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

by Atkinson, F J

  Ranulf held his stare upon Cate a while longer. To her relief, he finally turned to Irvine, regarding him with disdain. ‘You Britons!’ he spat. ‘Always thinking of the consequences. That’s what makes you such dull shits.’

  Cate stood hunched with trepidation. ‘Lie down and get to sleep!’ snapped Ranulf, pointing to the ground. ‘Britons,’ he muttered, piqued, as he left to find his own sleeping place.

  The next day they arrived back at Norwic, where Griff and his dogs met them as they approached his huge alehouse-come-brothel.

  ‘Just three of you?’ he frowned enquiringly. ‘Please tell me that the others follow behind.’

  Irvine and Ranulf exchanged glances. They had readied themselves for the inevitable with Griff. Ranulf knew it could not be dressed up. He might as well get straight to it.

  ‘You were right in assuming that the thieves were not merchants,’ he said. ‘They saw off eight of my men and got away with the two boys.’

  Griff nodded grimly, lips pursed, as if fully empathizing with Ranulf. ‘Mmm, ten seasoned and formidable warriors against five of them … that seems fair enough. It must have been hard for you to only outnumber them two to one.’

  ‘Don’t get clever!’ shouted Ranulf, getting in first. He pointed up the hill towards the dockyard. ‘How do you think I feel? I’ve lost eight good men trying to fix the mess created by those miserable salt rats. Don’t forget that I could have spent the last two nights sleeping and whoring. Instead, I agreed to try and save your foppish skin so you can continue to trade with Hibernia, so don’t get clever with me, Griff!’

  Unfazed, Griff shouted back. ‘Yes you did chase them for me, but don’t you forget that you did it for gold! That’s what motivates you, man, not good intent! As for Hibernia, your fortune is also tied up with it!’ Griff pressed his palms to his temples in frustration. ‘SHIT! How could I have trusted that scum on the boat to guard my merchandise?’

  He walked to Cate and lifted her braided hair from her face. She shuddered—repelled—then turned away from him. ‘She will have to do, I suppose.’ He threw her hair away from him and gave Ranulf an icy stare. ‘Do I need to check her for purity?’ he asked pointedly.

  ‘You’ll do it anyway, so what do you think?’

  ‘I think you would be very foolish to taint the goods.’

  ‘Set the dogs on me, would you,’ said Ranulf, his sneer laced with edginess, as he observed the ever-present mastiffs by Griff’s side. Before he could answer, a pale, ethereal youth stepped from the door of the brothel. ‘Ah, I see you’ve brought your lovely wife to town,’ mocked Ranulf. He nodded towards Cate. ‘At least she won’t be tainted by him, that’s for sure … or you for that matter.’

  Griff ignored him, and instead threw a purse towards Ranulf who snatched it angrily from midair. Griff realised he needed the man and his followers—knew he had pushed him far enough for now. Secretly he had not held out much hope for the return of the slaves. That the girl was here now—the most valuable of the three—was better than he had expected.

  ‘Think yourself lucky that I pay you the full amount,’ he said to the glowering Ranulf.

  Griff turned to Ciaran. ‘Take the girl under your wing; she stays at the villa until the next boat sails to Hibernia.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Fróech had decided to follow the trail to the marshes himself. He watched as his scout, Latchna, crouched to examine the tracks that led from the monastery grounds. ‘Do you think they’re telling the truth?’ he asked Colman, who rode beside him.

  Colman shrugged. ‘They’re not supposed to lie, so maybe they are.’ He peered ahead, his eyes following the blatant indentation through the dewy grass. After a pause, he turned to look back towards the monastery. ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway,’ he added. ‘The men are searching their buildings as we speak. If they are lying to us we’ll find them.’

  Latchna stood up and flicked a blade of grass from his fingers. ‘At least three people passed along here fairly recently. It’s hard to say if anyone accompanied them. The prints blend into each other.’

  ‘Then mount up man, and we’ll move on and see where they go,’ said Fróech.

  For three miles, they followed the tracks until coming to the bogs. Here, three sets of footprints, puddled with brown water, punctured the mud. After ten steps, the footprints disappeared under the water.

