Pagan Curse (Tribes of Britain Book 2)

  PAGAN CURSE

  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 978-1-9160051-6-7

  Carantoc Publishing Ltd.

  www.carantocpublishing.com

  Join my readers’ group and receive the EXCLUSIVE STORY, Pagan Fury.

  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.

  Joint Chieftain, 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. Sign up here:

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

  Author Note:

  Although there is archaeological evidence of Cornish tin found in former Phoenician cities and settlements during the Late Bronze Age, there is little to support a direct trading relationship. Some historians believe that it is possible that the superior ship building skills allowed Phoenicians to venture as far as the Cornish coast, while others theorise that overland dealing across Europe is more likely. With this in mind, the following story contains elements based in fact and also themes extrapolated from theories. The remaining parts are products of the imagination.

  Please note that this novel 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.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The willow bark came away with ease, my blade sharp and comfortable in my hand. It was hard to find a tree along the river bank which had not yet been stripped, such was the desperation for pain relief in camp. For more than half a moon now, my family and new friends suffered the severest ague of the belly. It came with fever, headaches and vomiting, not to mention the trouble from their rear ends.

  With young Jago out searching for calming sorrel, I had to carry all that I harvested back to the settlement without help. The leader of the mining community, Kenver rushed to meet me as I neared his roundhouse. His eldest daughter was the latest to be struck with the sickness. I gave him a handful of willow and some fresh peeled blackthorn, instructing him to make a strong hot tea and get as much down her as she would take.

  It seems to pull the young ones down quicker than the strong warriors, but I admit to feeling worried that I might fall prey to the illness too before the worst was over. How then would I tend to those in most distress? I hurried back to the hut I shared with the former Ruvane, Cryda and her new babe. She seemed to have escaped the ailment thus far, thank the goddess. I slumped down onto my bunk exhausted by the whole affair. As soon as those suffering were treated, a new crop of people would appear at my door begging for prepared willow.

  Cryda swaddled the babe and lay her down on the bedding at my side. The dear little thing gurgled and chuckled blissfully unaware of the turmoil all around her. As much as I wanted to bide a while and take my fill of what little happiness she offered, there were patients to see and tonics to boil. I heaved my old bones back up and sighed.

  “Are many laid low with the sickness?” Cryda asked, pouring a little goat’s milk into a beaker and warming it through with a handful of thickening grains.

  “Too many. I just don’t understand it. A few people in the same family is quite normal, but it has cut a swathe right through camp. The only place I have not yet been called to, are the tents at the riverbank where the Priest Sect have settled.” That only struck me as odd as the words left my mouth. Until then, I had not considered the uneven spread of patients.

  Cryda thought about my statement and raised a suspicious brow. “Do you think they have invoked black magic to protect their clan?”

  “What, waving feathers and drinking a spot of chicken’s blood while spouting great nonsense? More likely they are too addled to mix with those who have the ague.” I drank a little ale from her cup and set to crushing the pith from the inner bark into the water boiling over the fire.

  Within a short while, Jago returned clutching a few twigs and stalks. The moment he entered, he cast them to the floor and rushed over to check up on the babe. Cryda smiled at his obsessive care for the child. Anyone would think him the girl’s father, not a lame slave boy from across the seas.

  I glanced at the stems wilting at my feet. “Where’s the sorrel I asked for?” I peered up at him, but he was lost in the carefree gurgles and splutters. Stooping to gather up the twigs, I flicked his shoulder on my way past. “The sorrel?”

  “Ah yes, I am sorry, Fur Benyn. There was no sorrel to be found anywhere, but I remembered that you told me about this plant with the funny name…” He pointed to the broken stalks in my hand. “Purple loosestrife, is that right?” The boy had learned a lot since he came into my service, and I appreciated the tender way with which he insisted on calling me wise woman, but this was not the plant I needed.

  “Loosestrife would help their problem bowels, it’s true, but I needed something for the fever that wouldn’t anger their bellies more.” How could I scold the boy after all that he’d been through? The gods must have a plan for this painted child, or he would not have survived such hardships and still be able to smile. Cryda spooned out some of the porridge from the beaker and gave it to me in a wooden bowl. I was too tired to eat. Passing it over to Jago, I continued to pound and grind the bark shavings.

  “You know what they are saying about camp, don’t you?” Cryda said, touching my arm to stop my labours. Of course, I knew. Everyone in the mining community, all of Blydh’s Hunter Clan and certainly all of the priests knew. They made it their business to cast the omen as wide as possible. The leader of the Priest Clan announced to all who would listen, that a great ague would lay low our people. The rune cast was made off the back of our tribal leader’s death, and swelled the number of our clans flocking to his religion. I should say he was a clever man, bending the feeble minded to his ways, but it sickens me to praise such devious methods of control. It never happened while Aebba lived. Now his young sons lead us, but are too green to recognise such wicked ways. Cryda was waiting for my answer.

