remembered her saying that the full moon was her most fertile time. This would not be an ideal night; she would not want to risk having another babe so soon.

  Following Ranly’s advice from his handfasting, Jarl reviewed his life, giving thanks for his many blessings. He still could not believe how lucky he was to finally have the woman he’d loved most of his life. His deep connexion to Senna had spoilt him for any other relationship, although the Gods knew how he’d tried.

  Realising he could never have her, Jarl had tried to find another, comparing every woman he met to Senna. None of them ever came close to the combination of wit, warmth and wisdom he loved. Let alone her generosity of spirit and the wry humour which tickled him so much.

  In all his travels on military business, he tried to adopt the attitude of his fellow soldiers, accepting offers of a willing companion for the night whenever they arose. And with his Viking heritage of golden locks atop a strong, fit body, he had many offers.

  Despite the attempts of the camp followers to ensnare him with their wiles, he stayed away, preferring to satisfy his physical needs with professionals. They took a pride in keeping themselves free from disease and were more than ready to deal with complications such as pregnancy.

  Only once in his travels did he come across a woman with similar qualities to Senna, although at the time, she was naught but a girl. An image flashed though his mind: the first time he’d seen her had been somewhat of a shock.

  “What can I get you, Sir?”

  He replied in the same tongue, using a dialect and attitude which would not arouse suspicion. “A beaker of ale and whatever dish you are serving today.” Much as it pained him not to add the “Thank you,” he would have done in England, in Frankia it would have aroused suspicion. Serving wenches did not merit common courtesy from their high-born customers.

  For this mission, he had dressed with care to give the impression of wealth. This was the third auberge he had visited since disembarking on hostile shores, and he already regretted this frivolous quest which he thought would keep him distracted until his contact arrived at some time in the next week.

  Maybe frivolous was the wrong word; but he could think of nothing which summed up this minor mercy mission any better. The strong sense of justice had him seeking the wretch of a governess, hoping to assure her safety.

  Not wanting to stare at the wench from too close, he followed her retreating back, trying to decide if she could be the one he sought. ’Twere possible; she looked of a similar age, with the same, lean figure which spoke of a life of hard work. No trace of the soft plumpness of a girl used to idle indulgence.

  A decade of travelling abroad had given him an ear for accents and, although hers was good, he could tell she had not been brought up locally. Add to that a sixth sense which suggested she had not been long at this profession.

  Only sight and hearing were required to discern that this girl had never dealt with the type of predatory male who currently accosted her. No, accosted was much too genteel a word for the way the oaf molested her body, taking liberties with the fact her hands were too full of dishes of food to resist his obviously unwanted attention.

  Jarl headed toward the table, intent on rescuing the girl when her words and actions proved her more than capable of looking after herself.

  “Monsieur will remove his hands from my breasts unless he wants his tiny cock burnt by this steaming broth.” As she spoke, she tilted both dishes so their contents hovered just above his lap.

  “You would not dare.” Fear raised his voice an octave.

  “Daring does not come into it. Accidents happen all the time in a place such as this.” She tilted one dish so a little of the hot liquid splashed onto his thigh.

  “What is occurring?” Jarl’s question had the man releasing her immediately.

  “My God. This … putain … threatened me. Arrest her.”

  “You mistake me for a fool. You molested her and she has every right to defend herself. I suggest you find another inn to continue your debauchery. Unless you wish me to have you arrested for lewd behaviour.”

  Grumbling, the man stood, berating his companions until they followed him.

  Although not anticipating gratitude, Jarl did not expect her wrath as she cursed him in several different languages.

  “Mademoiselle. May I suggest you direct your anger at those who deserve it? I can always call him back if you were enjoying his attentions.”

  Slamming the dishes on the table, she sank onto the bench, her hands gripping the sides of her face as she muttered something which sounded suspiciously like, “Why me?”

  He switched to English. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.” As soon as the word was out, she realised her mistake, glaring at him. “Damn you.”

  “For knowing you are English?”

  “For being a sardonic, supercilious, self-satisfied Man.” She almost shouted the last word.

  “You didn’t mention hungry.” He pushed the plate toward her. “Join me.”

  “It would choke me. And I hope it chokes you.”

  “If you had ever seen real need, you would not be so profligate.” He sampled the broth. “This is good. As you probably know.”

  Eying him suspiciously, she continued to speak English. “We are allowed naught but the scraps. After the dogs have had their fill. Any unused broth goes back in the pot for the next day.”

  If she were hoping to shock him into refusing the food, she had picked the wrong man. He had been in situations when he had fought dogs for scraps. “You have not worked here long. A week?”

