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

by Atkinson, F J

  Maewyn and Mule stood in the water at the edge of the wetlands. They had already gathered an impressive pile of rushes, but had become distracted, in the way that boys do, when a water vole had glided close by. Mule had procured a large branch from the foreshore and had parted the reeds with it. Maewyn peered through the resultant breach, looking for the vole.

  They turned on hearing a wild splashing from behind. Thirty strides away, a group of riders rode through the shallows toward the settlement. Without thinking, Mule waved his branch in the air in greeting. ‘No!’ said Maewyn as he pulled Mule towards him and knocked the branch out of his hand. ‘They’re not Arthur’s men, you jester, look how they’re dressed. They’re Saxons.’

  ‘S—Sorry, I didn’t know,’ apologized Mule, ‘I thought—‘

  ‘You never think, you just act like a fool!’ scolded Maewyn. Immediately, he regretted his words when seeing the hurt on Mule’s face. ‘They’ve seen us now. We need to get into the marsh and hide,’ he said less harshly. Mule, mortified by what he’d done, could only stare into the water. Realising that time was slipping away from them, Maewyn grabbed his shirt and ran with him into the reed beds.

  Irvin, who was ever vigilant and riding at the front with Ranulf, caught the movement in the corner of his eye. ‘Over there in the marsh … two of them … boys, I think!’

  Without checking the stride of his pony, Ranulf shouted behind him. ‘Alfwald! Sigward! Two in the reeds! Tie them up, then get back to me!’

  Two raiders peeled away and rode towards the main body of water. Standing in their saddles, they soon spotted the two boys who had begun to run deeper into the reed beds.

  Alfwald took the lead—his pony creating a wild splashing as he rushed towards the boys. Mule had fallen on his face in his haste to get away. Sigward, who was soon upon the youth, slipped from his mount and took a hold of him. Meanwhile, Alfwald approached Maewyn who stood with both fists raised in defiance.

  The boss on Alfwald’s buckler crashed against Maewyn’s head, knocking him in the water beside Mule. Dazed, he entered a bubbling and muffled underworld, but before he could take a watery breath, a gnarled fist grabbed at his tunic. He emerged from the pond with a whooshing gasp, all of his fight gone.

  Sigward panted as he pulled Mule’s hefty bulk to the banking. Maewyn, for his part, was marched to the water’s edge by Alfwald, while the discarded Saxon ponies stood fetlock-deep and unconcerned as they drank from the marsh.

  Alfwald dealt with Maewyn’s resurging feistiness by again knocking him to the ground.

  ‘Lively sod this,’ he grunted to Sigward as he knelt on the boy and bound his hands together behind his back. ‘Better drag him away from the water’s edge or he’ll wriggle into it and drown. Ranulf will have my bollocks on a spit if that happens.’

  ‘Glad this big un’s not as lively,’ said Seward. ‘I’m pissing drained just draggin' him from the reeds.’

  Next, Alfwald tied Maewyn’s feet. Then he rolled him onto his belly and secured his hands and feet together by a short rope so that they almost touched. Seward repeated the procedure with Mule. The men stood and briefly admired their handiwork as they observed the trussed and immobile boys.

  Maewyn shimmied himself next to Mule as the Saxons rode away to rejoin Ranulf. His hair was drenched and his face smeared. He spat out mud, fighting the impulse to gag. ‘A right fix we’re in,’ he said, trying not to cry. ‘They must have found our village. Da will be forced to fight now.’

  Mule had none of his brother’s resolve and readily bawled. ‘It’s my fault again,’ he sobbed. ‘If I hadn’t waved the branch, we wouldn’t have been spotted … wouldn’t be in this mess.’ As he sniveled his mucus dripped down and formed spherical globs which sat proud of the dusty floor.

  Maewyn’s heart went out to him then. ‘No, we wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘They were coming anyway and we would’ve met them sooner or later. We can only hope da gets the chance to come and look for us.’ Groaning, he attempted to move his arms. ‘Bugger! These ropes are tight. Please let him come soon.’

  Hoping to catch sight of his sons, Bran ran around the edge of the stockade in a frenzied dilemma. He knew the boys had gone to the reed beds and would be targets for the approaching war band. Govan had pleaded with him to withdraw behind the protection of the palisade, reasoning there was nothing he could do for them now. Bran’s thoughts whirled. What was he supposed to do? Abandon them? What would he tell his wife? Sorry but I had to save my own skin so I hid behind the palisade.

