Pagan Death (Tribes of Britain Book 1) Read online

  Pagan Death

  Sam Taw

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2019 Sam Nash writing as Sam Taw. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book, or any portion thereof, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher or author.

  Cover art supplied by Carantoc Publishing Ltd

  First edition, 2019

  ISBN 978-1-9160051-9-8

  Carantoc Publishing Ltd.

  www.carantocpublishing.com

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  https://www.carantocpublishing.com/sam-taw

  Three unsuitable lovers.

  Two valuable metals.

  One critical mission.

  The Dumnonii have no copper for their forges. Without a new supply, there will be no more bronze weapons for the inevitable battle ahead.

  Tallack, must cross the western ocean to negotiate an alliance with the obstinate Dathi of the Ivernii and complete an impossible task to gain his trust.

  Can he succeed where once his father failed?

  Join the young warrior and his crew in a lust fuelled, intense quest on the shores of Iwerdon and find out for yourself.

  This story takes place between book one, Pagan Death, and book two, Pagan Curse. Please be aware that there will be spoilers that might ruin the enjoyment if they are read out of order.

  Author Note:

  Evidence supporting lifestyle in the Late Bronze Age emerges almost on a daily basis, thus is the changing nature of archaeological theories. While much of the story is grounded in fact, some aspects are products of the author’s imagination, for example, previous historical theory suggested that trading could have taken place between Phoenicians and Cornish settlers in this era. This has now been refuted as unlikely, and yet it makes a compelling storyline. While I have tried to find conclusive proof to support the story, there may be some inaccuracies as new digs unearth the truth.

  Please note that this product was created by a British author. Except for Cornish words, slang and dialogue, spelling and grammar are corrected to British English. There are also scenes which may offend more sensitive readers. It is not deemed suitable for children.

  To Old Pop, for his love of long forgotten things.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Curse this rain. My old bones ache. Why Eseld can’t perform this ritual closer to home is a mystery. Not that the Goddess of Lakes and Seas will listen to her. It's been nigh on ten springs, and it continues to pour. I should have worn my winter furs. At least it'll get warmer later around the fire pits at the feast. Get a drop of warm ale in my gut. That'll do me nicely. Shame about that servant girl. I rather liked her. It seems such a waste to just slit her throat and let her blood course into the current. The least they can do is to keep her skinny little body covered until her time comes. Poor mite is shaking more than I. No wonder, I suppose. Who would want to go in such a way? Five and twenty heads of families all looking on while she shivers in the rain, her arse sticking out for all to see. No, that is no way to go. I suppose that's what you get when you're caught in between your Chieftain's furs; his spiteful second wife chooses you for sacrifice. Give Eseld credit where it's due though, she can certainly put on a good show.

  The Sun broke through the low mists and glinted from the ripples on the River Exe. Its swollen waters lapped at the jetty planks on which Eseld stood. For once, we had caught a break in the storms. Pulling back the hood of her cloak, she raised her arms in the air. "Oh, good and gentle goddess, have mercy on us. We cannot survive another failed harvest. Our meagre grain stores rot before we can make bread, our animals grow sick and die, our hunting grounds shrink in the floods." This she said with such conviction, that she gripped the blade in her fist too tight. Blood trickled down her wrists. "Spare us your wrath, and we will honour you for all eternity."

  The tribal Metern, Chieftain Aebba, stamped his foot against the planking. "Get on with it, woman." He lifted his heavy woollen tunic and pulled out his pintel and then proceeded to piss from the end of the pontoon. Eseld gasped, her look of horror transforming into a seething stare. Aebba's first wife, Cryda covered her mouth with the back of her hand and chuckled. She stood between the Ordoviches Tribe visitors, come to trade for our tin. They are shorter than our kinsfolk, but their calf muscles bulge when they walk. Must be all the mountains they climb.

  Eseld stood and waited for Aebba to complete the evacuation of his bladder, and then turned her back to him. "Forgive him, great lady, for our Metern’s water is no disrespect, but a form of blessing."