  Her glare reminded him of a cornered cat, hissing and spitting to disguise distress. He pushed the dish toward her. “Eat. It will help you to think more clearly. No man – or woman – can strategize on an empty stomach. This is perfect brain food.”

  She picked up the spoon. “You are not the amateur you pretend to be. Are you one of Edward’s spies?”

  He did not miss a beat, laughing as she tasted the broth. “Seriously, you could not be further from the truth.” Was he wearing a tabard with “King’s spy” writ on the back in large letters?

  “Whatever you say. This is good. The barley gives it a creamy texture, and the tarragon is divine.”

  As she savoured another mouthful, his gaze was drawn to the perfect shape and colour of her lips. Damn her.

  “You did not learn
how to deal with men like that as a governess.”

  “Didn’t I? Most men are merely pampered boys, thinking they can take what they want without asking.”

  “Ouch. My apologies for bringing up what is obviously a painful experience for you. I must confess, I did not think Van Artevelde looked the type, but you never know.”

  He spotted the tiny frown betraying the delay in her thought process. “As I said: Men, pampered. Particularly nobility, no matter what their nationality.”

  He knew it. She was on that ship. But she looked different somehow. Wiping the bread round the dish, he tried not to stare as he compared this flashing-eyed beauty with the little mouse he’d glimpsed chasing after the brattish children.

  Finally, he figured it. The bright scarf and large, hooped earrings disguised her erstwhile personality. Although which one appealed more, he could not say – both types had attractive elements.

  Any further speculation was curtailed as the innkeeper approached the table, his anger obvious. “Coline. I ’ave told you not to fraternise with customers.” Jarl almost heard the unspoken, “Unless they are paying.”

  “Pardonnez-moi, M’sieur. C’est de ma faute.” Jarl explained how he had suffered a bout of food poisoning last week so now he insisted one of the staff should sample the meal before he would touch it.

  The man appeared mollified by the tip Jarl promised if his week-long stay met his exacting requirements.

  “C’est bon. And will Sir be wanting his bed warmed?” The man leered at Coline.

  Jarl was about to refuse when he caught sight of her face. Instead of the indignation he expected, her eyes pleaded for him to accept. He pretended to consider.

  The innkeeper was a man who needed to fill silence. “Of course, we ’ave many others if she is not suitable.”

  “I would have none but her.”

  “Excellent choice, M’sieur. She is skilled at pleasing men.”

  “I shall expect a full refund otherwise.” His tone suggested the consequences of an erroneous claim.

  He stayed downstairs for a long while, watching her handle several tables grown rowdy as they quenched thirsts made mighty by the warm summer eve.

  Somehow, she managed to deal with hands inclined to wander without resorting to the threat of violence. The more he watched, the more he realised her skill went way beyond her years.

  Putting the right age to a woman could never be counted as a talent of his, but she gave him more trouble than most.

  A total enigma, her lithe body and unmarked face put her at little more than sixteen, but her obvious intelligence and composure added almost a decade to that. Underlying it all was a latent sensuality which spoke of the kind of ease with her body he associated with much more experienced matrons.

  Although he would have taken great pleasure in exploring this aspect of her; this was most definitely not his intention in agreeing to pay for her services. He grinned at the idea of his purely chivalrous motive. This promised to be an entertaining night.

  12 – Blood Moon – October

  Blood moon: Thanksgiving. Cooperation. Self-examination, Improve yourself Banish negative thoughts.

  Cora

  Barely a week after the biggest event so far, came the first Herfest celebration in the new world. Cora understood Ranly’s motives in timing the handfasting as he did. Despite his love of attention, he did not want to upstage the Sabbat, one of the most important in the farmer’s year as it marked the peak of the labours in bringing in the vast majority of the crops.

  Their first harvest had been phenomenally abundant, and Shayla and Farmon had journeyed to several of the larger towns known to have populations more biased toward craftsmen than farmers, hoping to establish trade in some of the commodities they were short of, such as metals.

  Although she never liked to think ill of anyone, Cora could not help wincing at the unsubtle way the Archdruid took credit for the success. Her natural generosity forgave him this vanity; it was understandable after last year’s disastrous crop in the fields he’d blessed at Imbolc.

  Chalette, however, felt no such benevolence toward him, barely containing her anger until they were clear of the henge before exploding. “That arrogant, pompous, vainglorious …” She searched for a suitable epithet.

  “Person.” Cora grinned.

  “Man.” Chalette did not.

