Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  His eyes drooped even before he finished the last mouthful, so she let him sleep, going down to prepare. Normally, before such an important ceremony as the Spell-Casting, she would indulge in a long soak in the bath-barrel to aid her meditation. Because this was not possible, she compromised with a beaker of her restorative brew, and snuggled into her nest by the fire, rocking the chair as she tried to clear her mind. But today, she found it nigh-on impossible to reach the serenity necessary for meditation.

  Many scenes filled her thoughts, going all the way back to last year, when Jarl and Eanje had been crowned King and Queen of Wassail. The girl obviously had eyes for him but, certainly when Senna was around, he never treated her with any more courtesy than he might show any woman. And no more affection than he had for Lyrelie. Of course, he had every right to court her if he had a mind, but Senna wished fervently he had only provided her with a room out of the goodness of his heart.

  Despite all her reservations, her mind insisted on returning to the breadth of Jarl’s shoulders and the heat of his gaze when they had been close. She realised something had altered between them and, reaching back in her memories of recent events, she put it all down to the night they had charged the blessing charms. Somehow, the mutual sharing of the earth energies and, in particular, walking the labyrinth together, had bound them to each other. This knowledge helped not only to quiet her mind, but also to tap into much more male energy than she normally would.

  The Spell-Casting was unlike any she’d experienced; as though the burgeoning connection to her male side raised her power to a new level. Even Cora, who traditionally stood on her right in the circle, commented on the unusual strength of the energy coming from her.

  Freya and Lyrelie went home with Willow, the three of them still buzzing with the excitement of their first full casting. They wanted to prolong the experience, and Willow’s folks had agreed to host the extended merrymakings.

  Senna quite understood their reaction. Her head buzzed so much, it felt ready to burst. She sat in her nest with a goblet of brandy-wine, hoping the potent spirit would help her to sleep. And help it did; she woke up several hours later, feeling chilly and stiff, the fire’s embers cold. Wrapping her shawl around her, she stumbled upstairs, not bothering to undress as she blundered into her bed.

  ~*~

  Awaking with a start, Jarl’s senses were more alert than they’d been for a while. The comfort of his cousin’s marriage bed had insinuated its way into his mind, so he now knew where he lay at the instant of regaining consciousness. A soldier’s skill, it meant he could go to sleep with the equivalent of one eye open. And had the added bonus of saving precious moments when he wakened; moments not wasted figuring out where he was instead of assessing potential threats.

  It took but an instant to determine the cause of his awakening; Senna’s less-than-gentle entry into her bed.

  Yet again, he occupied the place he’d dreamed of for nigh two decades but, as before, under the wrong circumstances. He was unable to fulfil the biggest part of his dream, and share her bed in every sense.

  She squirmed, inching closer as though seeking his heat and her frozen foot touched his. With a tiny sigh, she snuggled up so her back touched his chest and their bodies fitted together right down to her heels. Her unique Senna-smell tantalised, and he breathed it in, feeling his body react to her nearness.

  For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of imagining what her skin would feel like if he had the right to caress it. And how her touch would set his blood on fire if she felt free to return his love.

  As his fingers stretched out to fulfil his fantasy, reality set in with a triple dose of barriers. Firstly, the fact her skin was swaddled in a shawl, and doubtless many other layers of clothing. Secondly, the pain shooting through his shoulder as he moved his arm away from its resting place. Thirdly, and most importantly, he could not betray the memory of his cousin. Reading the omens, he relaxed back into a more comfortable position. But his mind continued to worry at the problem.

  How long had he loved this woman? Almost from the first day he met her by the stream, trying to lift two pails of water on a milkmaid’s yoke, and spilling most of them. He’d shown her the knack his mother used, and then shouldered her load all the way back to the village.

  She was shy and funny, and her melodious laughter touched a chord in his heart which still longed for that sound. But his chances with her had dissolved when she met Lyran; the two of them shared so much more in common with their healing gifts. He felt left out of conversations, more often than not, even though she tried to include him. The big split happened when he began learning the necessary skills to join the militia. She had taken a dislike to the uncouth youths he trained with, and they had openly mocked him for being friends with the learned types they considered weak and cowardly.

  After that, he could barely watch as the girl he loved fell more deeply in love with his best friend in the world. The handfasting had been bittersweet, as Lyran publicly thanked him for being responsible for introducing the two of them. Even more so after they’d jumped the bonfire together, when Lyran sought him out and made him promise to take care of her should anything ever happen to him.

  In theory, his cousin had already given him permission for the very thing he wanted most in life, so what was holding him back? Certainly not Domenyk’s scheming; he was the main suspect for arranging the ambush which nearly did for him and Dennon. He sighed at the thought of the impossible task of proving such a thing.

  Was it maybe Senna herself? She’d given a mixture of responses to his advances, so he had no idea if her sense of propriety was the only thing holding her back. Or maybe her loyalty to Lyran? Perchance he should give her more time to grieve.

  “If you do that, you will lose her for sure. The magister plans to trick her into marriage the day her mourning year ends.”

  He should have been surprised by his cousin’s voice, but it felt natural, as though his best friend had never left.

