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

by Atkinson, F J

  Augustus nodded and looked at Anna and James’ wife, Sarah, who were weeping and hugging in mutual consolation. ‘He’s done you both great harm,’ he said. ‘Your two husbands and a son lie dead because of him.’

  Anna looked into Sarah’s eyes as the other fought to control her emotions. With her face twisted with torment, Sarah shook her head.

  Stricken, Anna replied: ‘As Murdoc said, he has to die for what he’s done, but we don’t want to see his face ever again. We won’t give him the chance to spit his poison at us before he goes to hell.’

  Tomas walked up to Augustus and held his hand out for a spear. His face was dispassionate. ‘Give me a spear, Gus,’ he said. ‘He treated me worse than a dog, now he’ll die like one. He can spit all he likes as far as I’m concerned.’

  Withred joined Tomas and took a spear from Augustus.

  Dominic, one side of his face now sporting a yellow-black bruise, put his arms around Anna and Sarah. They began their weary trudge from the hut and back to the main village. The rest followed, sad but resolute.

  Augustus picked up his own spear. He looked at the others; his bearded face a dour mask; his pale blue eyes, chips of granite. He nodded. They entered the hut.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  After Egbert’s demise, Dominic and Will had embraced and briefly reminisced over their time in the legions. When turning their attention to the struggle in the woods, Will had nodded sagely when Dominic had told him how Tomas had skilfully sniped from the knoll, saving his life after Osric had knocked him to the ground. ‘A young hawk he seems,’ said Will, smiling as he took in Dominic’s wolf hat. ‘I think a feathered hat would be more apt for young Tomas, rather than the fur one he now wears in homage to his hero. You are the wolf Dominic, and he the little hawk—the Merlin.’

  Tomas kept his hat, but the name stuck, and when Dominic presented him with the new composite bow, he presented it to ‘Merlin’ rather than Tomas.

  After hearing the tale of the fight at the village, and the skirmish in the forest, the Arthurians had realised the calibre of the men who stood before them. They knew that such men would be valuable additions to the guardians who defended their southwestern realm.

  As they looked at the devastation around them, and realised the likelihood that more Saxons would follow in the wake of Osric’s party, it had not taken Murdoc and the others long to accept Gherwan’s invitation to relocate to Brythonfort. That all the village survivors would go to Brythonfort, of course, was beyond question.

  Tomas gasped as Brythonfort came into view. Its earthwork buttress, encircled by a huge drystone wall, towered above the surrounding landscape of strip fields. Smiling as he witnessed Tomas’ wonderment, Gherwan who rode at the front with Will, turned in his saddle to see the same expression mirrored in every face.

  Murdoc held Ceola and pointed at the stronghold, while Martha rode beside them, her face a picture. Dominic rode alongside Augustus, while his two brothers followed a distance behind, driving two of the ox carts that contained everything of use from the village. Simon, with Withred beside him, piloted another cart in which sat some of the children and old ones who had come through the conflict. Some preferred to walk behind, and these made up the rest of the village survivors. Erec and Flint brought up the rear of the entourage.

  One month after the battle at the ox carts, they entered the fort, where Arthur met them at the gates. An outrider had delivered a message from Gherwan and told him of the impending additions to his garrison.

  ‘Great God, I thought the fort imposing, but look at that man,’ said Simon to Withred. ‘It’s little wonder the people here feel safe under his stewardship.’

  Later, in the wooden hall, a celebratory feast took place around the huge circular tables therein. Here, the villagers learned they would remain in their family groups and be placed on established farms around the fort where labour was needed. Robert and his team of artisans were tasked with the building of extra accommodation.

  Sarah and her remaining son would live with Brinley’s wife, Anna, within the compound. Here, they would work in the bakery that provided bread for the garrison.

  Simon would also live within the walls of Brythonfort. As an old man, he was not required to work, but after his introduction to Robert, he volunteered to lend his practical skills to him.

  Dominic’s expertise as a tracker and skirmisher was soon realised. He would train a group of scouts, along with Will and Murdoc. Tomas would accompany them and increase his own learning, until he knew enough to work alone.