  Tugging her friend away from the crowds making their way back to the village, Cora led her toward the river, knowing the beauty of the place would bring calm.

  They crossed the bridge and sat on one of the benches Sawyer had thoughtfully provided so people could enjoy the serene energies of the place.

  “It would not harm you to take a leaf out of Farmon’s book. He should, by rights, be feeling every bit as aggrieved – maybe even more so, because it is undoubtedly his advice responsible for such good yields.”

  She snorted her contempt.

  “You disagree? Are they not all using your husband’s methods?” Cora’s eyes twinkled as she baited her friend.

  As usual, it worked. Chalette was not one to hold onto anger as she shoved Cora’s arm, huffing out all the rage. “You are right, as always. And, as I’m sure you are about to tell me, every person in the village knows how much they have benefitted from his expertise.”

  “There we go, then. Credit will be given where it is due. Calm and tranquillity restored.”

  Chalette chuckled. “I’m not sure I like this new scholarly Cora. You would never dream of spouting such platitudes before you became a councillor.”

  “You think so? I have become boring and predictable?”

  “Oh, no. You have always been that.” A giggle. “Sorry but you did rather ask for it.”

  “Good. All I wanted was to see you smiling instead of scowling. My work is done.”

  “If only that were true. But I fear we have other matters to be concerned about.”

  “About the Archdruid?”

  “No. Well, yes. I think we should all be concerned about the way he is behaving.”

  Cora frowned. “Senna mentioned something a while ago, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay too much attention.”

  “Understandable. We’ve all had a lot to do.”

  “Actually, I think his wife is the real problem.”

  “Now that I can believe. I’ve never taken to her. What do you think of Wilona?”

  Deepening her frown at the change of subject, Cora tried to think of a good word to say about the girl. She shrugged her shoulders. “I cannot put my finger on it, but … she’s not for me.”

  “I see. And Zane?”

  Cora scoffed – something she did not even realise she knew how to do. “You need to ask me that? After what he tried to do to Lyrelie? And what he did to Cal?”

  “My thoughts exactly. And he continues to do.” She narrowed her eyes. “What did you think of the sword dance at Ranly’s handfasting?”

  “Wonderful. You must be so proud of your son. I never realised quite how talented he is.”

  “I am. Thank you. You didn’t notice anything strange?”

  “How do you mean, strange?”

  “It all ran smoothly in your eyes?”

  She tried to replay the performance. “I think so. I suppose I’d had a beaker or two of ale by then. Oh. Now I recall; I saw a slight stumble. I remember thinking maybe Tol did not know the dance as well as the others.”

  “I watched them rehearse. Tol had mastered it completely. Do you remember who was next to him?”

  A pause. “Zane.” Cora’s eyes widened as though some natural outrage force pulled on her lids. “You think he deliberately tripped him? But why?”

  “To make Cal look bad. Zane was not invited to join the activity from the start. When Goran twisted his ankle …”

  “Cal’s brother? Is he all right?”

  “He is now.” Chalette’s tone darkened.

  “You do not think it was an accident.”

  “It seems a little convenient that
Zane should find him and carry him home. Farmon insisted he should take my boy’s place; he has no idea how manipulative he is.”

  “I would have thought your husband smarter than that.”

  Her friend sighed. “He is normally. But for some reason he becomes blind where that snake is concerned. Many people do.”

  Chalette managed a little retribution a week later when she led the celebration for what the farmers called the hunter’s moon. Traditionally the one pulling the biggest audience of men, it gave an extra opportunity between Herfest and Samhain to focus on cooperation, thanksgiving and pooling resources to ensure the success of the busy harvest time. She led a meditation focussing on self-examination and ways of improving relationships with self, family and wider community, at its end asked everyone to join hands so they were all connected as one.

  “I would like to remind you this is not a competition to see who can produce the best crops; we agreed to share the produce equally among the tithings. By working together and sharing knowledge, skills and the results of all our efforts, we can live in harmony as a strong, happy family.”

  As Alfun hugged her, Cora wondered whether she should share her concerns about the few people who spoiled that harmony. In her mind, she heard his wisdom.

  “Before you think the worst, try to imagine what it is like to be in that person’s shoes. They are probably doing the best they can with the gifts they have. Send loving energy their way and believe it will all work out well.”

  ~*~

  Eanje

  After two moons with no further incident, Eanje had all but forgotten the strange disappearance of her son, and things had settled down to a smooth routine where the six new mothers shared the caring of the babes between them so at least three women were in charge at any one time. Three mornings a week, they used an empty classroom in the lehren and the little ones learnt to play together as though they had been born into a much larger family.