by Jacky Gray
Jarl had witnessed her dilemma, and took the opportunity to swipe a chunk of her remaining fish, swallowing it whole.
She flashed him grateful look, but her relief was short-lived as the meat course arrived. An indulgence of the rich, the meal involved a turkey stuffed with a goose similarly stuffed with a chicken and several smaller game birds. Domenyk overloaded her platter, ignoring her protests.
Senna had always struggled with this notion, and barely managed to eat the roasted roots and the smallest mouthful of the layered meat and forcemeat. She jumped in surprise at the nudge on her arm.
With the sleight-of-hand of a practised magician, Jarl replaced her platter with his. He’d painstakingly separated much of the flesh from the bones, making it easier for her to eat.
Her saviour! Giving thanks for his thoughtfulness, she ate a small piece, accompanying it with the honey-roasted parsnips.
Domenyk turned back from his conversation, and speared the largest piece of meat on her platter. “I’ll help you out if you are struggling.” He wolfed it down, smacking his lips in a manner she found quite revolting.
If she’d expended effort meticulously detaching the meat, she would have been quite justifiably incensed, but the irony of the situation made her giggle. She tried to cover it, by sipping her wine, but ended up choking.
Domenyk flinched away from her, but Jarl knew exactly how hard to clap her back to dislodge the morsel of meat.
Accepting the beaker of water gratefully, she sipped the cool liquid. It soothed the burning sensation in her throat, which felt as though it had been scratched.
Once he was sure she no longer posed the threat of expiry, or worse, spewing up her food, Domenyk showered her with concern. For a while, he monopolised her attention, to prevent her from exchanging so much as a glance with Jarl.
She need not have worried about neglecting him, however. It soon became clear that the rest of the top table guests were fascinated by the man’s military experiences, plying him with questions. They encouraged stories of his exploits in the north, and he obliged.
Being skilled at listening to more than one conversation at once, she gave Domenyk the impression of her undivided attention, whilst chuckling inwardly at Jarl’s wry humour as he littered his tales with a dark wit.
The feast ended with a refreshingly light orange and lemon rennet, Senna’s favourite milk pudding.
Domenyk stood to address the assembled guests, and Jarl took the opportunity to ask about her health.
She nodded an affirmation, and then joined in the polite round of applause as Domenyk announced the dancing would begin directly.
He turned to her. “I trust you will do me the honour of accompanying me, my lady.”
His stiff bow and commanding tone left no room for illusions, and she had no choice but to acquiesce. Placing her hand in his, she allowed him to escort her to the area set aside for dancing.
In the brief, lively dance, Senna barely had time to examine her feelings for this magnetic, troubled personality. Beneath the authoritative, intransigent persona his position forced him to assume, she glimpsed a gentle, considerate side. Being in his arms was not an entirely unpleasant experience: He was surprisingly light on his feet, and accomplished, as befitted his role as a community leader. A fact which meant he had a duty to dance with the daughter of every family of standing in the area.
Bowing to her at the end of the first dance, he kissed her hand and thanked her. “I hope I will be allowed to repeat the experience, but duty is calling.”
He indicated the eager girls trying to attract his attention, along with their even more eager mamas, seeking a dance with the handsome man. Senna had no doubt they would try to tempt him by exaggerating their daughters’ eligibility as his next wife.
As he claimed Willow, the prettiest girl in the room, Senna felt a tap on her shoulder. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”
She turned, confident Jarl would be next, but he had been detained by the second prettiest girl in the room, Freya, who curtseyed in front of him as though he’d asked her to dance.
4 – Day 1: Yule Ball
Freya’s father, Alfun, bowed and Senna curtsied, searching the crowd for the man’s wife, who acknowledged the unspoken plea for permission with a gracious nod.
Alfun knew the etiquette well. “’Twas Cora who insisted I ask for the dance. Seemed the best way to warn you without raising suspicion.”
Warn me? Senna swallowed the words which desperately sought a voicing, and disguised her reaction inside a smile. “Cora is one of the wisest women I know.”
Clasping her hand, Alfun raised their arms above their heads as they took a step toward each other, and turned through half a circle widdershins. “I knew you’d see the code. The council are setting spies on all the healers, but especially the wise women. They hope to catch them using magic to heal.”
Senna gulped. Almost all of their techniques involved harnessing the power of the earth energies and the spirits of fire, water and air to magnify the healing properties of herbs and crystals. “Surely Magister Dom …”
“Hush.” He hissed the word, dancing around. “MD is leading the project. Some are calling it a witch hunt.”
MD? Of course, Magister Domenyk. Senna’s mind protested the incongruence. “But he led the solstice procession …”
“Aye. His masters seek to learn all they can about the old ways so they can …” He quickly switched course as the subject of his conversation danced close by. “Cora was quite worried when you collapsed, and sent me over to ensure you are well again.”
Senna played along. “I’m quite well. Please thank her for her concern. I am still a little delicate, however. In fact, I would quite like to rest.”
“Of course. Come and sit with us. Lyrelie is talking to Cora.”
