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

by Atkinson, F J

  Briefly aware that Withred stood over a man near to the edge of the wharf, he leapt from the decking, his legs still running as he dropped through the air. The air left his lungs as he hit the water, reducing his buoyancy and causing him to sink. Panic hit him then as he realised that, like Mule, he could not swim.

  Disorientated, he spiraled downwards, not knowing his up from his down, until he saw his brother trapped under another man. A single, wide bubble came from Mule’s mouth as their eyes met. Knowing he was about to drink dock water, Flint turned and kicked his way back upwards. Gasping, he broke the surface, took in a lungful of air, then started to sink again.

  Mule had mouthed the word ‘Flint’ as he watched his brother sink to within an arms distance from him. He noticed that Flint’s eyes were wide with terror as tiny bubbles escaped from the corners of his mouth. Dismayed, he watched as his hero twisted round and returned to the surface in an effervescent rush. Then, unable to free himself from the dead weight of Cillian and thinking that Flint had left him to drown, Mule took in a watery breath.

  Druce managed to grab Flint’s hair as he broke the surface. Having watched as events unfolded, he had earlier slid from the Hibernian pony, then climbed down the hemp ladder to his boat. He jumped onto its oak decking just as Flint surfaced nearby, and so was able to prevent him from sinking back to his death. With both hands grasping the back of Flint’s tunic, he dragged him over the gunwale of the Pelagus.

  Flint flopped like a landed herring on the decking of the boat. He gained one knee and looked desperately to Druce. Coughing and exhausted, he said: ‘He’s still down there, I have to … I have to go back in … and get him.’

  Druce was having none of it, and knelt between Flint and the open water just as a series of bubbles broke the surface. ‘It’s no use, Flint,’ he said weightily. ‘The lad has just released his last air.’

  Some of Flint’s energy returned to him then as he gripped the edge of the gunwale next to Druce. He peered into the depths, his screams gathering in intensity. ’I cannot leave him in there. I CANNOT ABANDON HIM!’

  Druce gripped Flint’s dripping arm, squeezing it in consolation and restraint. As Withred and Dominic reached the edge of the wharf, Flint looked up to them, the world now seeming muted, surreal, and slow moving to him. Druce also looked up, his shake of the head telling them, The lad has drowned.

  Now, Elowen, who held Withred’s hand, let out her own piercing scream of despair. Dominic, who stood behind Maewyn, had the wits to restrain him before he could emulate Flint and jump into the water. The boy kicked and shrieked as Dominic pulled him away from the edge of the wharf.

  Two hours later, a grim-looking Druce and Withred sat with Flint, Maewyn and Elowen in the warehouse beside the wharf. They had deemed it sensible to remove them from the quayside and the temptation to plunge into the water to get to Mule.

  At first, Flint had paced the warehouse, wailing and confused, unable seemingly to stick within his own skin, such was the intensity of his grief. Maewyn and Elowen had wept intermittently between bouts of grief-stricken conversation. Now, like Flint, Maewyn merely leaned forward, elbows on knees, palms pressed against his temples, as he looked blankly down at the floor. Elowen, who sat beside them, had begun to weep again.

  Outside, Dominic spoke to Guairá as they stood on the edge of the wharf looking into the water. Twenty feet below them, glinting from the bottom of the seabed, Cillian’s chainmail resembled the scales of a dead fish swept in by the tide. Mule was barely visible as a hazy shadow beneath him.

  ‘You must leave on the ebb tide before Colman arrives, and that means this evening,’ Guairá said, turning to observe the low sun. ‘I will recover the lad as soon as the water has dropped enough.’

  ‘What will you tell Colman?’ asked Dominic.

  ‘That you arrived without the children and had an argument with Fróech and his men.’ Guairá looked at Fróech’s body, which lay face down nearby. ‘I’ll tell him the argument got out of hand; that you fought and were responsible for the death of his brother.’

  ‘What about you? … What will he do to you?’

  ‘What can he do? My trade is cargo not conflict. I’ll play the devastated Hibernian who could do nothing but watch in horror.’

  Dominic looked towards a group of stevedores who laboured nearby. ‘How loyal are they?’ he asked. ‘One loose tongue could lead to your head being removed.’

  Guairá pointed to the open sea. ‘See that cold water … they would swim to the horizon for me all of them if I asked them to. They are all outcasts from Fincath and they hate him. I was their last hope. In employing them, I effectively saved their lives.’

  ‘And your nephew, Ingle, and the rest of the monks?’ asked Dominic ‘Will they be left alone?’

  Sadly, Guairá looked down into the water … looked at the shadow of Mule. ‘As long as I can get that lad out and hidden before Colman arrives, then the monks should be fine. If Colman has no reason to believe you found the children, he has no need to punish the monks.’

  Dominic had also been looking at Mule’s pitiful form as Guairá spoke. ‘What will you do with him?’ he asked.

  ‘Give him to the monks as soon as it’s safe to do so,’ said Guairá. ‘They will respect him and lay him softly into the ground.’

  Dominic nodded, sighed, then gripped Guairá’s hand in gratitude. ‘Oh, that this could have ended happier.’ He cast a brief glance towards the warehouse. ‘Thank you my friend, now I must tell Aiden’s family that we are about to leave without him.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Murdoc had no way of knowing how long he would be under house arrest in Dyfed, and the uncertainty was driving him to despair.

