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

by Atkinson, F J

  Tassach frowned and looked unconvinced. ‘And how do we persuade them the children passed us by,’ he said. ‘If the trail leads them here they’ll turn the monastery upside down until they find them. Whether we’re useful to them of not, they won’t stop looking until they find the children, thus proving we lied to them. And I needn’t tell you the consequences of that, regardless of their taste for our bread, honey, and ale.’

  ‘But the trail won’t stop here,’ said Rodric. ‘The trail will be seen to bypass the monastery and lead to the bogs, three miles distant. There it will disappear into the water.’

  ‘So you intend to walk the children to the bogs and back,’ said Tassach, still frowning, still unconvinced.

  ‘Yes, and if we walk back over the same track and create a beaten trail it will be hard for them to separate the outgoing tracks from the returning ones.’

  ‘And can we guess the direction the mac Garrchu people will come from?’ asked Tassach.

  Rodric nodded. ‘If they find and follow the trail from the docks, as I’m sure they will, they’ll approach us from the woods that overlook the grounds, just as the children did.’

  ‘And we’ll know when they arrive,’ added Donard, ‘because we’ll keep watch over the woods until they get here.’

  ‘And the children?’ asked Tassach.

  ‘They’ll be hidden in the grain cellar behind the cow sheds,’ said Donard. ‘We’ll cover them with grain if needs be, until the search party leaves.’

  Tassach pushed his chair away from the table, a sign the meeting we over. He frowned at Rodric and Donard as he stood. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he cautioned, ‘because if this goes wrong they’ll destroy us.’ He walked to the door and turned to them before leaving. ‘But what options do we have apart from this one. We cannot give them to the mac Garrchu people. Our souls would surely be damned if we did that.’

  After they had washed and changed into clean clothes, the children felt almost reborn. All wore similar plain white cotton tunics fastened at the waist by a length of cord.

  ‘Sweet Jesus Saviour, we have three angels from above before us,’ said Ingomer in mock awe, as he arrived at the well after finishing his morning chores in the bakery.

  Maewyn self-consciously hitched his tunic off his shoulder, trying to give it anything but an angelic look.

  ‘Mmm, first time I’ve been dressed the same as my cousin,’ he muttered as he looked towards Elowen, and fidgeted with his tunic again.

  Ingomer gave a mischievous smile. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, no one will comment on your dress here at this monastery.’ He paused; hand on chin, as he smilingly appraised them.

  Unable to contain himself any longer, his smile broadened into a grin and his shoulders slowly began to shake as his laughter finally erupted. ‘Maybe we could stand you on the table at evening prayers, though,’ he chortled. ‘It would certainly give us inspiration to see such seraphims in our midst.’

  Maewyn gave a rueful smile and looked down at his tunic again, while Elowen could not help but echo Ingomer’s laughter. Mule, meanwhile, merely looked puzzled as he tried to figure out Ingomer’s joke.

  ‘All right, Ingle,’ allowed Maewyn, ‘you’ve had your bloody laugh. Anyway we’re washed and changed now and we’re all starving.’

  Mule immediately nodded in agreement, his eyes awash with anticipation.

  Ingle, still chuckling, led them to the refectory, his arm around Mule. ‘You have the pleasure of eating alone … and noisily,’ he said as he pushed the door open to reveal a room with a long table. ‘We monks eat here later … in complete silence.’

  Twelve simple stools stood on each side of the table. At the table’s head, an ornate wooden chair had pride of place. Ingle swept his arm towards the four nearest chairs. ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ he invited, ‘I’ll get you something to fill your bellies.’

  He took a tray from a table at the back of the room and set it down before them. Upon it were two fresh, crusty loaves, a pot of honey, and a hunk of cheese. ‘The bread is delicious, I baked it myself this morning,’ he said proudly. ‘The honey comes from our own hives, and the cheese is the product of our own cows.’

  Elowen by now had carved three thick slices from the loaf and piled them with cheese. Mule and Maewyn began to feed hungrily upon them, too busy filling their bellies to respond to Ingle for the time being.