  At this Aebba laughed so heartily, I thought he might lose his footing and slip into the river himself.

  Eseld would not be dissuaded from her performance. With the entire royal court lined up along the bank in awe, she urged the continuance of the ceremony. "We give unto thee our riches. Paega, you first my darling boy." Eseld beckoned to her eldest child. He looked up at her and shrugged. "Your sword, son." She urged.

  "No, you can't be serious? I've only had it for two moons, it's the keenest edge in the land."

  "All the more reason to give it unto our lady." Eseld beckoned him onto the jetty. Paega growled under his breath, unhooking the belt securing the weapon to his hip. He stomped down the walkway, the planks bowing under his gait.

  Dangling the bronze sword and scabbard over the surging river, his pained expression converted into a scowl. The prime metalwork sunk beneath the muddy surface and vanished. He turned on his mother. "Happy now?" He spat, before clumping back to shore.

  His little sister removed a copper bangle from her arm, scurried onto the platform and threw it down near her feet. "For our lady," she muttered.

  Aebba patted her head. "Good girl. Run along now."

  "And what will the Ruvane sacrifice?" Eseld sneered.

  Aebba’s first wife and tribal Ruvane, Cryda, glided forwards, crossing paths with the youngster. She touched her shoulder and descended the embankment to the platform. Not to be outdone by such pageantry, Cryda stretched out her arms and pulled back the hood of her cloak. Her golden hair twisted and braided, and secured by a finely carved horn comb. This she removed and held in her outstretched palm.

  "This was a gift from my royal father, the Metern of the Cantii. I offer it to our lady with love." Tipping her hand, the comb fell into the silted mud banks. Slaves rushed forwards, clamouring to retrieve the article first, wading waist deep in the filth. A bony slave of no more than fifteen springs swooped down, cleaning it on his rough tunic before handing it back to Cryda.

  She rewarded the creature with a smile before launching the comb high into the air. Everyone watched it land in the fast-flowing channel, to be carried down to the sea. Cryda looked to the visitors, who in turn fidgeted under her gaze.

  One of them ventured, "A fine offering, Ruvane Cryda." While the second felt obliged to remove his own pin badge and toss it into the Exe.

  When all the material goods were delivered unto the goddess, Eseld grabbed the slave girl by the arm and shoved her to the end of the dock. Tears streamed down her ruddy cheeks as she hugged herself and shivered. Her pale naked body faced the opposite bank.

  Eseld cupped a beaker of woad, daubing the girl’s back with symbols she had learnt from a childhood with the Priest Sect. Spirals and interlocking runes appeared in blue, while Eseld chanted her incantations and rolled her eyes to the back of her head as though
she was possessed by some lordly spirit. Chilled, I edged closer to the warmth of my pony, skirting behind Cryda and her Ordo Tribe visitors.

  Eseld looked around at her audience. The Chieftain was losing interest. He fiddled with his beard and then sought out Cryda's glance, winking and sticking out his tongue in playful banter. She giggled and effused in return, toying with her collar in a coy, yet seductive manner. Aebba licked his lips. "Quicken your pace, wife. This damp air will rot my toes before you are done." He jogged Eseld’s elbow with such force, she jabbed the blade into the slave girl's arm, who squealed and darted away. Eseld caught hold of her hair before she could make her escape.

  With a stream of priestly words, Eseld raised the knife to the shrieking girl’s throat and sliced it across her windpipe. Crimson spurts showered Eseld, making Aebba pace backwards from the splatter to preserve his finery. With eyes wild and mouth foaming blood red, Eseld held her juddering body over a basin on the jetty, catching a measure of the girl’s steaming blood. When the writhing ceased, Eseld pushed her into the river, and stood basking in the spectacle. Slave blood dripped from her chin and hands.

  Eseld stepped up to the Metern, and painted a spot of blood on his forehead between his brows. He braced himself as it trickled down his nose.