She barely had time to exchange more than pleasantries before Jarl approached, leading Freya into the care of her parents, who shared a knowing glance as he invited Senna to dance.
“I would like to take some air first; I’m still in the grip of the malaise from yesterday.”
“Of course.” He let her out via the top table, where she picked up her woollen cloak, which he wrapped around her shoulders before they stepped into the chilly eve.
Jarl walked like a man with a purpose, ignoring the beauty of the moon-silvered garden. He guided her out of earshot, to a stone bench under a huge yew tree, whose broad branches gave shelter from the breeze and privacy from the main building. His tone was earnest. “Senna, you need to be very careful what you say. Domenyk ...”
“Is looking for the use of magic. Alfun told me.”
“Of course. He had responsibility for lighting the bonfires, and when they didn’t burn …”
Senna gasped as she remembered. With all the preparations for the feast, her attention had been diverted from the previous night’s calamity. Or had her daughter conspired to distract her from dwelling on it? “What happened? The kindling…” Her face crumpled from the memory of the pain which had robbed her consciousness.
Jarl put his hands on her head, his cool fingers digging into the hair at her temples, cooling the hot blood which caused her to wince.
“Thank you.” Her voice cracked.
“Be still. Try not to talk, or think. I suspect the energy we raised from following the ley lines and walking the labyrinth was too powerful. It probably needed grounding before the kindling could catch fire. You used rosemary and garlic, right?”
She nodded.
“And my guess is many other protection charms, too. The added potency meant they were too well-protected, and the torch fire could not get near them while you remained conscious. As soon as you fainted, they lit.”
“Giving Domenyk his proof.” Speaking took effort.
“Except I don’t think anyone else made the connection because you stayed upright until after it lit. No one else would have noticed the delay, apart from myself and Alfun.”
“Not MD? “
<
br /> “MD? Oh, I understand. A code. Good. You will need to be careful. I heard tales on my journey home from the North, about villages where many people were hounded because this new church decreed they were using magic.”
Another nod. She’d heard a similar tale from a group of wandering travellers who regularly sought her potions and elixirs. They’d attributed the excesses to the actions of a few zealots and, because of their attitude, she never attached much significance. “Surely he knows what goes on.”
“MD, as you call him, has never been an enthusiastic participant in the rituals. From my observations, when he does attend, which is never regularly, he spends more time doing business or toadying to the great and good, than joining in the summoning of the elements.”
As an active participant, usually calling the corner for earth or the goddess, Senna would not have noticed.
“When he wasn’t taking the opportunity to cosy up to one of the many willing females vying for his attention.”
She wondered if a touch of jealousy could be the reason for Jarl’s adverse opinions of the man, reminding her of the earlier comment. “Domenyk mentioned a bawdy licence.” She narrowed her eyes. “Presumably a reference to my mother’s two seamstresses staying there with Eanje.”
“Take no notice of that nasty …”
A nearby cough alerted them to the presence of another couple who had escaped outside. The excited tones and giggling made their intentions plain.
Senna had an awful thought: Anyone noticing her exit with Jarl might assume the same thing.
His next words increased her concern. “We should get back before people assume our stroll had a different purpose.”
She stood, taking care not to do so quickly enough to deprive her brain of the necessary blood.
He tucked her hand into his arm, and she silently gave thanks for the additional heat of his body; sitting still had cooled her down significantly.
Their return to the hall caused no stir as a lively solstice dance absorbed almost everyone in the room. It would take all their concentration to follow the complex moves for each of the eight aspects represented in the wheel of the year. The dance format required groups of eight, and there were not enough spare people to form another set, so they sat in a secluded corner and sipped the warm, spiced ale.
5 – Day 2: Unexpected Patient
Because the Yule celebration always lasted so long into the night, the following day saw many people still in bed long after the sun rose. With enough food prepared for the next few days, and no crops to attend to, the only responsibility was to the animals. Most people had a strategy which involved stocking the feeders up with double rations before turning in for the night.
Senna was looking forward to a lazy day as Lyrelie and her friends made their own entertainment. Doing things she’d doubtless have done when she was their age. But the gods decided otherwise.
She’d no sooner sat with a beaker of her favourite berry infusion than a knock sounded at the door. A moment’s ponder suggested it was most likely to be Marena. The girl had looked ready to drop at the Yule feast.
But the iron ring barely touched the striking plate; it was an apologetic tap rather than the desperate hammering of a prospective father-to-be. Certainly nothing like last time he’d knocked.
For the man at her door was Jarl. Not the strong purveyor of logs, nor the cheeky escorter of daughters. Something dreadfully wrong made him collapse forward, tumbling to a heap at her feet.
The powerful image transported her back to the spring, when he’d collapsed at her door, bleeding from wounds suffered during a particularly bad skirmish. When his fever eventually broke, he promised her it would be the last time he would engage directly in battle. He’d devised a scheme to train dozens of men from different villages so they could perform the border patrols without him.
Her heart hardened at the thought he might have returned to the lucrative life of a mercenary.
