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

by Atkinson, F J

  Fróech answered for his father; the first time he had spoken. ‘Dead … no. Their trail carried to the monastery, a good day’s ride from here. Then it disappeared into the marshes beyond. Latchna, our scout, skirted the bogs but found no trails leading from them. He guesses they perished under the mud, but I am not so sure.’

  Dominic, along with Flint and Withred, now realised the need to get to the monastery at the first opportunity and so pick up the trail. Unwilling to arouse Fincath’s suspicion further, Dominic considered it unwise to ask the whereabouts of the place, so he gave Flint and Withred a quick warning glance not to ask any more questions.

  Fincath, now tired and ready for his bed, stood and made to leave. ‘You are our guests for as long as you wish to stay,’ he said. ‘Although I make no apologies for admitting I’ll be glad to see you return quickly to Britannia. The quicker you get news back to Griff, the quicker I get my slaves.’

  ‘In that case,’ Dominic said,’ you’ll be glad to learn that we thank you for your offer of a bed but will stay one night only. Our business in Hibernia is now over, and we purpose to travel back to Britannia on a favorable tide tomorrow if possible. The year draws on and the sea doesn’t suffer fools in winter.’

  ‘I’ll send in women and bed rolls to warm you, then,’ said Fincath, as he walked to the door, flanked by his son. ‘The tables in here will have to do to sleep and rut upon.’

  ‘By your leave, we need only bed rolls,’ Dominic said.

  ‘Boys then?’ asked Fincath perplexed and unable to understand why any man would refuse a strumpet for the night. ‘Perhaps you prefer boys?’

  ‘No boys either,’ Dominic said. ‘We wish to start at first light, so sleep is important to us. Carnal pleasure can wait until we get back to Britannia.’

  Fincath shrugged. ‘As you wish … just bed rolls then,’ he said, as he left the hall.

  Fincath ushered Fróech and Colman towards his dwelling near to the outer wall of the ring fort. Once inside, he sat at his table and accepted three cups of wine from his wife.

  With a nod, he dismissed his woman from the room and looked questioningly at Fróech and Colman. ‘Well? What do you think? Did Griff send them?’ he asked.

  Fróech shrugged. ‘Who knows? We’ve only their word for it, but why would they come to us if they’re not from him?’

  ‘I know one thing,’ said Colman. ‘They have our gold in their purse and they leave with it tomorrow.’

  ‘It suits our purpose if they are who they say they are,’ said Fincath. ‘And they knew the name of Ambrosius, so they must have been near Griff at the very least. One thing’s for sure; they couldn’t have come at a better time as far as our loss is concerned.’

  ‘Still, it would make sense to watch them and find out if they have any other reason for being here,’ said Fróech.

  Fincath nodded in agreement. ‘Latchna is the man for that task. They should go straight back to the docks in the morning if they are telling the truth.’

  ‘Then let Latchna tail them at dawn and make sure they sail back to Griff,’ said Fróech. ‘If they deviate from their plan in any way, then that makes them liars, and I’ll have their heads on poles before the next night falls.’

  During the night, Dominic, Withred and Flint had had much to discuss, and much to plan. In view of the startling news of the escape of Maewyn, Elowen and Mule, Flint had to be persuaded not to leave in the dark and start the search at once. Dominic had explained the folly of such an action, and finally Flint had settled down somewhat, but still he continued to pace the hall restlessly as he enthused over the next day’s actions.

  One thing they all agreed on was the pressing need to find the monastery and the marshland behind it.

  Withred had reasoned that the monks would have given the children sanctuary according to the tenets of their Christian faith. The monks may then have persuaded Fincath’s men that the children had passed them by and got lost in the bogs.

  Withred’s theory had bolstered Flint but not helped him settle. More than ever, he had paced the room and stressed the importance of getting an early start, so they could get on with the business of finding the children.

  Eventually, though, his tiredness had overcome him and he had taken his bedroll. Exhausted, physically and mentally, he had quickly fallen asleep alongside Withred and Dominic.