  "Are you finished, woman? Can we get back to feasting and celebrating our visitors now?" Aebba brushed Eseld backwards and returned to his horse, leaving the slaves to clear up the mess. I stooped to gather a bunch of fresh watercress and clambered up onto my pony. His body heat and musky smell was a welcome relief after the fetid stench of slave innards.

  Eseld is playing a risky game. If her sacrifice fails to stop the rains, Aebba will have another reason to cast her aside. Their union did little to unite the clans as Aebba had hoped. Eseld’s father, leader of the priest sect, had forged an uneasy alliance with the Durotridge Tribe, east of Exeter. Their constant forays onto our lands stretched the limits of our warriors. Aebba sent riders to patrol the borders, leaving Exeter and the mines on the west coast unguarded. Before the priests could mount an attack, Aebba invited Eseld and her father to the Chieftain encampment, with the intention of bartering for their union. Aebba made token promises to her father about adopting their faith and rituals, and consulting them before major decisions, knowing full well that their nomadic existence would test communications.

  The coup was averted, but the threat remained. He had no love for Eseld. That he reserves for Cryda, she of Cantii Chieftain blood. It is his third wife I pity the most, a young maiden of the Ordoviches Tribe. Their marriage opened the way for copper trading with the wealthiest tribe in all of Kembra. It was not such a good deal for the young Brea, forced to adopt a Dumnoni name at the time of their binding ceremony. This little maiden endured six springs of Aebba's advances and still she remains without child. I saw she had a fresh crop of bruises yesterday. I must mix her a tincture to ease her suffering. She is the only woman in the camp I can stomach.

  Our journey back along the riverbank to Exeter was delayed when Cryda's royal waggon got bogged. Aebba would not wait until the oxen could be hitched from a nearby homestead, galloping off to his throne room and a quart of warm ale. I left the safety of the procession and ambled back through the shacks and huts with one warrior to protect me and a couple of slaves eager to be rid of the mud. The closer we got to camp, the more insistent the beggars and waifs became. Their shredded rags did nothing to hide their protruding bones. Some were covered in sores and cankers. I hope to the goddess that these rains stop and we can plant new crops. I handed out what metal nuggets I had with me, and heeled the pony’s flanks to hurry him into the Metern’s encampment. Slipping down onto the mounting block, I trudged along the boardwalks and into the long house. Aebba had already stripped off his wet shoes and leggings and was drying himself against the fire.

  "Nephew!" I yelled from the door flap. "I need more supplies and I am out of tin ingots."

  He lifted his tunic and turned to heat his bum cheeks. "Speak to Paega. He'll set you up."

  "You really should do something about the growing numbers of starving and homeless at your gates."

  "We do. They get the left over scraps my dogs don't want." He chortled. I could see he had already been at the ale.

  "I mean it, Aebba. These are desperate times, and if you don't trade with the Frynks for some grain, you could have an uprising on your hands." I let the door flap fall and paced closer. It was hard not to strike a belligerent stance.

  "Is this how you speak to your Chief, aunt?"

  "No one is around to hear us. Besides, I pulled you from your poor mother’s loins. Great lump you were too. If I cannot give you my advice, there is no hope left for the Dumnonii."

  He glared at me; his chin dipped to his chest. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence regarding each other, he relented. "Fine. I'll look into it. Now give me peace, old woman, or I'll have you whipped." The grin plastered across his face countered his angry brow. He was teasing his old aunt. I shuffled away content that he had heard me.

  By noon, our whole party had returned and Eseld was in high spirits, directing the slaves and arranging the roasting spits and sweet offerings. I slipped away. With a plentiful supply of tin in my pouch, I hurried back to my hut and secreted all but a couple of ingots in my hidden trove. Not even my slaves know of its whereabouts.

  Despite the creeping chill, I braved the new rains to check on my herb plot. All too often the young boys allow our herd to trample the hurdle fencing and let them graze on the young shoots before I can make them into tinctures and ointments. As it happens, all was well, but some of the seedlings had perished in the boggy conditions. With my pony kitted out with haulage bags, I sharpened my blade on the grinding stone and headed into the woods. It was a bit early, and altogether too cold for mushrooms, but I reckoned on a fair bit of willow bark and milk thistle. I had just cut a few withies for scraping my teeth and was stripping them of leaves, when I heard talking close to the riverbank. A deep lyrical tone of a man and another whose voice I know well. Leaving my labours, I picked my way between the undergrowth to catch their words.