  He ran to the gate where Govan counted in the last of the ploughmen and herdsmen as they returned from the fields. Now, he had made up his mind. ‘Shut the gate, Govan, I can’t leave them out there. I won’t be coming in.’

  Govan nodded resignedly, knowing he would do the same if Elowen had ventured beyond the protection of the stockade. Thank God she was inside the fence, he thought. He threw Bran a well-used, cast-off sword donated to the village by Flint. Although shabby looking, the sword had been honed to a keen edge, thanks to the attention given to it by the village smith.

  Bran tested its balance as he ran down the track, away from the village. It felt right in his grasp, even though he had received only rudimentary training in its use. Arthur had made sure that all the men in his protectorate had received basic weapons instruction, and therefore the capability to defend themselves and offer some resistance to the raiding war bands. Erec, a weapons instructor from Brythonfort, alongside Withred, the Angle and ally, had visited most of the villages and given instruction on the use of ax, spear and sword. The villages possessed some donated hardware, but local smiths had forged most of the weaponry now owned by the communities. Withred had also given a tactical insight in what to expect when faced with the brutality of a Saxon attack.

  Bran loosened his shoulder by swinging the sword around his head as he ran. His intention was to find his boys and defend them as best he could. He knew he could not fight a huge force alone, but still intended to protect his sons. To the death if it came to that.

  He had not long to wait before he heard the sound of riders. A nearby drainage ditch was his only cover, and he had barely enough time to fling himself into it and lie low as the riders hastily approached then passed him. He could not see his boys and this set him thinking. Had the bastards killed them? Maybe drowned them in the marshes? As soon as the riders were a safe distance away, he left the ditch and ran to the reed beds.

  Maewyn, who had managed after much wriggling to roll onto his back, cried out his utter relief upon seeing his father approach. Mule, who had been floundering on his belly, became still upon hearing Maewyn’s exclamation. Soon, he felt his binding being severed and was able to roll onto his elbow and look up at his father.

  ‘I couldn’t help it, da. I only meant to wave—‘

  ‘We haven’t time for that now, lad,’ said Bran, immensely relieved as he proceeded to release Maewyn. ‘They’ve gone to attack the village and I need to decide what to do next. You and Maewyn’s life is the important thing now.’

  Govan stood behind the stockade with a group of twelve men. All of them were armed—the most common weapon of choice being the ax. The women and younger children had withdrawn to the huts. The raiders had just arrived and it soon became clear that one was a fellow Briton.

  ‘You may as well let us in!’ shouted Irvin, from beyond the palisade. ‘We’ll get in anyway, so why make it hard for yourselves!’

  Some of the men were about to shout back, but Govan gestured them to be silent.

  ‘If you let us in and open the gates it will be better for you!’ continued Irvin. ‘We’ll take what we’ve come for and leave your structures intact! Most of you shall remain and won’t be harmed!’

  Again, his offer met with silence.

  Govan let the silence linger a while before he replied. ‘Why is a Briton riding with murderers of his own people? Why have you abandoned us? It seems to me that your masters don’t speak British! That should tell you they sh
ouldn’t be here!’

  Irvin was unperturbed. ‘That is not for discussion. What matters now is you let us in without bloodshed! Resist and we will burn your settlement to the ground, starting with this fence! Believe me when I say this—we will spare no one if you defy us this day! The only survivors will be those we take back to Norwic to sell!’

  Again, there was a pause as Govan looked to his men. Fearful but resolute stares met his gaze. Some shook their heads, dismissing Irvin’s offer. Others merely looked impassively at the floor, their breath sharp and rapid, as they hefted their axes and spears, readying themselves for battle.

  ‘Your fire does not frighten us!’ shouted Govan. ‘Rather, it should give you nightmares, for you are all destined for the flames of the burning pit! All of you will go to hell! So in answer to your proposal, I say this: turn around and go back to your festering rat hole of a town! All of you go back, for no man here is willing to let you in!’

