Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain)

by Atkinson, F J

  Cissa, who had observed events unseen at the edge of the clearing, rode forward grasping the halter of Egbert’s mount. As Hereward’s screams emerged from the pit, Cissa pulled Egbert to his feet. Grimacing, Egbert barely managed to throw himself over the back of the spare pony. Two more of Dominic’s arrows clattered into the trees as Cissa jabbed his pony out of the clearing. In a heap on his own mount, Egbert followed him into the darkening forest.

  Murdoc, who had been hiding nearby, hurled his spear towards the vanishing ponies, but to no avail. He ran into the gloom of the forest but stopped in response to Dominic’s shout. ‘No Mur, get back here—you mustn’t follow! There could be more of them. We can’t leave the camp unprotected.’

  ‘Gods!’ yelled Murdoc, ‘we had them and let them go.’

  Having expected more men to arrive, Dominic had set his trap in the hope it would act as a diversion and confusion—as well as serving as a killing pit. The intention had been to kill as many men as possible from distance, before melting back into the forest with the others.

  An awful screaming now came from the pit. Dominic and Murdoc ran to Martha and Simon who stood by it. Martha covered her mouth and buried her head into Simon’s shoulders as the bear went about its dreadful task on Hereward.

  The bear flinched as the Saxon fell from above. As soon as he hit the ground Hereward sensed he was not alone. He backed to the opposite corner of the pit and fumbled for his ax, but it had gone. He looked to the shadows, desperately seeking it out.

  The bear rushed and brought its full weight down upon him. It started to maul. Hereward wrenched free and endeavoured to claw his way upwards and out of the pit. His efforts futile, he screamed his frustration to the square of black sky above him. ‘Get me out, damn you! You who watch, send me down a rope!’

  He screeched again as the bear raked its fore claws over his head, leaving his scalp hanging ragged and loose down his back like a baggy cap. His end did not come quickly. The bear, maddened and frustrated, repeatedly bit and swiped at him. His screams emerged terrible and falsetto as his disembowelled gut spilled onto the greasy floor.

  At the rim, Dominic and Murdoc winced as they watched, whilst Withred led the others into the hut and out of earshot.

  Dominic grimaced as the bear began to feed on Hereward. He glanced at Murdoc. ‘A death befitting a killer of children I think.’

  Murdoc stared down into the pit, his eyes glazed and distant. ‘I looked on like a coward while that man and others destroyed my village.’ He watched indifferently as the bear started to tear chunks from Hereward. ‘Murdering bastard,’ he muttered as he coldly watched the bear feed, while even Dominic had to turn away.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  No one really knew how old the village was. That it was in existence before the Romans came to the island was common knowledge. Tales abounded in the village of past heroes who had fought alongside Boudicca. The warrior queen had led the Iceni tribe to the north, and had been able to unite the normally warring factions, thus amassing a huge fighting force which had inflicted heavy defeats on the Romans in uprising at Verlamion, Londinium and Camulodunum.

  The retribution by the Romans had been swift, and seventy thousand Britons had died in the terrible counter strike. The action of the joint forces of the Iceni and Trinovante had not been without merit, however, and the Romans had realised that the Britons could be obedient but never servile, and from that day on they had treated them with a modicum of caution and respect.

  The village had existed in peace since then, and four centuries had passed with little change. The seasons came and went and the population fluctuated according to the success of the harvest or the outbreak of disease.

  It was after a succession of good harvests and the resulting growth in population, that a new group of farmsteads began to appear. Still within the confines of the wooded lands, the farmsteads settled where outcrops of arable land occurred within the usual unyielding clay of the forest. The cleared land to the east and west of the forest was not available, so the forest was the only option for expansion.

  A group of men cleared an area large enough to accommodate houses and storage huts. This completed, they cleared a further area of the virgin woodland ready for livestock and barley, felling trees and burning the underlying vegetation. Within eighteen months, the village was ready for habitation, and a group of younger men, along with their wives and children, moved in and planted the first crops.