  Ingle walked up to the top of the table and sat on the ornate chair. His mischievous face took on a dutiful expression as he raised his hand before him, index and forefinger pointing to the heavens as he blessed them with the sign of the cross. ‘In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen,’ he intoned. ‘May the good lord bless—‘

  Ingomer removed himself quickly from the Bishop’s chair as the door to the refectory opened. So quick was his reaction that he fell to the floor, leaving the chair rocking.

  Maewyn’s laugh at the sight was sudden and explosive, sending a shower of crumbs over the hapless Mule, who merely brushed them from him while continuing to chew. Maewyn turned to the door, red in the face and spluttering, as Rodric and Donard walked in.

  ‘It appears we have just missed Ingle’s latest Tomfoolery,’ said Rodric to Donard. ‘It’s just as well the Bishop didn’t walk in, or any monks of a sterner disposition.’

  Donard took a seat beside Elowen, as Ingle dragged a more legitimate stool from the table and sat sheepishly upon it. ‘I was just saying grace,’ offered Ingle,’ just as the Bishop—‘

  ‘Leave it at that, brother,’ interrupted Rodric, ‘lest you dig an even deeper pit for yourself. There’s business to discuss now and it involves all in this room.’ He waved the back of his fingers at the children and continued. ‘But eat away children, please. I’ll enlighten you further as you fill your bellies.’

  Rodric then told them of the conversation they’d had with Bishop Tassach; of the likelihood of pursuit by the mac Garrchu clan, and the importance of leading them away from the monastery on a false trail. ‘So after this meal,’ he concluded, ‘I would like you all to go with Ingomer to the bog to set the trail.’

  In contrast to Maewyn and Mule’s hungry feeding, Elowen had nibbled delicately on a piece of bread and honey as she listened to Rodric. ‘If we manage to elude them, what then?’ she asked, as Ingle filled her goblet with small beer. ‘How are we to get back to our land?’

  Rodric explained the necessity of them staying at the monastery until the sailing of the missionary boat the following year.

  Maewyn looked with dismay, first to Elowen and then to Mule, who was now preoccupied with his second wedge of bread. ‘But our mother … and Elowan’s father if he survived, will think us dead if we don’t go back soon. They’ll give us up as lost forever.’ He looked despairingly at Rodric, then Donard. ‘Is there no chance we can get back to Britannia before next year?’

  ‘None unfortunately,’ said Donard. ‘As Rodric explained, the only boats that sail will be manned by the roughest of people. Would you have us set you sail with such people?’

  ‘I for one never want to go on a boat again, even if it means staying here forever,’ said Mule, remembering his seasickness and Osgar’s brutality.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Maewyn tetchily. ‘We cannot remain here. What about mother and uncle Govan? Don’t you want to see them again?’

  Rodric’s glance at Maewyn indicated that he would explain things further to his brother. His tone was gentle and patient as he addressed Mule directly. ‘There’s no need for you to remain here, my boy,’ said Rodric. ‘In the springtime you’ll feel much better about crossing the sea, and our voyage will be much shorter—straight across to Britannia, rather than all around it like before.’

  He looked uneasily towards the door as his thought strayed to the business in hand. ‘First things first though,’ he continued. ‘First, we must shake the mac Garrchu clan off your trail and hide you well before they come; otherwise, there’ll be nobody crossing the Hibernian Se
a next year.’

  Fróech, Colman and Latchna grimly surveyed the scene of the fight. Fróech stood over the body of Saeran Uí Dúnlainge. His corpse was on its belly, its cheek resting against the cold earth. Jays had pecked most of the skin and much of the tissue from the cadaver’s face, but there was still enough flesh remaining to leave no doubt that Saeran Uí Dúnlainge would never walk the earth again. Fróech spat on the corpse.

  Latchna, still incapacitated from his injury, limped to the edge of the clearing and nodded in satisfaction. ‘Their trail is clear and leads through this coppice and into the rough scrubland.’ He looked to Fróech, to Colman—to the twenty grim men that sat, mounted, behind them. ‘It leads towards the monks abode if continuing in its direction,’ he added.

