Clegg The Teller

Volume Two
1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-80381-476-6
Verlag: Grosvenor House Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 383 Seiten

The Teller, volume 2, is a continuation of the story of survival in what we call, the Early Iron Age, made all the more desperate by the fact two potentially hostile tribes now occupied the same coveted swathe of territory, actually the rich, rolling farmlands north of the river Severn.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Clegg, John

Leseproben

Chapter One

“The Teller’s coming!” a small boy gasped. He had beaten his two friends up the long slope of the entryway, sprinting up the path, a brown straight line between the palisaded defences bristling atop the steep earth banking either side. He gulped enough air to shout again and eyes wild, face shining with sweat, he pointed down the valley. People stopped what they were doing and families emerged from dark interiors. Their thatched dwellings, virtually filling the bastion’s interior, were dotted about like massive burgeoning shaggy mushrooms and storerooms on their support posts had a jaunty look as if thoroughly pleased at having managed to sprout on what little ground remained.

Slowly a crowd gathered at the main east gate and the three boys raced back down the well-worn track to re-join their comrades escorting the Teller to his destination. Workers dotted on the mid-sections of the ringed defences stopped and stared. Some held iron picks, a few shouldered their iron-tipped wooden shovels, but the majority of men wielded trusty antler picks. Moving earth in the wicker baskets seemed to be a job for women and children. They all downed tools and descended like ghosts swelling the ranks of the young ones following the Teller’s horse as it plodded, head low, slowly ascending the narrow killing zone, its palisaded sides now crowned by watching faces.

The Teller was mildly surprised at the all the attention. Recognising the ruddy faced official waiting to greet him, he slid wearily from his horse not wanting to appear vaunted in his presence. The man offered a hand and beamed a practiced smile, not at him directly, but at an imagined distraction, just above eye level away in the middle distance.

As he was led through the throng, all watched intently, silently peeling back to form a funnel. The sound of hooves’ dull plod on soft mossed turf receded as the horse was led away to food, water and stabling in the lee of the palisade and the Teller, hurrying a few steps, caught up with the official, briskly leading the way towards the main hall. When attempting to explain, bad weather had delayed him, the man had merely returned an impenetrable stare. Even details of the Habren ferry being swept away, had made no impact. With the hall entrance looming ahead, he decided, ‘Best keep a still tongue.’

Inside, with eyes gradually adjusting, came the slow realisation of the true enormity of the dining board. He had heard tell of it, apparently split from a forest giant and eying its girth dominating the whole width of the hall, he was filled with awe. Above, were the dark bulging shapes of hams, hung to cure along the length of a central beam and even higher, almost lost in the dimness, dangled looping strings of sausages and flitches of bacon. Central as always, a small fire had been lit, crackling expectantly, ready for the pile of logs to be heaved on later.

A small trestle table, near the hearth, was laden with bowls and wooden platters in precarious stacks. From an adjacent rack hung flesh-forks, ladles, skewers, chains and hooks, their crusty blackening contrasting with the rosy glints reflecting off wicked blades dangling in readiness.

Now used to the gloom, the Teller spotted an opening, far side and guessed that to be where the aroma of roasting meat drifted from. It reminded him, he’d not eaten since sunrise.

“We thought it would please you to be seated here.” The voice gave him a start.

I am truly honoured.

“Well of course. You wouldn’t have expected anything less would you?”

Before he could answer, that it wasn’t quite his way to be living in such high expectation of preferment, the man swept past him. A servant had appeared in the main doorway and was obviously now of greater interest than his reply.

In truth he hadn’t known what to expect. On his previous visit he had felt apprehensive as to how his style of delivery would be received, but had sensed on that final eve of the telling, it and the tale itself had in fact been quite well appreciated. He felt quite overawed now, however, on seeing he had been raised in status, not merely offered food as had happened previously, but deemed worthy of a place at the chieftain’s dining board. He silently beseeched the spirits to grant him the gift of words powerful enough to warrant it.

