Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

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  Nature’s Tribe #3

  Eight Sabbats of the Sun

  Jacky Gray

  Notes for the reader:

  Because this is set in medieval Britain, there are several words you may need to look up in the glossary, e.g. they use moon instead of month, eve instead of evening and occasionally wheel instead of year. Hopefully the rest are self-explanatory.

  The Terce bell sounded at the 3rd hour (9am), the Vespers bell at the 12th hour (6pm).

  Jarl is pronounced like Jar (plus the l)

  Eanje has a silent E, pronounced Angie.

  To Joanne, my muse, and her gorgeous husband, Tim. Without you, Eanje would never have been the angel she is

  Table of Contents

  1 – Yule

  2 – Imbolc

  3 – Ostara

  4 – Beltane

  5 – Litha

  6 – Lughnasadh

  7 – Herfest

  8 – Samhain

  Epilogue: A Red Herring

  Glossary

  1 – Yule

  Nearing the house of the kindest, sweetest girl in the village, Cal heard laughter trilling like melodious birdsong. Daring to hope he might hear a mention of his name, preferably in a favourable light, he crept closer to the open window. Lyrelie’s voice resonated with the contentment of a purring cat. He could listen to it all day.

  Senna, the village’s well-loved healer, spoke of the up-and-coming Yule feast. “Magister Domenyk has invited you and your young man to join him at the top table.”

  Cal drew breath, praying Lyrelie would select him.

  “You know I’m not walking out with anyone.” Her assertion hit him like a blow. Although he’d never courted her officially, he yearned for her to recognise his interest, especially after yesterday. Pressing against the wall, he strained to hear her next statement. “Do I have to come?”

  He couldn’t reconcile the wheedling tone with the sunny disposition of the girl he’d loved his entire life.

  Frustration marred her mother’s tone, which normally cooed with the patient wisdom of the owls roosting in his father’s barn. “I’m afraid this was more summons than invitation.”

  He imagined the frown on Lyrelie’s face as she itemised the failings of her closest male companions. “It would not be an enjoyable experience with any of them. Tol is too silly, Ran is too stuffy, and Cal is too … Cal.”

  What in the name of all glory did that mean? Too Cal! His brain darted around, looking for suitable euphemisms, unable to suppress his confusion after the previous day’s strong connexion between them.

  Memories of their unrivalled teamwork accosted him: they’d collected more mistletoe than all the other pairings. He smiled at the forthright way she insisted on climbing up for the elusive plant. Her reason for endangering herself and worrying him so? Because she would do less damage as she detached it.

  The smile turned to a blush as he remembered her declaration of confidence that he’d catch her if she fell. The blush deepened as he recalled the feel of her in his arms when she missed her footing and slipped down from the lowest bough of the ash tree.

  His fond recollections curtailed as Lyrelie responded to her mother’s warning about the consequences of refusing to attend the prestigious event.

  “There is one person I could bring, if he’s not already spoken for.”

  Cal’s sceptical heart sank as Senna pressed for details. “Do I know him? And, more importantly, would I approve of him?”

  In the extended silence, he strained to hear the name of this rival, but to no avail as a group of lads passed by, jesting in loud voices. Ducking behind a bush, he froze as an arm reached out to close the shutter. He caught a glimpse of the object of his affections as she casually broke his heart.

  All the way home, he wondered how he could have been so foolish to imagine someone like her would ever choose a simple farmer’s boy like him. She was the daughter of the village’s most talented healers for miles around. That was how his parents described Senna and Lyran, even though the man died a year ago. In what universe would a girl with her pedigree and talents want to spend time with a dullard like him?

  She might declare Tol too silly, but he’d seen her laugh on many occasions at his tomfoolery as he pranced around like a puppy eager for treats. Although mildly amusing, Tol wasn’t anywhere near as accomplished as Cal’s best friend. Like a proud peacock, Verat never missed an opportunity to boast how his sense of humour had won him the affection of Lyrelie’s best friend, Freya, generally acknowledged as one of the prettiest girls in the village.