Shaking the foolish notion out of her head, Senna struggled to drag the huge man across the threshold. After closing the door to shut out the wintry chill, she quickly set about examining him to discover what had caused him to faint. She could find no obvious signs of external injury; no blood bruising or cuts which might indicate a loss of consciousness due to some kind of attack.
She examined his eyes, nose and mouth, looking for signs which might indicate some kind of poison. Loosening the ties at his neck, she became aware of the heat emanating from his body, raising beads of sweat along his upper lip and forehead. He burnt with a fever.
Her first task was to relieve him of the heavy winter clothing to allow cool air to get to his skin. The well-worn sheepskin resisted her efforts, clinging to his tunic sleeves with a tenacity which far surpassed her strength.
When her necessarily rough handling of his body did not cause any sign of a return to consciousness, her level of concern heightened. The next step was to free his feet, this would allow the heat pooling there to dissipate, cooling him down more quickly. She’d no sooner removed the second boot, when a gasp behind alerted her to the presence of her daughter.
“Mama. Do you not think that kind of activity would be better suited to your bedchamber?” Lyrelie clasped her hands to her cheeks in a parody of shock and offended sensibilities.
“You know this isn’t what it looks like. Stop gawping and fetch me a bowl of water and a cloth; he has a fever and we need to cool him down.”
As the girl ran to do her bidding, Senna divested the inert body of the thick hemp tunic, struggling to remove the unyielding material from his lifeless arms.
She glanced at the cotton chemise, unwilling to expose her daughter to the sight of a naked male torso, and contented herself with pulling it out of the waistband and flapping the material to cool his chest.
Lyrelie returned with the bowl, immersing the cloth and squeezing out the excess water, before handing it to her mother.
“No, dear. Will you please wipe his face and neck? Try to get right into the roots of his hair.”
Meanwhile, she tackled the part she had been dreading. Undoing the buckle on his belt, she could not help but remember the times she had performed this very personal act for her husband. Heat rose from her centre, seeking an outlet through her cheeks. She struggled with the breeches, but the stiff leather refused to cooperate as she tried to peel it away from his hips.
“Can I help you with that, Mama?”
Senna pressed her lips together, her instincts screaming, “No.” But she knew when to admit defeat, and it took both of them a deal of effort to pull the tight-fitting breeches down his legs.
When they reached the ankles, the material jammed against his feet, and Senna had to guide it over his heels.
Lyrelie returned to her task of cooling his brow. “Should we not remove his chemise? His body will cool more quickly if it is exposed to more air.” As she spoke, her eyes drifted down to his muscular thighs.
Alarm widened Senna’s eyes as she realised anyone could turn up at the door at any instant: This was, after all, the season of Yuletide where neighbourliness was commonplace. What on earth would anybody think of her, exposing her daughter to such promiscuous sights at such a tender age?
She sent her daughter to fetch one of the linen cloths they used to swaddle the new-borns, as she tried to find a solution to the very large problem lying just inside her door. What reason could she have for the presence of a half-naked man in her house? Her gaze rested on the narrow cot in the corner, which she used to treat patients.
Of course.
Jarl was nothing more than a patient. No reason for her to become so agitated. Except this did not end her problems: Still the small matter of how she and her daughter could transport him. Although only a short distance, moving his bulk, made heavier by his lack of consciousness, would not be a trivial endeavour. Certainly not one which could be tackled by two women alone.
She regretted the fact they’d removed his clothing; otherwise she could call
upon one of the neighbours for assistance. But it was too late to be concerned; she knew the importance of lowering his temperature before he was struck with a paroxysm. She’d seen first-hand the results of a fever in a young lad. If Jarl’s limbs started thrashing uncontrollably the way the boy’s had, he might damage himself, and anyone else who got in the way.
Sighing, Senna determined there could be only one resolution to this predicament.
~*~
Jarl tried to comprehend the information from his senses. The fiercest sensation was that of heat, as his skin scalded in a way which suggested his entire body was on fire. Part of his brain tried to reconcile this with the lack of flames, while other parts strove to recollect his most recent memories.
None of it made sense: He’d been in the main hall, and Senna had been called away to attend to an elderly woman who’d fainted, overtaken by the excitement of the day.
Domenyk had organised a number of young lads throughout the room, standing by with pitchers of the magister’s favourite ale. The man seemed determined to ply everyone with sufficient liquor to float a small craft.
Clinking his beaker with the person to his left, Jarl had repeated the magister’s words about wishing for a fruitful harvest, adding his private thanksgiving before making any kind of request.
A young girl offered him a sweetmeat from a platter, and he accepted, popping the delicacy in his mouth and swallowing it whole. A youth, who could have been her twin, filled up his beaker for the next toast, and he drained it in one. The girl offered the platter again, and he selected a different one, coloured with a purple dye. He bit down, expecting a sweet berry flavour, instead getting a salty taste, along with something quite unexpected. Not entirely unpleasant, it was nevertheless not a taste he wished to linger in his mouth.
Again, he drained the beaker, only to have it rapidly replenished. He didn’t remember much about the rest of the eve, apart from the raging thirst, which he could not assuage, no matter how much ale he drank.
