The Northern Throne (Warrior Druid of Britain Book 3) by Steven A. McKay

Author:Steven A. McKay [McKay, Steven A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Broadsword Publishing
Published: 2020-08-21T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sigarr was tired and wanted nothing more than some mead and freshly baked bread, but he knew Hengist would need to hear his report as soon as possible. Sigarr was not relishing the meeting, for the return voyage from Dunnottar had taken almost double the time it should have thanks to some unfavourable winds and then a storm that damaged the Ceolgar’s sail. The men had been forced to put in at the first safe place and perform crude repairs.

The length of time it had taken for the journey, along with the ultimate failure of his mission, meant Sigarr dreaded meeting the bretwalda, and even more so if Hengist’s boorish brother, Horsa, was around. It had to be done though, and the sooner the better. Then Sigarr could make his way to his own tent, find some refreshments, and enjoy a night’s sleep on solid ground.

He passed warriors, some even with their women and children having brought them here to settle in Britannia with them, and nodded greetings to those he recognised. They sharpened weapons and mended damaged armour but also told one another stories, prepared meals together and lived a somewhat ‘normal’ life. What had once been very much a military encampment here in Garrianum had become more of a normal settlement to these newcomers from across the sea, and why not? Apart from the warriors, this place boasted massive stone walls built by the now-departed Romans. Garrianum was a safe haven to the people it had originally been intended to keep out.

In the centre of it all was the stone building that housed the Saxon bretwalda.

“Ah, Sigarr,” Hengist said, smiling as the little jarl came through the doorway into the spacious room the Saxon warleader used as a meeting point. “It’s good to see you, cousin. I thought you’d be back days ago, and started to think the Picts had killed you.”

Although Hengist’s greeting was as cordial as ever, Sigarr’s heart sank when he heard a snort of laughter from his right and glanced across to see Horsa sitting on a stool scraping dirt from his fingernails with a dagger.

“I’ve taken control of half a dozen settlements in the time it took you to sail to Pictland and back in your rotten old ship, Sigarr,” Horsa said and there was no levity in his expression, only mockery. “What took you so long?”

“And,” Hengist put in, “more to the point: Was your mission a success? Here.” The bretwalda shoved a stool across to Sigarr and filled a cup with ale for him before gesturing that he might get on with his report.

“No,” the jarl replied bluntly, seeing no reason to soften his words. “King Drest was not in Dunnottar when we arrived, and the folk he’d left to guard the fortress were in no mood to let us in to talk or even rest.” He sipped the ale, finding it warm and not very pleasant but it did its job well enough, moistening his lips as he looked at Horsa.

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