  Cal knew how much Lyrelie valued Ran’s advice whenever she wanted information. Despite his lumbering demeanour, the boy had comprehensive knowledge of many things. He was never happier than when bestowing his vast wisdom on someone less educated. However, he knew little about herbs and often questioned Cal, who freely shared facts about the healing properties of plants.

  Until he heard Ran repeat it to her, embellishing with long words as she hung on his every syllable. The next time Ran asked, Cal deliberately added incorrect details.

  A little later, as Ran answered Lyrelie’s question, Cal corrected him on the fiction. Acknowledging his sin, Ran’s normal ponderous manner took on fox-like cunning as he shuffled his feet. He could hardly say he’d deliberately purloined the information from Cal in the first place.

  Stopping at the river, Cal retrieved the pike from under the bridge, using it to break through the layer of ice. Every person knew the importance of giving the local wildlife access to the precious water beneath. As he worked, his mind replayed her thoughtless phrase. What on earth could she possibly mean by “Cal is too Cal?” Too stupid? Too dependable? Too boring? Aye, that would be it. In her eyes, he was as tedious as a piece of furniture, and she had no more feelings toward him than she would for a caring cousin. Or a benign brother. An unexciting uncle, maybe? She would never consider him as a potential suitor. He would need to do something daring to impress her.

  Replacing the tool in its hooks with a rueful shrug, Cal had a worrying image of last night’s Field Blessing. At the point when the thirteen farmers touched the oil-soaked faggots with a flame, nothing happened for an instant. Lyrelie had gasped, “Mama,” and Cal glanced over to see the healer collapse.

  The momentary suspension of proceedings dispersed before anyone but the farmers detected its presence. When he got home that night, he asked his father if he’d noticed any problems at the lighting of the charms. Although Farmon’s words denied it, Cal knew his father well enough to detect the underlying tension.

  Turning into the yard of his family farm, Cal worried about the wider issues. The local community of farmers had heard tales from surrounding areas. Alarming stories about the horrors suffered by their counterparts as the influential people in the new religion took every opportunity to denounce ancient practices as witchcraft and penalise anyone found observing the old ways.

  It put his concerns about the mystery man Lyrelie would be partnering at the Yule Ball into perspective.

  ~*~

  Lyrelie scanned the room for the fifth time since taking her seat at the long table reserved for councillors and their guests. The number of people made it difficult to find her friends. Finally, she spotted Freya and her parents, on the same table as Verat’s family.

  Her best friend, along with most of the table, appeared enthralled as Verat gesticulated wildly; obviously telling one of his famous funny stories. Freya sat opposite him, and Lyrelie delighted in her friend’s good fortune.

  “My apologies for neglecting you. Are you enjoying the meal?” The deep male voice to her right startled her, and she smiled at its owner’s ruggedly handsome face.

  “Yes.” Her voice squeaked and she cleared her throat, managing a little more volume as she continued. “Thank you. The meat’s very …”

  “Exotic?”

  “I was thinking unusual, but your word says it better.�
��

  “And very rich. Make sure you balance it with the vegetables and some wine.” He poured some deep red liquid into her goblet and passed it to her.

  She sipped, her face puckering at the tart taste.

  “Too sour? I can water it …”

  “No, it’s lovely as it is. Just not what I was expecting.” She didn’t want to appear completely ignorant in front of this sophisticated older man.

  “Well don’t overdo it. Drink plenty of water between each sip.” He returned to a conversation with her mother, who sat on his other side. His care and attention reminded Lyrelie of the way Cal would always look out for her.

  Resuming her search, she cringed as Tol waved madly at her, miming having a full belly, then pretending to snaffle at the food on his plate like a dog. Shaking her head, she moved on, catching Ran’s unwavering gaze. She tightened her lips in a half-smile, but his morose expression had her returning her attention to her neighbour.