  Fróech heeled his pony forward as Latchna walked on ahead, examining the trail. ‘The monks have them,’ he said determinedly to Colman. ‘I’d wager a bull’s balls that the monks have them.’

  ‘And if they do?’ asked Colman.

  ‘If they do, we’ll thank them for looking after them and be on our way,’ said Fróech. ‘Like I said to father; we’ll be back with them at the ringfort in two days.’

  ‘You think they’ll just give them up, then?’ Colman snapped his fingers in the air. ‘Give them up, just like that?’

  Fróech shrugged indifferently. ‘Maybe … but probably not. They follow the creed of Jesus; the freak who walked on water and raised the dead; the one they tried to tell us about and make us as deranged as them. They are destined to do only good things—kind things—so they’ll probably try to protect the slaves.’ He shrugged again. ‘It’s of little matter, though, we’ll take them anyway.’

  ‘And teach the monks to do as they’re told while we’re at it,’ said Colman.

  ‘Yes, but only after we’ve sampled their ale and raided their copious larders,’ added Fróech.

  They continued their journey and by mid-afternoon, they had reached the point overlooking the monastery—the same place that Maewyn, Elowen and Mule had stood upon four days earlier.

  Rodric and Donard, who had expected Fróech’s party, now watched them as they made their way down the low hill towards the monastery. Bishop Tassach joined Rodric. The remaining monks stood in a huddle beside the refectory.

  Tassach tensed as he watched the riders approach. ‘You’re sure the children are safe?’ he asked Rodric.

  Rodric chanced a glance at the barn. ‘Yes they’re in the grain pit, behind the barn, as snug as feasting mice. Ingomer’s with them, and will receive a signal and shut the door to the pit if the barbarians decide to search.’

  Tassach nodded nervously, but his expression changed to that of the genial, welcoming host as Fróech approached. ‘Welcome … it’s always good to see our neighbors, whatever the time of day, or whatever the reason,’ said Tassach as Fróech dismounted his pony to stand before him. ‘We noticed your arrival and have prepared food and ale for you in the refectory.’

  Fróech sternly watched as a monk led away his pony to a nearby hitching rail.

  On seeing their leader dismount, the other riders did the same, allowing other monks to attend to their ponies.

  Tassach, his smile nervous and strained, extended his arm towards the refectory, inviting Fróech and his company of men to enter.

  Fróech, still taciturn, looked towards the door, then to his brother. Colman frowned as if considering whether to act upon Tassach invitation. Eventually he nodded, and walked with Fróech towards the refectory.

  Tassach fussed around Fróech and his men as they entered. Monks pulled chairs away from tables, and slowly the gathering became seated. Tassach took his seat at the head of the table, Rodric and Donard on either side of him. Tankards of ale were put before Fróech and his men.

  Unnerved that none of the mac Garrchu clan had yet spoken, Tassach anxiously cleared his throat. ‘I hope the ale is too your liking, Lord,’ he uttered.’ Your favorite bread and honey is on its way, fresh from our ovens and hives.’

  Fróech looked disdainfully at Tassach (a look mirrored by his brother Colman), then belched up his first quaff of ale. Tassach squirmed under the brothers’ withering stares, wishing he could slump inside his habit and disappear. Rodric, who was surprised at the lack of dialogue coming from Fincath’s sons, looked enquiringly over to Donard. The scribe merely raised his eyebrows as if to say, we can do naught but wait and let it unfold.

  Unfold it did, as Fróech spoke for the first time, the suddenness catching Tassach by surprise. ‘First of all,’ he said, eying Tassach coldly, ‘why do you sit at the head of this assembly? Why, indeed, do you have a better seat than everyone else?’ Tassach, who had no answer ready, merely shrugged and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  Fróech allowed the silence to hang a moment, his head tipped quizzically to one side as he appraised the mute Tassach.

