His brother, Beccan, rode on ahead, having already reached the track, and Saeran became concerned when Beccan suddenly halted his pony’s progress and deftly and quietly turned and returned to him.
‘There are people in the grove—Saxon folk by the sound of them,’ said Beccan. ‘They ride in the cart from the dock. Taking slaves to Fincath’s trading post up the track, I’ll guess.’
Saeran quickly assessed the situation. An opportunity this, he thought, to get back somewhat at Fincath and his clan. The slaves would be valuable and desired by Fincath. If he could steal them, it would give him leverage with the man; allow him to negotiate for the return of the stolen cattle. He glanced at the four well-armed men behind him—all well proven and formidable.
‘How many are they?’ he asked Beccan.
‘Four, I think. Though it was hard to tell, as I only glimpsed them briefly.’
Saeran set his pony to a trot. ‘Follow me,’ he said decisively. ‘Kill all but the slaves.’
As Osgar knelt on top of Maewyn, he relished the pop that would come when his knife entered the eyeball of the all-too-clever British shit. Strangely, the boy had become calm … seemed to be at peace. Rather that the lad had mouthed at him, so he could hear his fancy words replaced with screams of mercy. That would be so good to hear—would almost be as fulfilling to him (give him almost as big a bulge in his pants) as the business with the girl which would follow.
Maewyn, who was ready for his life to end, arched his eyebrows in utter surprise when Osgars malevolent, ugly head flew from his shoulders, as Saeran’s sword, wielded with all the hate and power of a frustrated man who had lived for days under the shadow of humiliating defeat, ended Osgar’s vicious ponderings and his life.
Warm blood squirted from the neck as his body fell upon Maewyn. Repulsed, he pushed the body away, as the cadaver’s heart continued to briefly pump, causing a slowly abating flow of blood to escape from the stump of his neck.
He wiped the greasy blood off his hands and onto the ground, its metallic stink causing him to gag. Frantic activity was happening around him as Saeran and his men quickly dispatched the others.
Utterly surprised, the Saxons put up little resistance. Two men fell to spears hurled with savage force from close range. Dragged from the cart, the remaining man met Beccan’s sword thrust with his open, gasping mouth—the sword, slick with gore, pushing an amalgam of skull and scalp from the back of his head as it emerged.
Beccan now dragged Maewyn from the floor and threw him into the cart where he landed in a heap. Still bound by their hands, Mule and Elowen were astonished to the point of silence as Maewyn joined them.
Saeran lifted Osgar’s head by its hair and looked with disdain at its twisted features before throwing it into the trees. ‘Drag their bodies into the shrub cover,’ he ordered. ‘And good work, all of you.’
Saeran assessed the situation. Things had changed. They still needed grain from the docks, but also needed to get back safely to his tuath with the captives. He was aware that travelling back through the rough country would be hard work with two wagons, but it was the only way. Without doubt, Fincath would be livid and send riders to look for the slaves, but he would search the roads first and that would give them time, because Fincath had no way of knowing who had stolen them. That he’d find out later, when they offered him a deal.
Elowen looked with alarm at Maewyn. A wide slick of blood covered him from neck to waist. ‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her when seeing her concern. ‘It’s not my blood; it’s bad blood; it’s Osgar’s.’
Relieved, Elowen sighed. ‘We now have new masters it seems.’ She continued in a whisper, still unsure if she should be talking. ‘They must want us alive or we’d be in the bushes now with the others.’
‘Shh!’ said Maewyn, as Saeran came to them.
Saeran rested his arms on top of the picket walls of the cart as he looked at them. Maewyn saw a man who was not easy to read. Large in frame with an almost feminine face, he seemed, nevertheless, stern and uncompromising.
‘You will stay in the cart unless I tell you to get down,’ he said with quiet authority. ‘Do you understand me?’
The three of them nodded, unsure of how to take this man with the strange accent.
Satisfied, Saeran turned to his brother. ‘Beccan, take two others to the docks and get the grain. I’ll await you here and make sure we’re not disturbed or found until you get back.’
Three hours passed, during which Saeran and his other two men took turns watching the nearby track for sign of intrusion. All was quiet until Beccan trundled over the rise of the hill driving another cart—this one filled with grain.