  Latchna turned to Fróech after examining the prints. ‘It looks like someone entered the wetlands here,’ he said. ‘Any tracks beyond these lie beneath water, so here the trail goes cold.’

  ‘But why would they go through the bogs?’ mused Fróech as he surveyed the vast expanse of shallow water. He looked to Latchna. ‘Indeed, would they survive if they chose to do so?’

  Latchna frowned, perplexed, as he looked over the morass. He nodded. ‘At this time of year, especially after the dry weather we’ve had recently, it could be possible. As long as their luck holds and they avoid any deep mud, they could get across to the other side. Perhaps they chose this route to throw us off their trail.’

  ‘You think three children would have the wit for that?’ asked Colman.

  ‘Who knows how Britons think,’ said Latchna. ‘Some say they are spawned from demons.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said Fróech, but the trail ends here for us.’ He looked across the bogs again. ‘If they, indeed, went this way, we need to pick up their tracks on the other side of the wetlands. How far, Latchna, before we can do that?’

  ‘They are vast,’ said Latchna. ‘The best we can do is skirt the edges until their trail emerges again. It could take us a day, maybe a day and half to pick it up.’

  Fróech chewed on his lip as he considered the possibilities. ‘We do nothing until we’re certain the slaves don’t hide back there.’ He tugged the reins of his pony, turning it towards the monastery. He looked at Colman, then at Latchna. ‘This may be a ruse,’ he added. ‘If they knew we were coming they may have set this trail to fool us.’

  Fedelmid had enjoyed overturning tables and smashing precious glass goblets as he stormed through the monastery buildings looking for the children. He was determined to be the man who found them. As one of Fróech’s many cousins, he knew his esteem would rise if he could do just that. Surely, he would get a seat nearer to Fincath in the hall when the king learned what a shrewd man his nephew was; would get to choose the better women; the prettier women saved for the king’s favorites.

  He noticed a young monk following him as he emerged from one of the buildings. ‘Why do you shadow me, you skirted turd?’ he shouted, looking impatiently around for the next place to search.

  Ingle had watched the man as his hunt had meandered ever nearer to the barn. Knowing this would take him near the barley store where the children hid, he had decided to follow him in the hope he could distract him from any possible search near to them.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Ingle. ‘My bishop instructs me to ensure that anything valuable is put back in its place if disturbed during the search.’ To emphasise this, he picked up a pewter plate, earlier discarded by Fedelmid that lay now on the dusty ground. He blew on it and rubbed it with the sleeve of his habit. He smiled happily at Fedelmid.

  ‘Alright, but just keep out of my way,’ growled Fedelmid as he strolled into the barn, scrutinizing it for signs of disturbance.

  White, longhorn cows, chewed contentedly—haplessly observing Fedelmid through vacant eyes as he climbed the wooden ladders rising to the haylage store above the barn. After a hasty search, and much throwing about of hay bundles, he jumped down. Now dusting his hands upon his tunic, he looked around the barn again. Satisfied that it contained no children, he stomped out looking for another place to search.

  The skin on Ingle’s scalp contracted as he watched Fedelmid walk round the back of the barn. Ingle looked towards the refectory where another monk stood. He signalled to the monk, and then scurried after Fedelmid.

  ‘Master, by your leave, refreshments have been renewed
in the refectory. The bread is just out of the oven, so if you prefer it crusty and warm then now may be a good time to eat. Also there are jugs of ale to be had.’

  Fedelmid had noticed the trap door that covered the grain pit and strode purposefully towards it. He stopped upon hearing Ingle’s words. He turned to look towards the refectory. After a brief consideration, he shook his head and turned back to the trap doors. ‘Not got time to eat,’ he muttered, ‘…have to get this done first.’

  ‘I doubt there’ll be anything left if you do,’ said Ingle. ‘Others are entering to eat their fill and quench their thirsts as we speak.’

  Fedelmid, who had stooped to open the trap door of the pit, straightened. The bread and ale suddenly seemed enticing to him—more so, now it was destined to line stomachs other than his. He walked away from the pit and pushed Ingle to one side as he passed him. ‘It had better be good,’ he warned, ‘or I’ll have you flogged for pestering me.’