  After the pause he continued. ‘No answer, eh? Just as I though. So let me help you. The fools you sent to convert us last year told us your God created all men equal; an absurd notion and one that forced me to shave off their mad hair and paint their heads blue so they’d resemble the dolts they are. So when I ask you why you sit at the head of the table when your religion instructs that no one should do so, you cannot answer me because it makes no sense.’

  Fróech cradled his chin between his thumb and forefinger, his face affecting a look of confusion as he studied the tabletop. Raising his head to look directly at Tassach, he jabbed his finger at him as his rage finally exploded.

  ‘You see, my good priest from hell,’ he shouted, ‘what makes no sense to me is that you sit at the head of a table in a land bequeathed to you by my father, when the successor to this land—to this tuath—namely I, Fróech mac Findchado, son of Fincath mac Garrchu, is left to sit as a servant who waits to gather crumbs from his master’s table!’

  Tassach, aware now of his slight to Fróech, immediately shot to his feet, and signalled Rodric and Donard to do the same. ‘No … no, I meant you no insult,’ he spluttered. ‘It’s just the way we do—‘

  Fróech sprung up, grabbed Tassach by the cloth of his habit, and pushed him away from the table abruptly ending his excuses. ‘No … no more, just get down the table and know your place,’ he shouted, as he helped Tassach along with a hefty kick at his buttocks. Rodric and Donard followed Tassach and took seats half way down the table.

  Once seated at the head of the table, Fróech, with Colman on his right and Latchna on his left, brusquely signalled for a monk to refill his flagon with ale. He studied his fingernails, apparently absorbed with them—his rage switched off for now.

  Calmer, he continued. ‘You know why we’re here, so go and get the slaves for our perusal.’ Again, there was silence, so Fróech turned his attention from his fingernails and looked penetratingly at the three monks. ‘Well?’ he asked, as he held out his hands as if awaiting a gift.

  Tassach, Rodric and Donard merely looked bemusedly back at him; the room deathly quiet; the tension high.

  ‘Slaves you say?’ said Rodric, who could stand the icy silence no longer. ‘I’m sorry my lord but I have no idea what you can mean.’

  Fróech looked at Rodric, then at his brother, Colman, who exchanged a look of exasperation with him. ‘Look, we know they’re here. We followed their trail. So go and get the slaves,’ repeated Fróech with strained patience, each sentence emphasized with a nod of his head.

  ‘If they came as far as this monastery, they did not present themselves to the Bishop, and that I swear to God the almighty,’ said Rodric.

  Tassach’s eyes flickered under his knitted brow upon hearing Rodric’s oath. Another one of my monks to roast in hell, he thought.

  ‘So you’re going to make us search this place from roof to cellar,’ said Fróech. ‘I need not tell you what will happen if I find you are lying to us on this matter.’

  ‘Please feel free to search,’ said Tassach, as his composure partly returned. ‘We wouldn’t lie to you. If we held any slaves
, I know you would look after them if they were so highly prized. Believe me; we would hand them to you if we had them.’

  Fróech gave another exasperated shake of his head. Now, his tone was impatient as he addressed his men. ‘Search as I described,’ he barked. ‘Leave nothing. Miss nothing.’ He turned to Latchna who sat at his left side. ‘Use your tracking skills and look for signs around the edges of this place.’

  A scraping of chairs on the stone floor of the refectory heralded the start of the search as Fróech’s men got to their feet and left the building.

  Fróech remained with Colman—the long table now empty apart from Tassach, Rodric and Donard. The other monks had left to observe the search.

  ‘So you have just sworn to your God that the slaves are not hidden here,’ said Fróech to Rodric. ‘That means if we find them, you will, according to your strange doctrine, roast in the fires of hell.’ Fróech’s smile was thin as he continued. ‘Twice then, you’ll suffer; firstly, back at the ringfort at the hands of the mac Garrchu clan, where we have a man skilled in the art of slowly boiling our enemies in a cauldron for three days to prolong their agonized deaths, and secondly you’ll burn for eternity in the inferno of your own Christian hell.’

  Rodric did not reply, but merely attempted to hold Fróech’s probing stare, his heart hammering as he fought to keep his gaze unblinking and true.