He was led across the central rise of the fort’s interior, all eyes following their progress to a strange shaped dwelling. It comprised of two circular huts joined by a central ridged roof. Below overhanging thatch there were the usual gullies to channel rainwater away, but where the central deluge would spout, was a water butt, mellowed at its leading edge by much usage and above the glisten of mud below, dark green moss gave way to a lighter hue, that blended in pleasantly with the pale riven front. It had been fashioned from a hollowed trunk, having a transom type board either end as would a boat. Eying it warily, the Teller wondered, ‘Was its generous girth there to accept those unfortunates who failed to meet the chieftain’s expectations?’

He couldn’t remember seeing it, or the strange double hut on his previous visit and glancing around, noticed many other things had changed, but his attention was sharply brought back to the entrance as knuckles on the sounding board, rapped an urgent order for those within to ready themselves. The two ducked under the protruding thatched porch and proceeded into the gloom.

The couple had obviously been expecting him and both shot to their feet, smiled and gave hint of a welcoming bow. The woman, removing an apron, briskly patted to straighten the front of her skirt and her man spread an arm of invitation to approach the fire, the heart of the house. At this point, having observed all was in order, the official reminding the Teller, as one would a forgetful child, they were to meet again later, gave all a hearty farewell and headed towards the doorway. There was a discernible sense of relief as the three watched his departure, ducking back out to become fleetingly silhouetted against the sunlight.

The Teller was led through the passageway into the adjoining hut and shown the section, curtained off for his exclusive use. His host, looking a little nervous, anxious to please, said he hoped everything would be found adequate and with a hint of a bow, retired. It was only now, the Teller thought he vaguely remembered the man, but seeing so many people on his travels, he couldn’t be sure.

Against one curve of the wall stood a wooden bench, top burnished by nothing more than honest toil and dangling above, tools hung, neatly arrayed on a rack. There was a sharp pungency of cured leather and the hides hanging from beams led the Teller to surmise, the man of the house made his living by fashioning shoes. This was later confirmed, the man working in tandem with his eldest son, but apparently, the rest of his surviving children had moved on and now lived in various locations dotted about the valley.

Drawing the curtain aside the Teller was mildly surprised to see all his belongings had arrived before him, neatly stacked by the wooden cot, awaiting snug beneath the curve of thatch. A bowl of water had been placed on a shelf and refreshing himself, he resisted the impulse to groan with relief as the liquid cooled his face. A cloth for drying had been left folded on the bed. The coverings, turned back in welcome, had that tight-straightened, neat look that only women seem able to manage. A wave of relief surged through him. Over the ensuing few days, he had no need to worry about where exactly he was to rest his head. It was good to be back.

He re-joined his hosts by the fire. The man apologised for not having drawn his attention to a detail of huge importance. The Teller was led back to be shown a section of the daubed wattle that could be opened by raising the locking bars; an escape route in the event of something always feared in a building such as this; the thatch catching fire.

They returned to the hearth where a tasty bowl of hot pottage, slab of bread and horn beaker of sorrel barley-water had been put on offer. The liquid’s sour hint cut through his thirst and the food itself was surprisingly commendable. A stool had been made available and from where he sat it soon became obvious many eyes were watching from the doorway. There were muffled sniggers then outright laughter as one child, who had obviously been pushed, struggled to reverse his forward motion, being keen to regain concealment. The shoemaker shouted, but the shrieks of delight mingled with the merest zest of fear, suggested the man was quite a genial soul.

“I’ll try and make sure that doesn’t happen again syr,” he said returning to his squatting posture.

They’re just children. They mean no harm. And please, there’s no need to call me, syr.

“Very well, syr. I’ll do as bid.” The man’s eyes suddenly widened and a troubled look darkened his brow.

The Teller turned to see a tall slender figure, enrobed in light grey linen, who on meeting his gaze gave slight glint of fellowship and his ethereal air on approaching the hearth, bestowed an almost spiritual aura. All rose in greeting, but rather than stepping forward as did their guest, the hosts seemed more intent on shrinking into the gloom, as if keen to appear as inconspicuous as possible. The fact that the stranger’s white locks were constrained by the simplest of tight bronze circlets, identified him as the Seer. Being bearded made his blue glint of eye seem all the...