Pagan Siege (Tribes of Britain Book 5) by Sam Taw (10 best novels of all time TXT) 📕

I could well believe it; they were in a similar shape to Ren, only they hadn’t caught an ague. “I haven’t seen either of you about camp before. Who’s your mother? Where are you staying?” I looked all about the huts at the south eastern side of the compound for their parents, but saw only those I knew already.

The boys looked down at their feet. “Our mother’s dead.” The tall one said.

“And your father?”

“He came back half drowned from a fishing accident in the estuary a quarter moon ago.”

“You live downstream in the stilted huts?”

They nodded, clutching their groaning bellies. How could I turn them away? I found a couple of wooden bowls and gave them a third of the broth, watering down the remainder to stretch the meat and roots. When the bread was cooked, they near snatched my hand off. The slurping and belching woke Ren, who wondered how I’d attracted such waifs into his home.

At nightfall, all the broth was gone and I sent the lads back to their father with a couple of strips of dried venison. It was all I could spare. The boys spoke of the difficulties the fisherman was having in bringing home a decent catch. It seems the warm water had chased the shoals out into the tricky currents of the bay. Half the families living alongside them were just as starving. The women and children foraged for what shellfish, crabs and seaweed they could find but the shoreline was already stripped bare.

When Ren was settled, I left him to speak to my nephew about the food shortages. Stopping at the raised grain store, I muttered my greetings to the guard and peered into the open hatch. The warrior held a torch aloft for me to see inside. A small mound of barley sat in the middle, no larger than the circle of stones around my own hut fire. It would barely be enough to feed a family for a quarter moon, let alone everyone in camp. I had to urge my nephew into action.

Two large torches illuminated the cracked earth and brown patches of grass either side of the Long Hut door. I could tell from the noise within, that my nephew was indulging the warriors with another feast. After the shameful state of those two young boys, I was more than a little cross with his extravagance. He was happy to ply the Head Hunters and Sea Warriors with fine roasted boar and goat, in return for them riding out to the River Sid to look menacing while our fishermen and their children starved.

I stood in the doorway and scanned the top table at the far end of the room. The two tall chairs belonging to Tallack and his poor dead brother, Blydh, were both empty. Treeve sat in pride of place in the seat reserved for the first wife of the Chieftain. How that young man had the nerve, I’ll never know. If Tallack’s father was looking down on the state of this tribe from the Summerlands, he’d come back and haunt us all.

Before long, Tallack made himself heard. He was sitting among the Sea Warriors, his eyes misted with tears. “That was when we stood back to back and fought them off, with flaming branches and bronze swords, we sent the whole pack scampering away yelping with their tails between their legs.” He sniffed and banged his cup down hard on the table. “There was none better than Blydh the Brave.” The men stamped their feet and hammered their fists on the table in praise of the fallen warrior. He was feasting his brother’s passing. Something we’d not had the chance to do since the burial at the cromlech near to the moors. This would be a harder discussion than I thought.

Tallack caught sight of me loitering behind him. “Aunt Mel, come and drink to the best of warriors, the finest Chieftain since Aebba the Wild, maybe even Cador, eh?”

I shook my head. “Don’t liken him to my brother.” He shuffled along the bench and made room for me to sit down next to him. “Cador was pure evil. Blydh was nothing like him, thank the gods.” It was stretching the truth somewhat, but there was no harm in it, now he was gone. Tallack hadn’t the luxury of grieving. He had to hold himself together while he ruled the tribe alone.

One of his warriors pushed the ale jug closer and found me a cup. These were Tallack’s men. Every one of them was loyal to him. Blydh’s Head Hunter Clan sat on the opposite benches, sneering and muttering their private jokes together. While my nephew was in his cups, there would be no chance to talk some sense into him. He’d already mishandled Kenver, several times over. Now he looked set to lose the respect of his brother’s men too.

“Tallack, the grain store is almost empty. There’s barely enough for bread, let alone to replenish your ale stocks.”

His movements were slow and ungainly. He was having trouble focusing on my face. “So, we can trade for some. We have new allies now you know.”

“Yes, I was there, remember? We don’t have any tin with which to trade.” I waited for my statement to sink into his addled brain.

“Good point. Then I will send to the mines for more tin first and then trade for grain.”

“Except you have just let Kenver go back to the Bentewyn mine in the certain knowledge that you know who…” I flicked my head towards Treeve sitting above us all in the Ruvane chair and lowered my voice to a rasp. “Killed his daughter.”

Tallack swayed backwards on the bench and looked up at his lover. “He didn’t kill Kerensa, Aunt Mel. I did. He just got rid of the body.” The room went silent. The Head Hunters made low grumbling sounds and tuts. “She was working with Brea and those kyjyan Skotek Novantae. Going behind our backs… what else was I supposed to