  At first things had gone well. The harvest had been a success and the livestock had produced abundant offspring. It soon became apparent that new fields would be desirable to provide excess produce for trade. Deeper still into the forest, more trees met the ax as yet more land was cleared. Then disaster struck.

  Returning from Verlamion with provisions, some of the men had died after bringing a pestilence back with them from the town. Soon the entire village had caught the disease. Within a year, all were dead.

  Fifty years had passed since the disaster, and thirty years since Brinley—then a boy—had dared to travel to the village. Along with a group of men, he had made the journey to bury the few scattered bones that remained there.

  He could still remember the eerie atmosphere and ghostliness of the place as the leaves whispered around his feet on a drizzly and grey November morning. When they had first walked into the forbidding ghost village, they had no way of knowing which bleached bones belonged together, and in the end they had buried them in one grave, marking the spot by laying a cross of boulders. Some of the men who had abandoned Christianity and returned to the old ways, would occasionally journey to an old hazel coppice near the village. Here they would tie strips of coloured cloths to the trees in an appeasement gesture to the old Gods.

  Back in his own village, many years passed with good harvests and no more outbreaks of the pestilence, and Brinley had become the unofficial headman of his community. The population had remained stable (an unusual occurrence of male births having ensued) so after spending their childhood in the village, many of the surplus men had left to marry and live with women from other settlements. Brinley had found a wife amongst the few girls, and she had born him two daughters. Life was good, but dark rumour had begun to circulate about raiders from the east.

  James had worked hard in the fields all day, tending the crops with the other men. He was surprised to see his sons absent when he returned home. He could see that Sarah, his wife, was troubled.

  ‘The boys?’ she asked him as soon as he walked into their simple hut. ‘Are they with you?’

  James put his digging tool in its place in the corner ‘No, they are not with me. I gave them the day off, remember.’

  ‘They are still in the woods then,’ said Sarah, flustered now. ‘And I told them to be back before sunset. I heard wolves last night. They should do as I say, it will be dark soon.’

  James tensed, something was wrong. Nevertheless, he kept his voice calm, seemingly unconcerned. ‘Ah, they’ll just be lost in their games as usual; I’ll get them. Ask Brinley to follow me in case they prove hard to find.’

  He climbed the steep hill that overlooked the village and made for the tree by the pond—a popular meeting point for the local children. Weary and hungry after a day in the fields, he was eager to find the boys. Then he could return with them to feed upon on the tasty stew that Sarah had bubbling in her pot.

  He rounded the hill which gave him his first sight of the pond. He knew immediately that something was wrong. A shape lay in the water, unmoving. He broke into a run, splashing wildly as he rushed forward. When he reached the body, he saw that it was broken; saw that it was his son. His boy, now dead, bore the marks of Egbert’s ax about his head and neck.

  Kneeling, he scooped Eidon’s body into his grasp. He looked up, stunned and disbelieving, his mouth gaping, just as Brinley and others arrived.’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ said Brinley. ‘Oh sweet Jesus Saviour.’

  James merely shook his head, his eyes desperate and lost. A he
art-rending, keening cry from beyond the pond had the men turn then run through the water again. They discovered another boy, huddled in shock, but otherwise unharmed.

  Brinley picked him up and brushed strands of muddy wayward hair from his eyes. Stunned, James joined them with Eidon’s body limp and dead in his arms.

  The surviving boy, Cedric, snivelled and chattered inanely in Brinley’s embrace, globules of mucus mixing with his tears as he gagged for breath and gazed wide-eyed and fearful into the forest.

  Days later, James and Sarah sat with a small assembly in Brinley’s home.

  ‘Has Cedric spoken then?’ asked Brinley.

  James’ face was a pale, stony mask. ‘Yes, at last … this morning he told us things, just as I was beginning to think he would never speak again. It happened as we put his food before him. He decided to speak to us. It seems we did have visitors that day. He mentioned horses. There were riders in strange dress, and they looked at the land from the hill, then turned and rode back into the forest. But not before one of them …’ James paused as he fought his emotions, ‘…but not before one of them killed our boy.’