  Ingle watched Fedelmid until he entered the refectory. The monk standing near the door waited a while, then gave Ingle the thumbs up. The signal indicated that Fedelmid had settled down with his bread and ale. Knowing time was precious, Ingle made straight for the trap door and opened it.

  The first thing he saw was Mule’s head, panic stricken and gasping for breath. Ingle quickly crossed himself, giving thanks to God for arriving before Fedelmid.

  ‘It’s okay, it’s me,’ he reassured Mule, who had started to cough and blink rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the flood of light.

  At the sound of his voice, Elowen and Maewyn surfaced from the barley, both red faced and coughing just like Mule. Groaning with the effort needed to pull his body free from the grain, Maewyn was the first to stand up.

  Ingle offered his arm. Maewyn took it and heaved himself completely out of the bell chamber. With Ingle, he then assisted Mule and Elowen out.

  Ingle knelt over the pit, smoothed the barley to a flat surface, then quickly shut the trap door.

  His tone was urgent. ‘Follow me; we’ve only got a short time before one of them comes back here to finish his search. I managed to get him out of the way just in time, but he’ll be back, that’s for certain.’

  Maewyn was close to panic as he looked around and sought another place to hide. ‘But surely we’ll be found now that we’re out in the open, we need to hide again, and soon,’ he said.

  ‘No, we have to get away from here, and you need to do as I say,’ pressed Ingle.

  Mule was still blinking away his disorientation and this worried Ingle. The young monk grabbed Mule by his wrist. Thinking quickly, he then grasped Elowen’s hand and looked into her bewildered eyes. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, as he slapped Mule’s hand into hers. ‘Keep hold of him and make sure he keeps up. Have you got that?’

  Elowen nodded her comprehension.

  ‘Right. After me,’ said Ingle as he took to a trot away from the barn and towards the fallow fields.

  Maewyn now ran beside him, while Elowen ran behind with Mule. ‘We head for that wooded ridge over there,’ said Ingle pointing ahead. ‘It’s just been searched so we should be safe there. Quickly, though, for we’re out in the open.’ He cast a hasty look upwards. ‘Trust in God that we’re not spotted.’

  As they ran alongside the stubby edge of the field, Maewyn looked back towards the monastery and realised how exposed they were. Should any of the searchers look their way they would be seen. Nothing lay between them and the settlement—neither hedge, nor tree, nor haystack.

  ‘Don’t look, just keep moving,’ said Ingle, sensing Maewyn’s concern. ‘There’s nothing we can do now but just carry on and hope.’

  Maewyn, however, had to look again and immediately wished he had not. Men had begun to spill from the refectory after the Monks’ ruse of tempting them inside with delicious fare had finally run its course. None, for now, looked towards them as they ran towards the cover of the trees.

  A small, shin-high island of wild grass pushed through the brown stubble of the harvested field. Mule’s foot found it, causing him to fall flat on his face.

  ‘It had to be you!’ scolded Maewyn, as he helped Mule to his feet. He took Mule’s hand himself now, dragging him and forcing him to run in a stumbling, splayfooted, gait towards the approaching cover.

  Ingle got there first and met Maewyn and Mule, guiding them into a shallow ditch beside the shrubbery. Elowen arrived moments later, gasping and panicky. Ingle lifted her down into the ditch. Nestled low, they all blew heavily, their backs against the wall of the ditch.

  Ingle allowed them a moment to recover. ‘We should be safe here until they leave,’ he said breathlessly. ‘They approached from the west … and that’s the way they’ll return … unless they have mind … to trudge through the bogs.’

  Fróech, Colman and Latchna arrived from their search of the marshes, just as the other men concluded their search of the grounds and monastic buildings.

  Fedelmid met them with his news. ‘They are not here Fróech,’ he said. ‘We’ve been everywhere: above ground and below; in hay lofts and grain cellars; looked in every dip and hollow.’

  Fróech paused a moment to think things through. If the monks had given refuge to the slaves, then they were indeed skilled in the art of deception. On the other hand, the fugitives could have continued past the monastery as the monks insisted.