  “What would you do?”

  “Firstly, I would do as you have, and provide the protection she needs without forcing myself upon her. Then I would earn her trust; no need to get to know her, you have already done that.”

  “You think she doesn’t trust me?”

  “You broke your promise. Twice.”

  “What?” Denial hardened Jarl’s voice.

  “Think, man. She may forgive you, but only if you ask. And you attacked her in her dreams. Find out why.”

  “I would never attack her, surely she must know that. What does it mean? Why can’t you just tell me?”

  But his cousin was no longer there, and all he’d done was raise more questions than answers.

  After several hours of his mind running through the past few moons, trying to remember any promises he’d made, Jarl gave it up as a bad job. Sleep finally came, but it was troubled and restless.

  22 – Day 11: Broken Promises

  Senna awoke on the eleventh day somewhat the worse for wear, and in no hurry to get out of bed. Her headache had returned, and once again she found herself roasting, and worried that the fever had returned. When she lifted the cover, she discovered she was still dressed in her day clothes. She remembered nodding off in the chair and scurrying to bed wrapped in a shawl. But at some point in the night she had discarded it, being too hot.

  An abrupt snore made her clutch the sheet to her chin, despite already being fully dressed. There was someone in her bed!

  That would explain the heat cooking her back. Her first thought as her limbs froze rigid, was that Lyran had somehow taken on a corporeal form and returned to her. Nonsense!

  The second thought was Lyrelie had snuck into her bed as she did almost every night after her father’s death. But the laboured breathing sounded more like a man’s.

  Had she been so intoxicated after the Spell-Casting that she’d allowed herself to become handfasted to someone? She shied away from the idea that Domenyk would do something so underhanded. Ga
thering all her courage, she took an age to roll onto her back, trying not to disturb the man lying next to her who was – possibly – not her husband.

  “Senna? Are you awake?”

  The parched voice was barely recognisable, but the croak set off a line of connections in her brain which resulted in the realisation it was Jarl. She cleared her throat. “Yes. Good morn to you.”

  His low chuckle made her appreciate the absurdity of the situation. He was far too broken to have attempted anything untoward last night, even if he’d wanted to. And the healer in her recognised that her proximity, with all the fearsome energy from the stones and the moon and the casting, would have made her vibrate with the equivalent of a week’s worth of broths and tonics. The happy accident had turned out to be more than beneficial to him. She relaxed. “You must be thirsty.”

  Another chuckle and she finally dared to look at him, catching her breath at the expanse of strong, tanned chest muscles showing above the sheets which had slipped away from his shoulders.

  She finally met his gaze which sizzled with a heat she recognised as desire. But the evidence of his thirst spoke louder and she slipped out of the bed, hurrying round to offer him a beaker of water.

  The improvement was obvious as he shuffled himself into a sitting position, favouring his wounded shoulder, but regaining some of his former agility and strength. He allowed her to administer the drink, then cleared his throat. “Thank you. And good morn to you. As you can see, I’m feeling much better.”

  She put the beaker down and would have moved away, but he caught hold of her arm with his good hand.

  “Wait. Before you dash off to start, I want you to know something.”

  Tension filled her body at his touch, but she did not pull away for fear of hurting him. His smile was unexpected, but none the less devastating to her tenuous defences.

  “Firstly, I don’t know if I should be affronted by the fact that you wake up in bed with me and your first thought is to tend to my needs as a patient.”

  Mischief lit his eyes, and she mirrored it back. “What makes you think it my first thought?”

  He laughed. “I choose to believe my own version of your other thoughts, and it makes me bolder. Senna … dash it, I should be down on my knees.”

  “I recommend against that in your current state.”

  “Always the healer first but, I hope, the woman second. Senna, I love you dearly. I have loved you since the first day with the pails and the yoke.”

  “Stop, Jarl. Before you go any further, I have to know the truth about you and Eanje.”

  He released her hand. “You know the truth. She was in trouble after her father died, and Tavern held back most of her wages because she refused to act the strumpet.”

  “But that was a year ago. Why did she continue to live in your house after Shayla and Quinn left?”

  “My cousin asked me not to sell it. Quinn’s business means they need somewhere local to stay for a few days every moon. So Shayla pays Eanje to tend the house. It works well because I’m rarely there.”

  “But when you are …” She couldn’t finish the thought.

  He nodded. “I see. You think I am … With Eanje. No. Definitely not. I promise you.” He shrugged. “The girl has no family to look after her. I have been staying in the hut my father built for me when I came of age.”

  “So you are not … in love with her?”

  “Absolutely not. I could never love anyone but you. I have never loved anyone but you.” His sincerity made Senna’s questions dry up, and she glanced away.

  Jarl cleared his throat. “Will you do me the immeasurable honour of becoming my wife?”

  “Oh, Jarl. You know I cannot.”

  His face crumpled.

  After a scant moment, he spoke, his voice a whisper. “Is it because you don’t trust me?” Without allowing time for an answer, his words tumbled out. “I have been searching my memory for the promises I may have broken, ever since he mentioned them, but ...”