  Anna, Brinley’s wife, went to James as he sat huddled with Sarah. She placed her arms around both of them as once again they succumbed to their grief. ‘We all feel what you feel,’ she said. ‘Eidon was a son to the whole village.’

  The men around the table sat in respectful silence whilst Anna led James and Sarah out of the hut.

  Brinley look was grave as he appraised his two companions—his short grey hair and trim beard setting him apart from his untidy and hirsute companions. ‘What James said explains the hoof prints we found near the scene of Eidon’s death,’ he said. ‘It seems our fears were justified. As you know, there’s been much talk in the village about raiders from over the grey sea. Saxon folk have always visited our isle for one reason or another, but since the Romans went home the Germanic folk have been running amok amongst our people, taking land and killing innocents on the shoreward side of the forest.’ He paused and frowned towards the door of the hut. ‘And now it seems they’ve found new hunting grounds.’

  Griswalda, an old weatherworn Briton, looked up from the age-polished knot he had been studying in Brinley’s table. ‘By that, I take it you mean that they’ve found us,’ he said. ‘If that’s true what happens now?’

  Darga, the youth, slapped the table, his colour elevated. ‘What do you think happens now! If they come here we must be prepared to fight them. Eidon’s death must be avenged.’

  Brinley shook his head and sighed. ‘How are we to do that Darga? We are skilled in the ways of the plough, not the spear or war ax.’

  ‘So we are to lie helpless and go to our deaths like swine go to the butcher’s knife, are we? Is that your council? Our people once took on and beat the Romans for God’s sake; surely we can cope with cowardly savages that kill children and then run away!’

  Griswalda held up a restraining hand to the young man. His tone was patient, knowing as he did how belligerent Darga could be. ‘There’s no doubting your intention Darga, but Brinley speaks the bare facts. We don’t know how to fight these people because the Romans allowed us to live in peace whilst protecting us. We have forgotten how to fight.’

  ‘Damn the Romans!’ shouted Darga. ‘It’s because of them the raiders are here in the first place. I spoke to a man from Verlamion last year; he used to live in Camulodunum on the eastward shore. He told me that the raiders took over there many years ago at the invitation of the Romans … to fight for them, he said. At first they kept to their own quarters, but after the bastard Romans left they began to strut around town as if they owned it. Before long, they had driven out or killed the local townsfolk. Now they use the place as a refuge and winter base for their plunderers.’

  Brinley was about to speak when Anna re-entered the room. ‘There’s much shouting in here,’ she said, ‘I suggest we save our energy for the murderers when they arrive.’

  Darga looked at Anna, smiled, then looked to the other men. ‘See … it takes a woman to show us the way. The spirit of Boudicca is alive and in this room it seems.’

  Brinley now spoke. ‘I merely said we don’t have the knowledge or facilities to defeat the raiders, but like you I don’t intend to cower in front of them like a dog. Ways must be found to defend ourselves.’

  ‘How long before they return?’ asked Griswalda. ‘Winter will be here before we know it. Will they come at us in winter?’

  Brinley shrugged. ‘That I can’t answer, but we need to prepare just in case they do.’

  ‘Well, there’s little we can do at this present time,’ said Anna. ‘We can’t neglect the harvest or the raiders will find only skeletons and graves to rob when they get here.’

  Enthused now, Darga stood and began to pace the room. ‘As soon as the harvesting is done I could go to nearby villages and rally our folk together. We could then get ready to meet them head on. Surely they would turn and run when seeing such numbers.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard,’ said Brinley, ‘that would fail against them. They raid in many small bands, suitable for plundering against unprepared villages. This way they can colonise the land quickly. Few men, yes, but their war craft when pitted against farmers means they don’t need many men. So by removing men from one village you would leave it undefended, whilst our main force would be elsewhere.’