After instructions from Saeran, a man took the reins of the cart containing the children, and steered it through the trees and onto rough ground away from the track. Beccan followed with his cart. Saeran and the remaining men followed behind.
Mule looked at Elowen as the cart bounced and swayed over ruts and tussocks. ‘It’s almost as bad as the boat,’ he moaned. ‘I’d give anything to just be allowed to walk on my own two feet again.’
‘At least we don’t have to put up with Osgar,’ said Elowen, her voice soft with affection for Mule. ‘And you now have a strong stomach after your time on the boat.’
Two hours of bumpy passage passed before the sun began to dip below the tree line. Weary from a heavy day of travel and conflict, Saeran decided it was time to strike camp. He allowed a low fire to comfort them and the six Hibernian warriors sat around it talking quietly, as Maewyn, Elowen and Mule sat within the darkness of the cart. Given hard strips of dried meat to chew on, they still had their hands bound before them as they fed.
The men ate beside the fire, and when the hour grew late settled down beside it. Soon the discordant sound of varied snoring was audible to the children in the cart. Bound now by their ankles as well as their arms, they prepared to spend an uncomfortable night on the wooden floor of the wagon. Saeran had gone quickly to sleep; confident the children were going nowhere. One man took watch at the edge of the encampment.
Mule shifted uncomfortably in the back of the wagon as Maewyn got to his knees to look over the edge of its boarded sides. ‘The guard walks to the woods two hundred paces away, then walks back here to check on us,’ he whispered to Mule, who had decided to sit against the side of the wagon to ease his discomfort.
‘So what?’ said Mule. ‘He’s hardly likely to find us gone is he?’
Maewyn looked to the five men lying around the fire. Convinced they were asleep, he turned to Mule. ‘Look at my feet,’ he said.
Mule’s eyes grew big, his mouth taking on an astonished O shape, as he saw that Maewyn’s feet were free of the binding that had secured them earlier. He looked to Maewyn’s bound hands and saw that they held a knife.
Elowen had been lying quietly, listening to the exchange between Maewyn and Mule. She noticed the knife at the same time as Mule. She raised herself up on one elbow—her whisper loaded with alarm. ‘What are you doing with that? If the men catch you with it, they’ll skin us with it. Put it—’
‘Quiet’ hissed Maewyn. ‘The man comes towards us again. Lie down and pretend to sleep.’
Upon reaching the wagon, the guard looked over the side. Satisfied the children slept, he turned to walk back to the edge of the clearing.
Maewyn opened one eye, confident the guard had left them. A minute passed before he again knelt in the wagon and satisfied himself the guard was a safe distance away. Elowen and Mule were immediately alert, waiting for Maewyn to enlighten them further.
He still held the knife as he turned to them. ‘It belonged to Osgar,’ he explained. ‘When he dropped on me after he lost his head, his knife fell to the ground beside me so I shoved it down my britches. The others were too busy with the fight to notice it.’
‘What are you going to do now then?’ asked Mule. ’Kill them all like da would have done?’
Elowen’s face took on a look of alarm as she looked t
o Maewyn, hoping he was not about to try anything that would leave them all dead.
‘No silly!’ said Maewyn as he moved to Elowen and started to slice through the bindings on her hands. ‘We’re not going to fight them. We’re going to escape!’ He handed the knife to Elowen. ‘Now me,’ he said.
Elowen shakily complied, leaving Maewyn completely unbound. He cut free Mule and Elowen. ‘Lie down, as if you’re still tied up,’ he said, as the guard again approached.
Again, the Hibernian looked into the wagon. Again, he was satisfied the children slept. He walked back to the trees.
‘It won’t work,’ whispered Elowen as soon as the guard was out of earshot. ‘We only have the time it takes for the man to come back to the wagon to get away. They’ll catch us before we’ve gone a hundred paces.’
‘Not even that long,’ said Mule. ‘He’s coming back again already. He must know something.’
The guard, Cronan, lost in his thoughts as he patrolled the space between the cart and the woodland edge, had suddenly realised that his time for sleep had come. He walked to the snoring men by the fire, knelt beside Beccan, and shook him by the shoulder. ‘Your turn, Bec,’ he said. ‘Thanks for keeping my place warm.’