  Withred’s inside knowledge of Saxon combat tactics would be utilised in the academy, where he would assist in the training of recruits alongside Erec and the other instructors. Here, Augustus and his brothers’ strength and fortitude would be refined; their rough edges removed.

  Later that evening Murdoc stood alone with Ceola on the stone battlements of Brythonfort. Before him, the sun rested like a golden coin on the horizon, sending a yellow slick over a scene of pastoral tranquillity.

  Over a year had passed since he had stood overlooking the forest, cradling Ceola, with little hope they would survive the coming days. He had looked upon the forest then as a malevolent entity that would accept him into its formidable maw and consume him without trace. He now knew that the forest was good. It had delivered him. There, he had met Dominic again, and like Dominic, he now loved the woods.

  He looked again at the peaceful scene below, aware that menacing storm clouds were gathering. The struggle had only just begun. The future was uncertain and perilous. The Saxon hordes would one-day stand at the walls of Brythonfort, but for now all was well. A rustling from behind caused him to turn. Martha approached them. He kissed Ceola’s cheek. ‘Come my little dove,’ he said, ‘mother’s here.’

  The End

  Dominic’s Quest

  BEING THE SECOND PART OF

  WOLFBANE

  Book two of the Dominic Trilogy

  F J Atkinson

  PROLOGUE

  The two mastiffs flanked Griff and stood at almost half his height. Griff, indulgent as ever, scratched at the smooth fur beneath the dogs’ collars, prompting them to stretch their bull-like necks in pleasure. Now craving his attention, both animals raised their broad, wrinkled heads towards him.

  Griff’s attire was British high status. His intricately embroidered tunic lay over a silk undershirt. Tucked into leather knee boots, his saffron-dyed woollen trousers were of a fine weave. A russet, overlaying cloak of wool, clasped by an elaborate, golden serpent brooch, kept out the worst of the searching easterly wind that blew between the thatched, plank-built houses.

  He watched as the Saxon, Ranulf, rode into Norwic town followed by his band of gnarled raiders. Walking behind the group; secured together by neck halters; their hands bound with hemp; trudged a group of trail-haggard captives.

  ‘Not as many this time,’ said Griff as he met Ranulf and cast his eyes over the bedraggled group.

  ‘No, the bastards keep dying on me,’ said Ranulf as he dismounted and faced Griff. ‘I thought you lot were a hardy race, but it seems that a gentle stroll through field and forest in the rain is enough to make a slave want to lie down and die.’

  Griff again looked the slaves over. ‘At least the ones who make it to Norwic have stamina. I’ll sell them on with that in mind … who knows, maybe I’ll get more gold for them if I point out their robust constitutions.’ He squinted in the insipid autumnal sunshine as he peered at them. ‘I see some here who may go to Hibernia. My buyer is specific in his requirements.’

  ‘Talking of gold,’ said Ranulf, ‘my price will reflect the danger I endure every time I have to travel further afield to seek untouched villages. These slaves came from the west, not far from the protected land. It’s only our speed on the raids that prevents our engagement with well-armed Britons.’

  Griff smiled resignedly as he anticipated the robust haggling that would occur later with Ranulf. Yet, he knew he commanded a grudging respect f
rom the man, because he possessed the thing that all Angles and Saxons coveted: he possessed gold. As a highborn Briton, he had been able to use the wealth of his family to buy off the raiders when they had first threatened his estate.

  Known only to him since his father had died, his family’s gold now lay in a place secure and hidden. Griff, for his part, still lived the Roman life. The imperialists had built his villa many decades before, and he still enjoyed the comforts of bath and spa. In contrast to the comparative squalor of those who lived around him, his life was a paragon of opulence.

  Griff himself loved gold, and his personal wealth had grown as he realised he could profit from the captives the Anglo-Saxon raiders brought back to Norwic. These, he ‘sold on’ for a high return. They were destined for Hibernia, where British slaves were highly coveted.