  “Yes, I know all about his prophecy. The man shouted about it for long enough. He doesn’t scare me.”

  Cryda lowered her voice. “But what if he really does have the ear of the gods? What if they hear us saying unkind things, and they strike us, or my child, down with the sickness?”

  “Well, if that is the case, half the settlement has been bad mouthing him. Make an offering to the goddess if it worries you so. Cerridwen would not see your babe suffer.” I watched her nodding vigorously, before picking up the swaddled child and la
ying him in Jago’s open arms. I rolled my eyes, realising that I had lost the assistance of my slave yet again.

  With the smashed bark steeping in hot water, I went in search of my nephew, Blydh. I knew where he’d be at this time of the morning. There was no real need to check up on his health, but the walk down the valley to his house near the beach was refreshing and it was about as far from the priests as you could get. The winter breeze funnelled along the river blowing salt spray and new life into my old heart.

  Blydh was snoring under his furs when I strode into his house. One naked leg dangled from his bunk as though it didn’t belong to the rest of his body. Other than the stink of ale, I found no evidence of the ague and breathed a sigh of relief. Just to be sure, I reached over and touched the back of my hand to his forehead. It was cool. All was well.

  He must sleep lightly, as he stirred awake. “Aunt Mel, what’s happened? Why are you here?”

  “Pay me no heed, boy. I came to check that you were not taken by the fever.” I walked to the central fire and poked at the embers with a stick before adding more wood.

  He took his time to gain his bearings, sitting upright and rubbing at his face. “It’s getting worse, I hear. Practically every hut has someone with the flux.”

  “I’m doing my best to treat them all, but they don’t seem to be improving with my tonics. I really can’t understand it. They are the same recipes that I’ve always used, and the same mixtures that my mother taught me.” I sat on the end of his bed. He looked almost childlike. The hair on his face was so sparse, it didn’t cover his chin. How is he and his twin brother supposed to lead such a massive tribe as ours?

  For someone so stoic and calm, I detected a hint of panic in those big eyes of his. “Do you think the gods are furious with us? Maybe this is their way of getting back at us for killing the Lady Eseld?”

  I swallowed hard. It was not something I had considered. She had powerful mystical friends on her side. It was my fault entirely that she was accused of our Chieftain’s murder. They had all trusted my word. I was so sure that she had poisoned Aebba so that her son could become the new Metern of the Dumnoni Tribe. How was I to know that all the evidence was laid at my feet pointing to her as the culprit? How could I tell them that the Lady Eseld was sacrificed as a result of my mistake? I shuddered at the thought of her priestly father discovering the truth.

  “No, of course not, Blydh.” I blustered. “Someone probably ate some bad meat and now its spreading across camp. Gods wouldn’t be bothered with anything so trivial.” I stood up to leave. The discussion had taken an uncomfortable new direction.

  “We all heard the rune cast, Aunt Mel. We can’t say that he didn’t foresee this outcome.”

  I peered at the floor, unable to meet his eye, then pushed through the skins covering the entrance. Slightly shaken, I walked up to the coastal path and sat on the cliff side watching the wind whip the foam from the waves. The tide was almost fully out, revealing the spot where Blydh and Tallack’s warriors staked her to the low water mark. I had no love for Eseld, by Cernonnus, she was a constant stone in my shoe but she did not have to die. Her sins were minor compared to that of the real killer. She walks about the settlement as though she is the new Ruvane, despite the fact that she and Tallack are not bound together. Up until this last quarter moon, Jago and I have kept out of her way, but there will come a time for the truth. It always comes out eventually, no matter what attempts are made to keep it suppressed.

  It was blowing a gale up on the cliffs. I looked about for any useful plants but the biting wind drove me back down into the sheltered valley. When I drew close to my hut, I saw her standing outside, taunting me.

  “What do you want, Brea? I have much work to do this day.” I bustled passed her into the house, keen to be among others for protection. Cryda had not returned from making her offering to the goddess. Jago stood with the babe still cradled in his arms. The boy looked positively petrified when he saw Brea follow me inside.

  There was no way that I would let her intimidate me. I picked up my largest knife from the leather wrap and slammed it down on to the loosestrife stems. It made such a noise, the child awoke and bawled.

  “I… um, just thought you’d like to know that the scout returned from the cliff path. Tallack’s boats have been spotted. He should be here before nightfall.” She loitered next to my shoulder. I couldn’t decide whether she was trying to re-ignite the friendship we once shared or whether she just enjoyed putting people on edge.