Beccan blinked as his sleep-befuddled brain attempted to gain its bearings. After wiping the dribble from his mouth, he wearily gained his feet.
‘How are the captives?’ he yawned, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes
‘Sleeping as deeply as you were a moment ago,’ said Cronan as he lowered himself into Beccan’s vacated, warm place by the fire. ‘And trussed up like chickens for the roast.’
Beccan scratched his crotch, then stretched his arms—elbows uppermost, fists on chest. He went to check the children for himself. Peering into the darkness inside the cart, he heard rhythmic, heavy breathing. He thought about testing the twine he had secured the children with earlier, but a noise, a distance away near to the trees, commanded his attention.
When reaching the trees, he peered into the darkness, alert for further sounds. The silence failed to allay his unease. He decided to settle against a tree, satisfied it was a good place to guard against any possible ingress into the camp, as well as giving him a good view of the cart.
Maewyn had rolled onto his belly to peer through the slats in the cart. ‘This one’s not walking around,’ he said. ‘Settled against a tree he has, and the other one’s snoring like a pig already.’ He looked at Elowen and Mule. ‘If we’re going to get away, then now’s the time.’
‘But even if we manage to get away, where will we go and how will we live?’ asked Elowen, close to tears.
Now infused with urgency, Maewyn had raised himself onto his elbows. ‘I don’t know, but anything would be better than what could happen to us as slaves. We don’t know if these people are any better than Osgar, and look what he tried to do to us.’
Elowen still wavered, but Mule broke in. ‘I want to go back home,’ he stammered. ‘If staying in the cart means we can’t go back home, then I think we should get out of it.’
Maewyn sat up now and looked towards Beccan, then returned his gaze to Elowen. His voice betrayed a quiver of emotion as his desperation grew. ‘Please girl, it’s our only chance. The guard seems settled over there. Come on now. Follow me over the back of the cart. Please … do it for me.’
A tear painted a white tracery down Elowen’s cheek as she witnessed Maewyn fighting to keep it together. She knew that Maewyn was their only hope. If he gave in it would be over.
After a further pause, she relented. Now they had reached the point of no return. Her heart hammered as she got to her knees. ‘Yes, we’ll go, then,’ she said, ‘but do it now before I have time to think about it.’
After checking they were unobserved, Maewyn slipped quietly over the back of the cart, followed by Mule. Elowen was the last to leave, and there they stood: frozen.
Maewyn was the first to act. ‘Grab my shirt and don’t let go,’ he said to Mule. ‘And you, Elowen, grab Mules shirt. We can’t allow ourselves to wander off alone in this darkness. That would be the end of it.’
He led them away from the camp keeping the cart between them and the men. Every crack and rustle in the woods caused them to tense with fear, but no chase followed. They continued in the dark for what seemed a lifetime. Two hours, then three passed. They saw or heard no one.
‘The sky lightens,’ said Elowen as they took their first rest against a bank of crispy, dead bracken. ‘They must know we’ve gone by now.’
‘The woods are still quiet though,’ reassured Maewyn. ‘The land here’s tricky and confusing. We can only hope they’ve gone off on the wrong trail. Now we must—‘
‘Smoke! Beyond the trees over there!’ interrupted Mule with his boyish fervor. His good eyes had spotted a curl of grey in the distance. ‘Let’s go and see where it comes from. Maybe there’re good folk there. Folk who will help us for a change.’
Maewyn pondered their options. He hadn’t thought much about what they would actually do after getting away from the men. He knew it would be daylight soon. Then they must hide. They had to find food and water, or whoever found them would discover only bones and shreds of clothing. They needed help, he knew that now, but how was he supposed to know if people were good or bad? Maybe if they got close to the source of the fire they could watch from a distance and decide what to do.
He stood up. Mule took his offered hand and Maewyn pulled him to his feet. ‘Come on then, we’ll move as close as possible, and spy on whoever burns the fire. As long as we’re quiet we should be safe.’
The monastery sat in a secluded peaceful valley a day’s ride away from the main track to the coast. Several huts provided accommodation for the Monks. Beside the huts, a guesthouse loomed large and welcoming—its thatched roof allowing an outpouring of smoke from the warming fire that burned within.