  Cryda fawned over the Ordo visitor, twirling her hair around a finger and leaning on his shoulder. They mumbled so that I could not make out their speech, but from their choice of secluded meeting place, they were not discussing the weather. As she whispered something into his ear, the Ordo’s brows rose in surprise. What had she suggested? There were more low conspiratorial utterances and then she moved away. She then slipped off a thick, tin bracelet from her wrist and gave it to him. His eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. That was greater wealth than he would see in his whole lifetime. He turned the bangle around in his hands, examining the fine scratch marks and decorations on its surface. Beaming with delight, he nodded to Cryda.

  My foot slipped from the tree root on which I balanced. I landed with a thud and a groan. Spooked, Cryda gathered up her linens and ran from the forest. I picked myself up and rubbed my ankle. By the time I got to my feet, they had both gone. It's a good job I harvested the willow bark first. Chewing on the bitter fibres, I let the juices numb the pain and my pony take my weight back to my hut. The slaves stowed the plants and roots in my growing collection of jars and beakers, and warmed some water over the fire to bathe and bind my grazes.

  What a fine sight I shall make at the feast this evening. Wearing my best tunic and with beads woven into my white hair, I hobbled across the boardwalks to the Long Hut at sundown. It was my intention to secure a spot as close to the fires as possible. I know from my many weary years; how tedious these events can be. At least I would be warm and well fed. With one of Aebba's furs over my shoulders and my feet toasting nicely, I settled down for the evening’s entertainment.

  The Metern and Ruvane Cryda made their spectacular entrance, late as is their custom, and glowing from the afternoon antics. I rather suspect Cryda had ignited his lust through guilt, for she had a furtive look about her which darted between everyone pr
esent, carefully avoiding the Ordo visitor.

  Aebba hoisted himself onto his favourite bench at the head of the hut, his hefty rump cushioned with layers of skins and furs, stuffed with the fleece from our sheep.

  His bronze cup filled with warmed ale, he sat content to survey his lot. Cryda sat to his left, her own chaise similarly decked out, for the lengthy feast ahead. Aebba's lesser wives, Eseld and the mousy Brea, sat beneath him, their chaise low to the ground and draughty. Eseld scowled from her lowly position, no doubt brewing up ways to best Cryda and gain Aebba's favour. The family elders sat closer to the door. Their conversations were awkward and stilted.

  Each head of the family, rose from their bench and presented Cryda with lavish gifts, from carved bead necklaces to wolf fur hats. Eseld seethed. Every now and then, she would turn in her seat to smile at Paega, sitting in his lofty position to the right of Aebba. He was her one and only lauded achievement. The eldest child and heir to all of Dumnonium, that's if Cryda's twin boys do not decide to challenge him.

  In due course, the beer flowed, mellowing tempers and relaxing tongues. A solitary piper blew sweet tunes into our ears as we filled our bellies with roasted boar and roots. The wind howled through the door flap, accompanied by a torrential downpour. One of the slaves lifted a wooden panel over the gap, shutting out the worst of the wild weather.

  "Looks like your sacrifice this morning was a waste of time, Eseld." Cryda taunted, grinning at the Ordo man sitting alongside her.

  Eseld stood up and turned to the Chief’s plate, snatching the leftover bones from a bird he had eaten. She scraped off the remaining meat and sinews and rattled them inside her cupped hands, chanting garbled words and imbuing them with a curse or spirit blown from her own mouth.

  "Oh, great lady, show me the future of this tribe. What will be the fate of Aebba and his kin?" She threw the bones down on the table before the Metern and plucked a copper comb from her hair. With careful prodding of the hairpin and a gasp of horror, she said, "You have mocked the Lady of the Lakes, you shall know her wrath."