  As the medley of three snoring men came to him, the man left his hiding place in a shadowy corner of the hall and made for the door. He had heard much … he had heard enough. Now he could use the information to his gain. The dawn would be interesting. The dawn would restore his fortunes.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As the days rolled by, Maewyn, Elowen and Mule settled into a quiet routine at the monastery. At night, they slept in the loft above the cattle barn, away from the main cluster of buildings. Rodric considered it the safest place, as it would allow them to slip away unnoticed if the need arose.

  Ingle spent as much time with the children as his schedule would allow. Maewyn, in particular, would frequently accompany him as he went about his everyday life, often helping him with his chores.

  And always they talked—incessantly they talked: about their lives before they met; about their families; and often about Ingle’s vocation.

  One day as they herded the cows back to the barn, Maewyn (who had absorbed much of what Ingle had told him about Christ) asked, ‘How can you be so sure that Jesus walked the earth as a man? How can you believe he is the son of God?’

  ‘It is spoken of in the bible,’ said Ingle. ‘And the bible records events from the past, just as the Romans recorded events from their past. That is how we know things: through the written word.’

  Maewyn was not convinced. ‘Ah yes, my father once told me that a famous scribe named Tacitus was responsible for writing much of what we know about Rome. What he wrote we know now to be true, but some of the things the bible claims to have happened makes me scratch my head at times.’

  ‘Faith—that’s what you need,’ said Ingle as he tapped his stick against the rump of a wandering cow. ‘Back in line, you silly lump,’ He turned his attention back to Maewyn. ‘Sometimes it doesn’t pay to think too much about what Jesus told us. Just believe in it, Wyn. It’s far simpler if you just believe.’

  But much of what he told us I do believe in,’ said Maewyn. ‘That all men and women are of the same importance in this world. That all of us have a place in it…’ He paused, his head awash with recent memories. ‘But why must some men be bad? Why must they kill? Why must they take what is not theirs to own? Why did God allow evil men to kill my father?’

  ‘But God does not direct the actions of men,’ enthused Ingle. ‘That’s the whole point. He tells us how to live and we get on with it as best we can. The men who killed your father can never have heard the teachings of Christ or his followers. How could they? Matthew told us: Thou shalt love thy fellow man as much as thyself. That is the message we monks seek to give to anyone who strays into our enclosed world. That is why we are here, not just to grow vegetables, milk cows, brew ale, and pray. Every bad man we can convince to be good is one less bastard walking this earth.’

  Maewyn could not help but smile at Ingle’s colourful tone. ‘And that’s one less bastard in heaven,’ he said as he opened the barn door to allow the cows in. At his words, Ingle quickly crossed himself, hoping to cancel out his indiscretion. As the animals ambled past him, ruminating and flicking their tails, Maewyn laughed aloud at Ingle … the clown.

  ‘What?’ asked Ingle, smiling himself now.

  ‘It’s you,’ said Maewyn. ‘You just can’t help yourself can you? I’ve seen Rodric and the others killing themselves not to smile at some of the ungodly things you say, and the rapid crossing that follows.’

  Ingle pointed to the sky. ‘I’ll just have to hope He has a sense of humour, then, won’t I?’

  Maewyn slapped the rump of the last cow to enter the barn, then clattered the timber doors shut. ‘If He hasn’t, t
hen I don’t think I want to be in his company.’

  As October blended seamlessly into November, Maewyn spent many similar days, laughing and talking with Ingle. Sometimes Mule and Elowen would accompany them, but mostly Maewyn and Ingle went about their business as a pair.

  Mule, for his part, had taken a liking to the fishponds. The monks had excavated the ponds years before for the purpose of breeding fish for the table. Donard, the scribe, had fashioned a rough rod and line for Mule, and the youth spent many of his days fishing for the bream, eels and lamprey that teemed within the murky water.

  Unsurprisingly, he had fallen into the pond one day after struggling to grab an eel. Elowen had watched as the monks had pulled him out, and from that day onwards had fished alongside him, fearful he would surely drown if left to his own devices.