  Darga threw up his hands. ‘Then what do you suggest we do? There are too few of us here to have any chance against them.’

  ‘I don’t know, I just don’t know,’ said Brinley, frustrated now. ‘I’ll call a meeting of all the boys and men before we go to the fields in the morning. Resist or leave may be our only choices. But that is a decision we can’t make without—’

  A cry from outside had them on their feet. ‘Outside, outside, everyone! Riders approach from the forest!’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Recognising the importance of preventing Egbert and Cissa returning to Camulodunum with news of their scouting mission, Murdoc and Dominic had decided to give chase. A hasty reconnaissance of the surrounding area proved that no other riders would threaten their camp, and Withred, it was agreed, would stay behind to provide security for the others while they were gone.

  Although the Saxons had half a day on them, Dominic reckoned that Egbert’s injury would impede him. He expected to capture them quickly.

  They selected two sturdy ponies and set out at once. As he urged his mount into a quick trot, Dominic leaned forward to study the track. ‘I’m sure if we travel smartly and stick to their trail we’ll be on them before you know it,’ he said.

  Murdoc sat upright peering ahead into the trees. ‘We’ve the advantage of your knowledge of this part of the forest, and their tramplings are still visible, even to a farmer like me. If they leave the track and stumble through the brush, then so much the better.’

  Later, it seemed that Egbert and Cissa had indeed deserted the main track. Dominic dismounted and examined the signs. ‘It looks like they left here, but thought better about it.’ He rubbed trail dirt through his fingers before wiping his hands clean on his breeches. He stood. ‘They’re still on the trail but they’ve wasted time; they’re closer than I thought.’

  They continued, and as night drew near they had still not sighted Cissa and Egbert, though their spoor was fresh. That night they slept rough and awoke to a gloomy sky the next morning. After weeks of fine weather, the day held an air of unrest.

  Dominic frowned as he peered up at the leaden clouds above the leaf canopy. ‘See how heavy the sky is. The damn ponies will be knee deep in water before the morning’s out.’ He crouched and tested the firmness of the ground. ‘All the surrounding forest drains onto this track. I’ve seen many trails destroyed by torrents over the years.’

  ‘Let’s hope we sight them soon, then,’ said Murdoc, ‘their trail will disappear if the rains come.’

  Dominic again looked at the earth below him. ‘Yes, but it seems we’ve gained groun
d on them already; this dirt tells me we’ll find them today.’

  They had gone but a short distance down the trail when the heavens opened. The rain pattered on the track before them, bouncing high, even from the glutinous clay such was its intensity. Soon, a shallow stream began to flow beneath them. They donned weather capes, which quickly became soaked to cling to them like sodden rags as they struggled on through the bleak morning.

  ‘This is no use!’ shouted Murdoc from under his soaking hood. ‘The water’s already half way up to the knees of my pony. We need to get to higher ground and wait for the storm to pass; this is far too dangerous!’

  As the wind soughed through the trees above Dominic, he shouted: ‘No … keep going! If we struggle then they do as well! We’re too near to give up now!’

  They rode for another hour before Dominic stopped and dismounted to examine a smaller trail which joined the main track. He looked up at Murdoc. ‘This is the trail Egbert’s men used days ago. It leads to the clearing where I first saw you. I thought they might have gone this way but nothing’s passed here for days. It seems they failed to see it.’

  They continued down the main track, Murdoc becoming increasingly concerned at the worsening state of the clay embankments which reared steeply above them on either side. ‘I don’t like this at all, Dom!’ he shouted. ‘Look how wet the banking is! If this continues the land could slide and we’ll be buried!’

  ‘Then keep moving!’ replied Dominic. ‘I know this part of the trail and we’ll be through it soon!’

  Moments later, as Dominic had foretold, they emerged from the sunken lane at a point where the hillside dropped away steeply on one side, but reared higher than before on the other. The rain ran down the incline, directly across the track, to gush into the chasm.