Surrounding the guesthouse, and similar in construction to it, were other buildings of varied size and function: a scriptorium for copying, a refectory and kitchen, a library, a smithy, a kiln, a church, and two barns. The barns held a goodly quantity of grain; the stubbled, fallow fields nearby having provided a fine harvest. Huge ponds, used for breeding fish, covered the rest of the Monastery grounds.
The first monks had arrived in Hibernia decades earlier from mainland Europe. As Christians, they had fled when the heathen hordes (Vandals, Sueves, and Alans) had raided Gaul and other areas. Since then, native Hibernians had swelled the ranks of the clergy, until a peaceful religious community had grown to thrive in the quiet valley.
Able to manufacture ironwork and pottery, the monks were useful suppliers of high status goods. This usefulness was not lost upon the heathen cattle lords who knew them to be no threat and left them alone to live their lives in the valley.
Just like every day since he had come to Hibernia from Gaul (now fifteen years gone), Rodric had risen at first light to milk the small herd of cows. Forbidden to eat any four-legged creatures, the monks kept the cows just for their milk. Ten of them now ruminated in a building next to the barn where they awaited his attendance.
As ever, Rodric intended to take his walk around the monastery’s extensive grounds before he saw to the cows. His first task, though, was to pray. Matins was the first of seven pray session during the day. As Rodric walked towards the small church, he met a freckled, ginger-haired youth. ‘Is it to be Latin or Celtic this morning, Ingomer?’ asked Rodric, as a twinkle glittered in his laughter-creased eyes.
Recently ordained, Ingomer still struggled with his pronouncement of Latin words, much to the amusement of Rodric and the other monks. He grinned mischievously. ‘Merda, caco, pissio,’ he said. ‘How’s that for Latin this fine morning?’
‘I’d stick to Celtic if I were you,’ said Rodric, trying not to laugh. ‘If the Bishop hears you speaking such words he’ll have you flogged.’
Their talk continued in the same vein, with much laughter and teasing, until reaching the church.
; Ingomer ran his flat hand down his face, as if wiping away his smile, just as they entered the church. The result was a suitably pious expression, which made Rodric want to laugh again. With his own smile suppressed but still playing at the corners of his mouth, he entered the church with Ingomer. Twenty minutes of sombre chanting later, Rodric emerged into a brighter day and set off on his walk.
His sandals scuffed through a field of stubble as he made his way to his favorite place: a small wood that overlooked the grounds. Here the morning birdsong was a treat to behold. Badgers also played in the wood, especially at dawn or dusk, and sometimes he would catch a fleeting glimpse of the old dog fox that patrolled the area.
As he approached the wood, he judged the direction of the breeze and decided to walk around the edge of the field. This would leave him downwind from the badgers. Maybe he would then have the chance to watch them a while.
He entered the wood, treading quietly, and was astonished to see, not badgers, but three children. Unaware of his presence, the children lay on their stomachs on a banking overlooking the monastery grounds.
Rodric was unsure, at first, what to do. He didn’t want to frighten them. By the look of their torn rags and generally unkempt and filthy disposition, they would run like frightened rabbits if he did that. Yet he couldn’t leave them. How could he? Wasn’t Jesus supposed to care for his flock? … and wasn’t he a disciple of the Lord? Wasn’t he supposed to do as Jesus would?
His concern grew as he neared them and got a closer look at their condition. As he recalled the scriptures, he found himself becoming angry. What did the bible say about any man who would hurt a child? It would be better for him if a millstone was hung around his neck and he was cast into the sea.
He made his decision and spoke to them. ‘Do not run, I will not hurt you. I am a friend,’ he said in Celtic, keeping his tone as calm and unthreatening as he could.
Maewyn was on his feet at once, his face shocked and fearful as he quickly assessed Rodric. Before him stood a man who wore the long habit of a monk, tied at the waist with a rope. A Celtic cross rested at his breast, suspended from a cord around his neck. In comparison to the brutes they had met with recently, this man looked benign and genteel. His silver hair was fine; his head shaved from ear to ear in a Celtic tonsure, allowing long silver strands to flow down the back of his head to his shoulders. His features were fine-boned and handsome. Elowen and Mule now stood beside Maewyn, both of them as gawking and as indecisive as he.
Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 32