  I turned to face her with my blade held aloft next to my face. “Good.” I waited. She didn’t move. I raised a brow and pursed my lips. “Was that all?” Narrowing my eyes, I met her gaze with the confidence that only an old woman like me can muster. She flinched first. Turning on her heels, she scampered from our hut without another word. Before she could release the door flaps, I let the heavy knife swing and hit the chopping block again. I swear I heard her jump with a little gasp. I had to be on my guard with that one. She had a knack of creeping about unseen. To my knowledge she was responsible for at least two deaths and almost took my life twice. I doubt Cernonnus would spare me a third time.

  Even still, it doesn’t pay to anger the girl. It was a good thing that there were no long feasting huts in the settlement. There was no time for merriment in a world filled with long days beneath the ground, chipping out rocks for the smelters to turn into tin ingots for trade. I miss the old camp next to the River Exe further east. For one, there was a great deal more space to spread out. There was plenty of room for our livestock and for me to grow herbs. This valley was never meant for all the clans to over winter. It’s probably half the reason for the sickness spreading so quickly.

  My bark tonic had turned a deep yellow, almost brown. With a length of woven fabric stretched across a beaker, I strained the hot liquor ready to dilute for my patients. They would have to take it without the sweetness of honey. All my supplies had run out and there was no chance of more until the summer.

  I could not get the memories of Brea out of my head. She was cunning and ruthless. I thought about how she had taken one of my knives for ill intent before. If she rifled through my possessions now, she would come across the long sword of curious metal I found at the lakes near to Stonehenge. Brea wouldn’t think twice about running me or Jago through with such a weapon.

  I hurried to its hiding place beneath my bunk and instructed Jago to wrap it with fur and place it in one of the abandoned mine shafts further up the valley. He seemed to comprehend my thoughts, since he did so immediately and without question. At least no one would ever find that and use it against us.

  With my willow and blackthorn tonics in two separate jugs, I began to make my rounds of all the affected houses. My first stop was at Kenver’s house. I called out to those inside and waited for them to move the wooden panel keeping out the worst of the draughts. Kenver’s son was on the inside, looking gravely concerned for his sister’s failing health. I craned my neck to see behind him. Kerensa, was doubled over a wooden bowl, emptying the contents of her stomach and groaning in between.

  I recalled my instructions to their father about making her willow tea. It must have made her stomach sore. All I could offer her was more of the blackthorn, but that would only help with staunching the flow at her other end. Poor young woman was covered in her own mess. Her mother fussed about, wiping her clean and wrapping more furs around to stop the trembling chills. She shoved a large jug at her son and instructed him to fetch more water from the river.

  There was nothing I could do to help. Kenver thanked me for calling in, but I could see that he wanted me well away from his family’s pain and suffering. Picking up my tonics, I left their home for the next patient along the river bank. By the fifth hut, my arms were aching from carrying the jugs. I set them down and sat on a boulder for a rest, watching people go about their day all around me. Up the valley, I could just make out the miners’ shelters. Few had permanent fixtures like Kenver’s, using clay wattle o
ver woven hurdles. These were people who did not make old bones. Their long days below ground left them with little energy to fix up their homes.

  On the other side of the river, lay the priest’s camp. Theirs was a collection of green timber framed tents to suit their nomadic lifestyle. They were easy to dismantle and carry to the next destination. I was starting to think that this was the longest they’d ever stayed in one place, but then their leader had recently lost his daughter at the low water mark on the beach. His warriors spent their days smoking hemp and communing with the gods, while their women folk did all the work.

  I looked at their leader with mixed feelings brewing in my heart. The man had caused untold grief to my kin over the last few cycles, but to my knowledge, he was not responsible for any of their deaths. My mistake had left him without a daughter. He wore his grief on his arm; a black feather secured in a leather band. It must be another one of his new religion’s ways. It was not how we marked the death of a loved one.

  We of course also shared the mourning of his granddaughter, my niece, killed in her attempted raid of this mining encampment by her brother’s warriors. I felt her loss as though she was my own child, but the manner of her attack made it impossible for me to voice my grief. I bore it alone and silently.

  Rested, I picked up the jugs to continue on my way upstream to the miners, when something odd caught my attention. The leader of the Priest Sect left his tent carrying a water container and walked away from the river. Spurred on by curiosity and suspicion, I crossed the tributary over the footbridge and followed him into the woodland beyond.

  The jugs felt heavier the longer I carried them. Tucking them behind a tree trunk, I was free to amble along behind the old man. At first, I thought his vessel might be full of something he wished to be rid of, but as he swung it by the rim close to his legs, I could see that it was empty. On he walked, deep into the forest until he came upon a spring, gushing clear water from the rocks. As he filled his pot, I crouched low so that he would not see me. For someone who delights in drinking chicken blood and smearing red clay all over his body, he was going to an awful lot of trouble to collect water, when the river flowed right behind his tent.