  Ranulf had understood enough of the conversation to make his decision. Turning to his men, he gave the order. ‘Archers, prepare your arrows and encircle the palisade. Let loose your arrows when in position. I want a good even burn all around the fence. I also want arrows sent into the compound.’

  One of the men held a pot filled with mutton fat. The archer’s dipped their hemp-wrapped arrow tips into the fat, then ran into position at intervals around the palisade. Lit at intervals all around the compound, small ground fires provided the men with flame.

  Ranulf walked around as his men ignited their arrows and sent them into the tinder-dry palisade. Other arrows described white, incandescent arcs as they shrieked skywards and dropped into the compound.

  Govan had no choice but to order his men to shelter from the airborne attack as best they could, and soon the village was in turmoil as thatched roofs began to burn.

  Now folk ran around in panic and confusion, unsure of the best way to avoid the burning. Two men, pierced with flame arrows, emitted awful screams as they thrashed at their ignited clothing.

  Govan’s thoughts went to Elowen. He ran to their hut, which had started to steam as its roof succumbed to the searing heat. It was empty. Govan knew he had to keep calm. He looked around trying to think straight. Then it hit him. Water! She went for water!

  He ran through the confusion … through the thick smoke that swirled everywhere. A shift in the breeze allowed him to see a little. He saw the outline of the well. Please let her be there, he though. Please God, let be there.

  A burning figure passed him by. Govan looked on in horror as a woman, with clothes and hair aflame, hurtled towards the well. She ran into its wall and toppled over, to fall with a shriek into the water below.

  A flaming arrow fell from the air, narrowly missing Govan as he stood by the well. He saw two of his fighting men a distance away. As he watched, the scorching air caused their clothing to combust. With his throat seared, Govan’s whisper, ‘No, God—no,’ was croaky and incredulous.

  As the men’s screams joined the dreadful cacophony of sound within the compound, Govan noticed that his own jerkin had started to smoulder. Coughing hoarsely, he tugged on the well rope next to him. The bucket met resistance from the dead woman below. Another tug released it. He pulled up a bucketful of cool water and dumped it over his head and body, causing a swirl of steam to hiss from him. He lowered the bucket into the well again then dragged it back up. With the pail brimming in his grasp he thought of Elowen again. She was not in their hut … not at the well, so where could she be?

  Then it dawned on him. Wyn and Mule! She had gone to get water for them! Mule had spilled water on the floor. He ran to Bran’s smoking hut and entered.

  ’Elowen! Elowen!’ His shout promoted a fresh bout of hacking coughs. His cry was unanswered and he became frantic.

  The hut had no windows—the only light coming from the open doorway. In the gloom, he overturned a table, then a straw pallet.

  And there she was, cowering and terrified, having gone to ground when the arrows had started to fly. Her own clothes had started to char. Govan remembered the bucket and threw its contents over her.

  Gasping, Elowen came to life and Govan pulled her to her feet. ‘We have to get out!’ he shouted. ‘This hut will be in flames soon!’

  Outside, they witnessed hell itself. Fire still fell into the compound, and many villagers now lay dead, from smoke, flame or arrow. After pulling Elowen towards the well, Govan drew more water from it and dumped it over their heads. Repeatedly, he doused them until they dripped. He looked for a way out, but could see none. Could see no possible outcome other than undignified death.

  Ranulf stood with Irvin watching the inferno. A frown creased his face. ‘It burns well … too damn well! All our profit is being roasted inside.’ He nodded towards the fifty-odd men who waited for the fire to breach the palisade. ‘They’ll have nothing to do,’ he muttered. ‘No man in there will be capable of fighting.’

  Irvine pointed at a section of fencing that glowed red. It sent off a myriad of sparks and grey ash into the air. ‘That looks ready to come down,’ he said. ‘Any survivors will pour through it when it does.’

  Ranulf studied the fence. He addressed his men. ‘Be ready for whatever comes through the gap. Anyone of value is to be spared. Kill the old, if any managed to survive; and kill all who resist.’

  As they watched, the section of burning fence crumbled and drifted to the ground. Ranulf and Irvin peered through the smoke. Soon, human forms began to emerge.

  Numbed to silence, Bran crouched by a holly bush. He held his boys close as he watched the blaze. Mule’s brown eyes were open wide, the fire reflecting in his pupils as he grasped his father’s hand. Maewyn wept as he observed his life burning to oblivion before him.