  The man opposite had just questioned him about a technicality of his military training, and he gave an entertaining account of trying to teach a northern soldier a stealth technique for approaching his foe undetected.

  “In the end, we told him to play dead on his horse. The animal made less noise than he did, crashing through the undergrowth.”

  As most of the top table expressed their mirth, Lyrelie caught a glimpse of Farmon, Cal’s father, on a table to her left. She craned her head round a tall man, and saw Cal’s mother, Chalette, and their younger son, but no sign of the boy himself. Contenting herself that she at least knew where to go at the end of her feast, she finished the last of her lemon pudding.

  Magister Domenyk announced the dancing would begin directly, immediately claiming her mother. Lyrelie’s companion, Jarl, led her down to the first dance. For a soldier, he was surprisingly light on his feet, and she enjoyed being expertly wheeled round the floor.

  At the end of the dance, Lyrelie headed to Farmon’s table, only to find out Cal had stayed at home to tend a sick cow. With no Freya to intervene, she was quickly surrounded by Tol and Ran, who argued over which one should ask her to dance first. She couldn’t decide which experience was worse.

  Tol approached the dance with his normal enthusiasm, treading on her feet like a small bull. His futile attempts to cover his guilt made her smile, but her toes still throbbed.

  Ran barely moved around the room, concentrating more on his interminable tale about the white horse at Uffington he’d recently visited. As ever, he pontificated about the precise measurements and historical facts.

  When she tried to speak, he spun her around, even though the dance did not require it, and then went into great length about the process known as scouring. After her third failure, she gave up on her attempts to tell him her parents had taken her and Cal to one of the three-yearly events to re-define the edges of the animal. As he droned on, she remembered Cal daring her to lie down inside the tail - it was the first time he told her she was as good as any boy, but not the last.

  ~*~

  Cal ministered to Honeysuckle, his father’s most favoured cow, gently examining her still-swollen udder, pleased to see most of the angry heat had diminished. He knew from experience that keeping the teats clean and free from any residue was the fastest way for her to heal. She made a gentle lowing sound as he packed on a fresh poultice designed to draw out the heat and kill the invading germs. He’d been working closely with Senna to create the right combination of herbs and oils, and would be pleased to report the success of this latest recipe. Giving him a chance to speak to Lyrelie.

  He paused in his actions, feeling a little foolish at his disproportionate reaction to what he’d overheard at her window. Wounded by the imagined slight, he’d poured all his angry energy into his training. A troupe of sword-dancers lodged in one of his father’s unused barns for the season as they performed at various events. He joined their session and, although younger, he did not have their years of drilling, and struggled to keep up with their routines.

  Exhausted from the exertions, he was glad of the excuse to stay behind with Honeysuckle while the rest of the family attended the Yule Ball. He lay on a bed of hay in her corner of the barn, watching in case she needed attention, and inevitably fell asleep.

  His family had not awoken him on their return, so he spent the entire night lying on the unyielding straw. He awoke the next morning stiff and barely able to walk to the pump in the courtyard to wash off the night’s sleep.

  Members of the Black Hilt team were stretching out muscles ready for their early-morning training session. The leader chuckled at Cal’s state, suggesting he would benefit from performing the limbering-up routine throughout the day, and rubbing on some horse-balm. This raised lots of lewd remarks from the team, coarse fellows to a man.

  By the time he’d finished the session, his stomach groaned and grumbled its disgust. His mother heaped a bowl with energy-giving oats, sweetened with honey and home-churned cream and topped with nuts. As he ate, she gave her account of the previous eve’s event, describing how Senna had sat between Domenyk and Jarl, with both vying for her attention.

  “You would swear the magister had his own personal rain-cloud, the way his brows beetled every time the poor woman spoke to Jarl.”

  Cal nodded, his mouth full of the tasty oats.

  “Of course, we knew exactly what they were up to – Senna has made no secret of her dislike of Domenyk. So they schemed that Jarl should be Lyrelie’s partner, to give her mother some relief from the pompous creature.”