  He made his decision. ‘Latchna. You and two men ride round the edges of the marshes and follow any trail that leads from them. I will speak further with the monks.’

  Bishop Tassach, Rodric, and Donard metFróech and Colman as they walked into the refectory. Tassach, careful not to incur Fróech’s wrath again, invited them to a seat at the top of the table.

  Again, Fróech was brusque, as he signalled to a monk for ale. ‘It seems you told us the truth,’ he said. He held Tassach in his stare for a moment. ‘Either that or you are good at hiding what does not belong to you.’

  ‘All men belong to God,’ said Tassach, evenly. ‘He made us and He looks over us.’

  Impatient, Fróech waved away Tassach’s words. ‘Phaa! I’ve no time for that nonsense now. The slaves belong to my father, paid for by him, and owned by him. What concerns me is that you may have seen them … you might even know where they are.’ He looked now at Rodric. ‘We know how to extract the truth out of a man,’ he said as he eyed Rodric from head to foot. ‘Know the best parts of a man’s body to apply pain to.’

  With torture in mind, Fróech glanced at Colman, seeking his endorsement, but Colman, who had now decided that the children had not strayed to the monastery, shook his head.

  Fróech turned back to Tassach. ‘It seems that your God smiles on you this day; my brother is eager to return.’

  He stood, drained his flagon, then pointed a threatening finger—in turn at Tassach, Rodric and Donard. ‘We will be back though, and if I find you have lied to us, you will all shed you skin in the boiling pot.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  After reaching Brythonfort, Augustus had come under the care of the herbs woman, Rozen.

  After removing his shirt to reveal his bruise-ridden torso, Rozen gasped and insisted he lay down at once.

  Augustus watched as she brought in a ceramic jar. ‘A salve made from the common daisy,’ said Rozen in response to Augustus’ questioning look. ‘The daisy heads are infused in olive oil for several days.’ She moved to sit beside Augustus. She put her hand into the jar and scooped out a glop of amber syrup. ‘This is what’s left after the flower heads are removed. It will heal your bruises and also sooth the pain within.’

  Augustus fought the impulse to wince as Rozen began to work the salve into his skin. ‘It’s good you can heal me, Roz,’ he said. ‘I need to ride tomorrow or the day after. We head to the west coast to find a boat to Hibernia.’

  Rozen laughed as if Augustus had just made the most ridiculous statement she had ever heard. ‘These injuries will not heal in two days,’ she said, ‘… rather two months or more. You are going now
here, Gus, for if you do, you will certainly die.’

  ‘And he will be no use to me or these boys if he does,’ said Modlen, as she entered the room with Art and Ula.

  Modlen, too, gasped as she observed her husband’s torso. Glistening now with the salve, the contusions seemed angrier than ever. Augustus raised his arm. She took it and kissed it tenderly, the look in her eyes leaving him in no doubt that he would be remaining at Brythonfort.

  After Dominic’s group had returned to Brythonfort without the children, Govan and Nila had been devastated. Later, though, Dominic had been able to give them hope when telling them the search would continue in Hibernia.

  Dominic’s group had met with Arthur, and together they had thought long and hard about the best way to get the children back. To take an armed force across the sea was out of the question. Arthur had argued that such an action would be fraught with problems, not the least of which would be the resupply of provisions and weapons. Logistically, he had argued, it would be unfeasible. Eventually, it had been agreed that just four men—Dominic, Flint, Murdoc and Withred—would seek out the captors of the children and approach them directly.

  Posing as agents of Griff, they would verify their legitimacy by attempting to procure business for him. They would also ask if the quality of goods had been up to Griff’s usual high standards. In this way, they hoped to gain information on the children; find their whereabouts; learn of their condition; seek the opportunity to flee with them back to the port and over the sea. First, though, they had to find who held them.

  Eight further days were to pass, before Dominic, Withred, Flint and Murdoc, overlooked the pristine and glistening Hibernian Sea on the western peninsular of Dyfed.

  To seek the assistance of the Hibernian exile, Guertepir, was their intent. Below them lay his ringfort—its ramparts towering above the shoreline. A steep track ran downwards and away from them to the ringfort’s one entrance.