  In the evenings, Rodric, Ingle and Donard would sit with the children in the refectory. With quills and ink, and scraps of discarded vellum from Donard’s scriptorium, they began to learn their letters

  On the wall, Donard had tacked a piece of calfskin. Written upon it were all the letters of the alphabet. Each night he pointed to the letters and they would write them down upon the vellum. Soon, Elowen and Maewyn were able to recite the entire alphabet and write the letters down when asked to do so by the monks.

  For Mule, it was a task beyond his ability, but he was happy just to scratch upon his piece of vellum whilst mouthing the names of letters that bore no similarity to the scrawling before him.

  As the nights passed in front of the tables, Elowen proved to be an able pupil, but Maewyn in particular demonstrated a sharp and acute intellect that was far above anything that Rodric and Donard had ever seen. Within a week, Maewyn had learned to write sentences in Latin, and in doing so, he learned to read short passages from the Bible.

  One night after the children had left them, Rodric remarked to Donard, ‘He’s a clever one is Maewyn. Never have I seen anyone learn their letters at such a speed.’

  Donard nodded sagely. ‘Yes, and we have had many boys pass through here, some of them extremely astute in their own right, but none like him, that’s for sure.’

  Rodric smiled as he remembered the day he found the children as they hid at the rise overlooking the monastery. ‘He got them away from capture and to safety here,’ he told Donard, ‘and for a lad of his years that was something. His spirit is resolute, that I’ve always known, but the speed of his mouth surely demonstrates his intellect. It’s impossible to best him verbally; his riposte is as sharp as your quills, Donard.’

  Donard laughed. ‘Yes I know, I’ve noticed he always has to have the last word with Ingle, and that fellow can talk himself.’

  Rodric considered Maewyn’s indiscriminate use of his mouth. ‘The children suffered at the hands of a man on their sea voyage,’ he said. ‘Ingle told me the tale. A bad fellow he was, intent on revenge and murder. Even then, Ingle tells me, Maewyn could not help but backchat the man; was unable to remain silent as the monster spat his venom at him and the other two. Maewyn told Ingle much more as well about their hardships since they were taken. He’s spoken at length with him about his disillusionment with the nature of man.’

  Donard picked up the vellum before him, the piece that Maewyn had practiced on before leaving for the barn. It read: The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham.

  ‘Ingle tells me that Maewyn had no faith in anything before he came here,’ said Donard absently, as he held up and studied Maewyn’s neat handwriting. ‘Saw Christians as deluded fools to be laughed at and teased. Now, Ingle says that he’s ravenous in his quest for knowledge.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just trying to make sense of the world,’ said Rodric with a shrug, ‘…trying to find a reason why some men will die for you, yet some will happily torture and kill you.’ He looked tellingly at Donard. ‘You think he may be considering following the path of Christ?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ said Donard as he placed the parchment back on the table. ‘One thing’s for sure though; Maewyn will come to his own conclusion. He’s not one to be preached at. Ingle is quite positive on the matter.’

  Maewyn had come to his own conclusion; he had concluded that the teachings of the bible, as conveyed by Ingle, were at least worth further contemplation. Since he had started to write the beautiful script, form together the words, and assimilate the language of Latin, his hunger to find out what further insights the strange book had to reveal had become insatiable.

  First, though, he had to learn to read whole sentences and understand what they meant. The books at the monastery were artifacts beyond any price, and he knew the monks would never allow him to practice on them unsupervised. For now, he had to rely on Ingle reciting passages of scripture to him.

  After a morning of helping Ingle, Maewyn found himself at a loose end when the young monk left him at midday to attend sext (the fourth of seven prayer sessions required of him every day). He knew Mule and Elowen would be at the ponds so decided to join them there.

  He found his brother lying on his belly, chin propped in hand, watching his fishing line for movement. Beside him, Elowen sat, chewing on a stalk of grass and staring absently into the water.

  Mule rolled over on his back as Maewyn plonked down beside him. ‘Two today up to now,’ he said proudly. ‘One lamprey and one bream.’

  Maewyn looked up and down the water line, frowning when he saw no fish in evidence. ‘Well … what happened to them?’ he asked.