  Of course. Jarl! Someone Senna would approve of, being her dead husband’s cousin. As vibrations of feral bear energy accompanied his image of the muscular man, the dark thorns binding Cal’s heart broke apart. Not a rival of her own age. With his mind set at peace, he barely heard another word of his mother’s summary of who danced with who and which smith had been seen creeping outside with which milk-maid.

  With a light heart, Cal tended to his chores, his mind filling as usual with thoughts of Lyrelie. He examined every glance and comment she’d ever made, searching for clues about her feelings toward him.

  Too Cal, indeed!

  A smacking noise pulled him back from his reverie as Honeysuckle expressed her thirst. He fed her from the skin they used for animals struggling to suckle from their mother’s teats.

  She gulped noisily and the fortified milk dribbled down her cheeks. Pretending to chide her, he used the tender tone he’d heard his mother use whenever she got within cuddling distance of a babe.

  “Will you be singing a lullaby to help her sleep?”

  The sarcasm in the cold tone jerked him away from his unstable perch on the milking stool, and he landed on the floor, staring up to meet the cool gaze of the voice’s owner.

  He’d heard many times that Eanje was the most beautiful spinster in the village, but he could never get past her predatory energy. In his mind, the reason she’d reached the grand age of twenty-two without being claimed in marriage was evident. The woman – for she could no longer be described as a girl – was pure poison. Her sole function in life seemed to be stirring up trouble wherever possible.

  Forcing civility into his tone, he remained on the floor, refusing to allow her haughty presence to unnerve him. “If you’ve come to collect eggs or milk, you must speak to Mother.”

  “I already have. She told me I’d find you here. I have a message from Magister Ranly. You were supposed to attend the rehearsal this morning. If you do not meet with him by sunset, your performance will no longer be required in the Wheel of the Year celebration.”

  Cal berated his oversight – he’d been so caught up in his concerns about the sick cow, the morning’s rehearsal had slipped by, forgotten. It would be a shame to waste all the hours of practice. Honeysuckle’s gentle snores said she slept, so he leapt to his feet, darting past the messenger without a second thought.

  Unfortunately, she had anticipated his actions and he caught up with her at the start of the lane. “
Sorry, I need to hurry; I doubt you will be able to keep up with me.”

  She glanced at the heavy implements he carried, raising an eyebrow. “You have no need to rush; the Magister will not be back for another half hour. Plenty of time for a pleasant catch-up. We haven’t spoken for a while.”

  He frowned. They’d barely exchanged half a dozen words on any occasion – she always made older, better-looking men the object of her attention. But they were all married, and his father owning the largest farm in the area made him the most eligible bachelor in the village. Cal was under no illusions that her sudden interest in him had an ulterior motive. He had no choice but to accompany her or appear extremely rude.

  True to form, she began dripping her venom. “You are aware, I suppose, that Lyrelie accompanied the village’s most eligible bachelor to the Yule ball, last night.”

  So it’s not you, then? As his inner voice chuckled at his expense, Cal spoilt her ploy. “Yes. I know she went with her uncle, Jarl.”

  Eanje countered with not even the smallest pause. “And her mother snared the most eligible widower – quite a team, they made.”

  “Is there a point to any of this?”

  “I’m only doing what a good friend would do. The entire village knows how you treat Lyrelie as your sweet younger sister. I merely thought you would want to know how disgracefully she behaved last night in case you are called upon to defend her honour.”

  “I cannot imagine attending a ball with her uncle could be seen as anything less than proper by even the most salacious of gossips.” He glared pointedly at her, but the woman had no shame, gripping his arm.

  “If only that were the worst of it. The little strumpet danced with every young man in the village. She made even me look virtuous.”

  He disentangled his arm in distaste. “Lyrelie and I have many friends and we all enjoy dancing. I see no crime.”

  “You cannot possibly tell me young Ran likes to dance. Anyone less likely to turn a leg I cannot imagine. And yet there he was, twirling her round quite gaily. And she encouraged it.”