  They had managed to keep hidden when the raiders had ignited their village. The bowmen had then departed to answer Ranulf’s summons, leaving them alone.

  Another section of the palisade burnt through and collapsed in a shower of sparks before them. Glowing, pink-grey embers scattered to strew across the ground. A bare-foot and bewildered old man stumbled through the gap amidst a swirling of smoke. The wind caused the smoke to billow and shift so that Bran lost sight of him.

  ‘It’s uncle Eoghan!’ shouted Mule as the smoke swirled again. ‘He’s jumped into the ditch. We must help him. He’s drowning!’

  Eoghan had flung himself into the water; the mad rage to feel cool again more important to him than anything else at that moment. Furthermore, he had plunged into a deep, recently cleared section of the ditch.

  Bran was in a quandary. His wife’s older brother had unexpectedly appeared, then quickly disappeared. Could he risk leaving Bran and Maewyn while he helped Eoghan? What if the Saxons returned—they could be back in a flash on their ponies. The emergence of Govan and Elowen ended his dilemma. He looked Mule in the eyes. ‘None of them can swim,’ he said. ‘I have to help them. Stay here with Maewyn and don’t move until I come back for you.’

  Maewyn now bolstered himself, and swiped his arm across his eyes, creating a streak of grime upon his cheek. Attempting to be brave, he said, ‘I’ll make sure he stays here with me, da, don’t worry.’

  Bran gave Maewyn’s arm a comforting squeeze, then ran across to the ditch.

  Eoghan had not surfaced. Unthinkingly, Govan, who still held Elowen’s hand, had also jumped into the moat. Bran plunged into the water and managed to grab the girl as she returned to the surface gasping for air.

  Able to stand with his nose and mouth clear, Bran dragged her towards him. ‘Run to Maewyn and Mule by the holly bush,’ he gasped as he pushed her up the embankment. ‘Wait there until I return with your da.’

  Elowen scrambled up the side of the ditch, feeling forlorn and helpless as she noticed how her father floundered on the far bank of the ditch.

  ‘Go! … run to them!’ shouted Bran.

  Galvanised now, Elowen turned and stumbled across to Maewyn and Mule.

  Govan was close to panic as he att
empted to reach Bran’s extended arm. But before his brother could grasp him, he heard the sound of riders.

  Bran’s thoughts went straight to the children. He shot a desperate look of apology to Govan, then turned away and climbed from the ditch.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Everything was a blur as Govan’s lucidity returned. He felt the surface beneath him and was surprised at its warmth. A woolen blanket covered him. He heard the voices

  ‘He’s awake. Quickly Murdoc, here. He’s awake!’

  Govan blinked and tried to make sense of things as the images became clearer. Above him, with blond hair braided and clean, stood an attractive woman. An angel maybe. This was heaven then—the place all the Christians talked about. Peace, warmth, beauty.

  The angel spoke again. ‘Govan can you hear me? You’re safe now. You’re in Brythonfort.’

  Govan’s discordant thoughts suddenly became clear. ‘My daughter, Elowen,’ he looked around him, close to panic. ‘Where’s my daughter Elowen?’

  Martha sat beside him and stroked his brow, her face troubled. She looked to Murdoc, who held his own daughter, Ceola. Martha’s heart went out to Govan as she looked to him again. ‘We didn’t find her. She wasn’t amongst the dead. Neither were her cousins. We think they were taken by the raiders.’

  Govan, frenzied now, made to leave the bed. ‘I must go then, I can’t just—‘

  Dizziness hit him, and he fell back into the bedding. After a moment, Murdoc helped him to sit up and rest against the bolster. ‘I know how it feels to have a child stolen,’ said Murdoc gently, as he glanced towards Ceola. ‘We are meeting this day to decide what to do. Rest now Govan. Save your strength for the days ahead of us.’

  Govan looked to Murdoc, then to Martha. ‘The boys, Maewyn and Mule … you say they have gone too? What of their father: my brother, Bran?’

  Martha didn’t know what to say. She looked down at her feet, unable to meet Govan’s desperate, questioning gaze. After a moment, she raised her head and looked him in the eyes. Her voice was hollow. ‘They killed him; we found him beside the ditch.’