  ‘The bishop says we have to put the tiddlers back,’ said Elowen, replying for Mule, ‘… that way they’ll grow big enough for the table and feed six men instead of two.’

  ‘Seems a bit pointless to me,’ said Maewyn. ‘Waiting here all day to catch fish, then throwing the things back in the water when you finally manage it.’

  ‘Not all the fish go back in the water,’ corrected Mule. ‘The big ones we take to the kitchens ...’

  The man was careful as he parted the bushes to get a better view of the children. Seventy paces below him beside the fishpond, they indulged in their idle chatter. Typical of children, they were lost in the moment—oblivious to anything else around them in the world.

  The man had carefully flanked the monk whose job it was to watch the main trail into the monastery from the woods. Flanked him then made his way to a place where he could look out over the grounds. Poaching had been his purpose. Maybe steal a cow while the monks prayed; he knew they prayed at noon.

  However, this was far better. Knowledge was power, and he had found the missing slaves. The slaves who had been the talk of the tuath.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Govan helped Simon and four other men drop the large wooden gate into the hinge-pegs that were set into the edge of the upright beam. Already positioned, the other gate rested securely on its hinges.

  ‘There … the gates are in place,’ said Simon as he stood back with Govan and the others to study the completed job.

  Before them, the stockade curved away from them and out of sight. Both gates rested in an open position, allowing them to see the completed huts within the village compound.

  ‘Four weeks to build it from a ruin … an incredible effort,’ said Govan. He frowned and kicked at the dirt beneath his feet. ‘And two weeks since Dominic and the others left for the west coast and Hibernia.’ Squinting through one eye as the sun slid from behind a cloud, he looked at Simon. ‘Do you think they’ll be there by now, Si?’

  Simon silently mouthed his count as he pondered the question, his head bobbing in unison as he added up the probable days required for the journey to Hibernia. ‘Should have arrived three or four days ago by my reckoning,’ he said. ‘They should be well into their search by now.’

  Govan looked along the dredged ditch beside the stockade. Now cleared of bodies and debris, green water filled it to within a hand’s width of the rim. He remembered the day of the raid when he had floundered in its depths; the day they had stolen his belove
d Elowen; the day they had slaughtered, Bran—his truest friend and brother. He thought of Mule and Maewyn, now alone somewhere in the world with Elowen.

  Noting his distracted stare and aware of his anxiety and worry, Simon placed his hand on Govan’s arm. ‘They’ll get them back, don’t ever doubt it,’ he said. ‘We couldn’t have four better men searching for them. If they are there to be found, Dominic will find their trail.’

  ‘Where else could they be?’ asked an alarmed Govan, as Simon immediately regretted the tactlessness of his last words. ‘What if they were not taken to Hibernia? What if Dominic and the others have crossed the sea for no purpose?’

  ‘I’ve no doubt they are there,’ said Simon, eager to put this particular worry from Govan’s mind. ‘I was not thinking clearly … they could be nowhere else. They sailed from Norwic to Hibernia—that we know.’

  Govan, still troubled, looked through the doors of the compound towards the huts within. ‘This was a place of death, forty-six days ago,’ he said.

  Simon looked surprised at the exactitude of Govan’s recollection; a look not lost on Govan. ‘Yes … I’ve counted every single day that’s passed since my girl was taken from me,’ explained Govan, ‘and I’ll count the days until she comes back, or until the day I die if she does not.’

  ‘And I will count with you.’

  Both men turned to see Nila who had come to see the completed village.

  ‘I will also count out every day until my boys come home, as I know they will.’ She looked at the compound, at the ditch, at the huts. ‘A place of death then, and a place of death now,’ she said.

  Shivering, she walked towards the gates. Govan joined her and took her hand. Together they walked through the portal and reluctantly entered the new village.

  For several days, Tomas and Will had watched Ranulf’s raiding party slowly move towards the lands protected by Arthur’s militia. Having travelled several miles from Brythonfort, the two rangers had gone beyond the boundary of the protectorate, intent on giving early warning of Saxon incursion into the land beyond Aebbeduna.