  ‘Step to the front!’ barked Ranulf as he turned to the captives. ‘Let yourselves be seen by your betters.’

  The dogs gave low, menacing growls as the line of Britons moved closer to Griff. He took his time as he appraised them and considered their potential for profit. He fondled the blond hair of a slender girl who stood shivering and terrified in the line. She was eleven or thereabouts and would be pretty when cleaned up. She was his first choice. A cattle chief in Laighin, Hibernia, who had requested such a girl, would further trade her on for many cows—the mark of wealth in Hibernia. She must be pure though. He had instructed Ranulf that such a child must remained unsullied, otherwise she would be worth nothing. Next, he approached a huge youth. He stood a nose away and peered into the lad’s simple, trusting eyes. A dullard by the look of him, thought Griff. Twenty years old or so, and big with it. An uncomplaining workhorse if ever he saw one.

  No harm in testing him then.

  Without warning, he punched the youth hard in his stomach, causing him to double up and retch.

  Another lad, younger, went for Griff, who grabbed the collars of his hounds as they made to savage the boy. Amidst much snarling and barking, Ranulf intervened, quickly knocking the adolescent to the ground.

  Griff allowed Ranulf to land two hefty kicks before stopping him. ‘No! … no more; he’s just what I’m looking for. It’ll affect the price I get for him, and the price I’ll pay you, if you damage him further. Now I have the three I want: the girl, the workhorse, and a fiery young warrior who will make an excellent guard for the cows in Hibernia. Do what you will with the rest. We can agree a price for these three later.’

  Ranulf nodded and beckoned one of his men to herd the three into a wicker-enclosed wagon that waited nearby.

  Griff was about to walk away when Ranulf placed his hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He pointed to two older Britons who stood in the line of captives.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Griff. ‘Usual price for old meat I take it.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  Weeks earlier, Maewyn had helped his brother, Aiden, out of a scrape yet again. As a slow, clumsy fellow, Mule, as everybody knew Aiden, had predictably upended a flagon of water and drenched the fresh floor rushes laid down by his mother only days before.

  ‘You sluggard!’ shouted Maewyn. ‘Mother’ll thrash your arse when she returns from her trip. Come on. We need to get more rushes from the marsh. We can undo your clumsiness and save you a scolding from da at the very least.’

  Mule looked despairingly at the floor and then at his younger brother. ‘Sorry Wyn … it’s my big feet again. Da says that I’m even clumsier now I’ve grown so big.’

  Maewyn merely sighed, then left the hut with Mule following morosely in his wake.

  Scudding clouds, pushed along by a sharp breeze, cast fleeting shadows over the settlement. The harvest had been a good one, and Govan shoveled the last of the surplus grain into the bell shaped storage pit at the edge of the village. He looked to his young daughter, Elowen, who knelt beside a pile of wet clay. ‘Now for the part you like,’ he smiled, ‘… the bit where you get mucky.’

  Elowen pushed her hands into the clay and slopped it on top of the pit opening. ‘You know I make a good seal for the grain, da,’ she said as a twinkle of mischief came into her eye, ‘and besides, you make a fierce warrior when daubed with the muck.’ With this, she grasped Govan’s cheeks with her muddy palms. After leaving a respectable smear across his face, she ran off squealing with Govan in pursuit.

  Govan quickly captured her and lifted her aloft, then returned with her, laughing and wriggling, to the pile of glutinous clay. ‘Not such a clever lady now, are we?’ he said with mock sternness as he dangled her over the clay and allowed her long blonde locks to touch the glop.

  Elowen was upside down and helpless with laughter. ‘No da, NO!’ she screamed as Govan continued to dangle her over the pile. A further scream prompted him to set her back down on the ground where he gave her a smeared face to match his own.

  They sat beside the pile, laughing as they took in each other’s grimy features. Govan looked fondly at Elowen. ‘If mother still lived she would call us a couple of cuckoos,’ he said.

  Elowen smiled, a hint of sadness in her eyes, as she recalled mother who had died of fever two years ago, but before nostalgia could take root, Govan nudged her.