  “Who mentioned promises?” She butted in, her tone cautious.

  “No one.” Again, he forged ahead before she could speak. “The only time which comes close was at Beltane when I pledged I would stop fighting the raiders and start training the militia instead. But I never broke that.”

  “So why did you go back up north a week ago?”

  “Because Dennon had a direct order from the council that he, Aleksi and I must join with men from every village to support the troop at the border and repel a massive force. But it turned out to be a falsehood. We had no chance, even before the ambush.”

  “I see. In that case, you did not break your pledge.” A sly glance. “What else did Lyran say?”

  “That I broke two promises and you could not trust … how did you know it was Lyran?”

  “I know he watched over you when you were away. He’s been with me for the past moon, advising and protecting.”

  Jarl recoiled. “He said I attacked you in a dream.”

  “I was mistaken. It was Domenyk, wearing a glamour so I thought it was Lyran, then you.”

  “So, you do trust me, then?” He leaned forward an inch.

  She put her hand on her heart. “With my life.”

  “And I haven’t broken another promise to you?”

  “Not to me, no.”

  “Then to whom?”

  Her lips twitched. “To Lyran.”

  “What? No, that cannot be. I vowed to take care of you, and that’s what I’ve been doing. I even gave up my livelihood for you. How is that breaking my pledge?”

  “You promised him you would be my husband.”

  “How can you know that?” He frowned.

  “He made you repeat it three times to make it an oath.”

  “Oh. He told you that?”

  “No. I heard him ask you on the day of our handfasting.” She echoed his embarrassed expression.

  “So you’ve always known?”

  “That you made a vow? Yes.”

  “That I love you.”

  She glanced at him, mischief shining through her eyes. “Since that day with the yoke. I would have worked it out by myself, you know.”

  “Of course I do. Now. But back then, I just wanted to impress you with how strong and smart I was.”

  A giggle escaped her lips. “All I saw was a boy who respected his mother enough to learn what she taught him.” She paused as he absorbed this idea, and could almost see his mind wanting to ask the question she could never answer. Only one way to distract him; she bent forward and kissed him, something she’d wanted to do all those years ago when she was Lyrelie’s age.

  He stiffened, not a wise reaction with his wound. Then he allowed himself to follow her lead, resulting in a kiss of such exquisite tenderness, her eyes filled with tears.

  She finally had to breathe, so she pulled away, noting the moisture in the corner of his eyes. “Ask me again.” Her voice caught in her throat, and it took him a while to understand.

  “Senna, love of my life. Will you do me the immeasurable honour of becoming my wife?”

  “Yes, Jarl. I will marry you. As soon as I am able to.”

  He glared at her. “You mean …? Why did you not say that when I asked you earlier.”

  “Because I was teasing. If you’d waited, I would have added not until my mourning year finished. But at least I now know you are doing it for the right reasons.”

  “I said I love you – is that not enough?”

  “Men speak these words lightly. I needed to be certain.”

  “And now you are?”

  “Yes, Jarl. I know you love me as I love you.”

  “Well what are we waiting for? Let’s go and see if the Archdruid is busy.” He threw aside the covers, but the action caused pain.

  “Calm yourself. We have several weeks yet.”

  “I asked about the mourning year. Apparently it’s a nominal limit, set according to common practice. Just a suggestion to allow the widow time to grieve p
roperly. We could do it today if you wanted.”

  She smiled at his fervour. “As long as my friends can be there. Goodness knows we have enough food for a feast.”

  “And Cora can bake a cake. Do you have a gown?”

  “Jarl. I was merely jesting. We shall do it when the timing is right. For now, we both need to eat before we expire. And then I need to replace the poultice.”

  Chuckling to herself, she used the washbasin in Lyrelie’s room, and changed into fresh clothing, then skipped downstairs to prepare their first meal as a couple. A part of her almost wished they could have a private woodland handfasting as her grandmother had, but she would not want to disappoint their many friends in the village.

  Now he was stronger, she could dispense with the dreadful-smelling broth, and she made some blood pudding, chopping the liver finely so it would be easy for his still-delicate stomach to digest. As she laid the table, Jarl managed the stairs on his own, inordinately pleased with this small accomplishment. He’d thrown on a chemise for decency, but she noted it needed washing. It felt strange to have a man so casually dressed at her table, but Lyran often broke the fast in this attire, especially on hot days.

  At the end of the meal, he pushed away the platter, looking with regret at the scraps. “I have never tasted better sausages, and the eggs were cooked to perfection. I’ve never enjoyed blood pudding before, but that was tasty.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  He rubbed his belly. “You cook so well I fear I shall need to find bigger clothes when we are wed.”

  “You could take over the cooking. I’m sure I can find time to reduce all my dresses when they start to hang off me.” She stood to clear the table.

  “Cheeky wench.” He slapped her behind as she passed.

  Although the relationship between them had shifted dramatically, he went out of his way to behave with impeccable manners, even though she frequently felt his hungry gaze on her body as she moved around the small house. Each time she caught him staring, he would turn the conversation to what needed to be done to preserve the precious energies in the herbs.