  ‘Look out … here comes cousin Mule … Wyn too,’ he chuckled. ‘Looks like Mule’s been a daft lad again by the look on Maewyn’s face. Hey Wyn! What’s he been up to this time?’

  ‘Clumsy bugger again,’ said Maewyn sulkily as Mule looked on sheepishly. ‘Knocked a full jar of water over. Can’t afford to make mother angry, or she’ll stop our trip to see Flint at Brythonfort.’

  ‘Better get it sorted out then,’ said Govan. ‘If you want to train alongside brother Flint, you need to keep out of scrapes. Elowen will help you, won’t you, lass?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Elowen as she stood on tiptoe and ruffled Mule’s hair. ‘You great ox,’ she laughed. ‘I’ll go and fill the flagon with fresh water.’

  They departed, leaving Govan to cover the clay-plugged storage pit with turf. When he had finished, he walked across to the ditch and palisade that encircled the village. Here, a man stood knee-deep in green water, whistling as he pulled out fistfuls of accumulated vegetation.

  ‘Get your back in it,’ chided Govan as he jumped with an engulfing splash into the ditch beside his brother. ‘Robert and old Simon from Brythonfort will be less than pleased if they find out we’ve let their defensive ditch get clogged up again.’

  Bran stretched, taking the kink out of his back. ‘Yes that’s for sure, but finding time to do all the jobs around here isn’t easy.’ He pointed towards the tall wooden palisade that encircled the ditch. ‘At least that’s in good order. It should keep anything out. Man or bear.’

  ‘It’s men I worry about,’ said Govan, grunting as he pulled fistfuls of wet greenery from the ditch. ‘We’ve been lucky up to now; lucky that we lie in the west of our isle; lucky that we’re protected somewhat by Brythonfort and its knights, though I wish they had the men to patrol here a bit more often.’ He straightened, frowning, as he looked past the ditch and towards the linear fields that lay beyond the village boundary. ‘Still … I worry, though,’ he continued as he turned his gaze back towards the village, ‘… about our folk; our children; our future.’

  ‘Mmm,’ pondered Bran. ‘God knows what would happen to my boys, especially Mule, if left abandoned and alone.’ He smiled as his thoughts went to his much-loved, lumbering boy. ‘Which brings me neatly to him. I saw him heading to the reed beds with a cross-looking Wyn after they’d been talking to you. Always looking after him is Wyn; you wouldn’t think him five years younger. So, come on, what’s he been up to this time?’

  ‘Nothing which can’t be fixed,’ said Govan. ‘I believe it was a bit of an accident involving reed flooring and water. I sent Elowen to fill the—‘

  Bran, who had been looking absently towards the fields, gripped Govan’s arm, interrupting him. ‘Get your family together,’ murmured Bran, ‘I’ll get mine. We’re have company.’

  Two fie
lds distance away, Irvin, a British tracker and fighting man, had seen all he needed to. Satisfied his search had been fruitful, he wheeled his pony around and prepared to impart his news to Ranulf.

  Later, Ranulf could see that Irvin’s demeanor as he approached was indicative of fresh news.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘A village, still untouched ahead on the trail,’ said Irvin as he hastily dismounted. ‘Looks like a sizeable settlement, so it should provide rich pickings. Two men were clearing a ditch when I got there. They saw me unfortunately.’

  Ranulf frowned as he looked up the trail. ‘That’s not so good,’ he said, ‘now they’ll be ready for us. Was the village fortified?’

  ‘Ditch and palisade.’

  Again, not good, thought Ranulf. Not good at all. Especially now they were vulnerable to attack from the nearby British garrison. They were too close to Brythonfort for comfort; too far west for his liking. But what could he do. The market for slaves was stronger than ever; the opportunity for profit greater than ever. The danger was also increasing since the easier work in the east had dried up. But there was absolutely no way around it; accumulating gold meant taking risks these days.

  He turned to his men. ‘Prepare flame arrows,’ he shouted, ‘we have a fence to burn down. Capture and bind anyone worth gold between here and the village. That’ll give us an easy start.’