  Four days had passed since his companions had left for Hibernia with Druce. Allowed to roam freely within the walls of the ringfort, he had spent his days pacing the grounds like a caged animal. He fostered no thoughts of escape, fearing the act would merely inflame Guertepir, who would then exact his ire upon Dominic’s group upon their return. Besides, Guertepir always had two men guarding the ringfort’s one gate.

  Apart from an occasional brief word with the guards, Murdoc had spoken little to anyone during his detention. Having rarely glimpsed Guertepir, each of Murdoc’s days had seemed to last a lifetime.

  A simple hut set against the walls of the fort provided him with shelter and a hard bed of straw. When the light of the day faded in the early evening, Murdoc would take to his pallet, hopeful that sleep would relieve him from the tedium of his existence. Meanwhile, Guertepir and his lackeys would feast nightly in his hall—the noise of the revelry causing Murdoc to spend several hours awake in the darkness of the hut.

  Unknown to Murdoc, Guertepir’s strange wife, Almaith, would come to the hut in the early hours and gaze at him as he finally slept. She carried a small, tallow candle, and by its low light, she would gaze at Murdoc’s athletic form and handsome, candle-lit face, whilst pleasuring herself where she stood.

  On the fifth morning, as a thoroughly morose and dejected Murdoc embarked upon his eighth lap of the ringfort, Diarmait burst through the gates and strode with purpose to the hall where Guertepir was holding counsel.

  Moments later, Guertepir emerged, draping himself within his squirrel cloak as he rushed to the gate. He chose to ignore Murdoc and passed from sight through the gate, quickly followed by Diarmait.

  ‘You’re sure it’s them?’ asked Guertepir, as they hurried down the hill towards the landing bay, now followed by twenty of Guertepir’s guards.

  ‘It’s still half a mile out, but close enough for me to recognize the sail,’ said Diarmait.

  ‘How many are in the boat?’

  ‘Again, hard to tell, but it looks like at least five. Possibly even six.’

  As they waited by the dockside, Guertepir nodded and gave a satisfied smile as the boat neared them. ‘Yes it’s them, and they have two children with them.’

  Diarmait looked surprised. ‘Then they’ve not
got everyone. They set out to find three.’

  Guertepir was untroubled, his tone indifferent. ‘As long as they’ve got what I want, I don’t care.’

  Druce skillfully tacked the boat shoreward until he was able to set it into a graceful curve towards the landing. Five men who waited on the wooden jetty caught the ropes thrown to them by Druce and Withred, then expertly entwined the ropes around wooden capstans.

  Now secured, the boat offered a stable platform from which to disembark.

  Grey with fatigue, Dominic was the first off the boat. Flint followed, with Elowen and Maewyn, while Withred hung back on the boat with Druce.

  ‘Five days. You’ve done well,’ Guertepir played the genial host and spread his arms in welcome. Dominic stood back, ignoring the invitation.

  Unperturbed, Guertepir nodded; once to Elowen and once to Maewyn. ‘Just two?’ Dominic had no intention of going into detail with Guertepir. He did not deserve the information, had acted only in self-interest. Abruptly, he answered: ‘One lad died. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Oh,’ breathed Guertepir, as if empathic. ‘But please … take the children up to the fort; they will be well looked after until you choose to leave.’

  Flint pushed past Guertepir with Elowen and Maewyn. His look—Be careful of the old bastard; he’s more on his mind than the welfare of these children—was shot as a warning to Dominic.

  Guertepir watched as they walked away, his face affecting a look of pious concern. When he turned to Dominic again, the look had melted away. Frowning, he pointed towards Withred and Druce. ‘Why are they still in the boat?’

  Dominic signaled to Withred, then fixed his disdainful attention back on Guertepir. ‘He held back, because he knew what really concerned you,’ he said.

  Withred arrived carrying a sack. ‘Here,’ he said, as he tossed the sack to the ground at Guertepir’s feet. ‘It was all I could do to hide it from the children.’

  Guertepir looked impassively at the sack. He nodded to Diarmait who stood nearby. Diarmait came over, stooped, lifted the sack, then pulled Fróech’s head from it. He held it up for Guertepir to examine.

  Guertepir’s look was inscrutable as he studied the head. He swept the matted hair from the forehead to reveal the snake symbol. ‘Justice seems to have been done,’ he said after a moment. ‘Now collect your man and get back to Arthur’s dung heap.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Augustus’ convalescence progressed slowly under the care of Rozen. After three days in bed he finally found the reserves to get to his feet, and from then on his vitality increased with each new day.

  On a quiet November morning, he strolled with Modlen, Ula and Art around the walls of Brythonfort. Since their rescue by Dominic’s group, three weeks earlier, the boys had been taken to the fortress. Here, the childless Augustus and Modlen had accepted them as their own.

  Augustus now walked with his arm around Art’s shoulders, while Modlen held Ula’s hand. They climbed the stone steps to the paved sentry path that ran alongside the curtain wall. After reaching its heights, they looked out eastwards.

  As a thin breeze ruffled Ula’s blond hair, he asked Modlen, not for the first time, ‘Will anyone ever go and look for Cate?’

  Modlen glanced at Augustus, whose face had taken on a troubled cast on hearing Ula’s question. She was aware her husband constantly wrestled with an inner guilt since he had left Cate behind in the forest, but however much she tried to persuade him about the inevitability of the decision, she could not get him to accept it. Cate’s abduction was a constant torment to him; an itch that would not go away.

  Modlen now looked into Ula’s enquiring eyes and cupped his small face in her hands. ‘Yes, of course someone will look for your sister. As soon as Dominic returns and Augustus regains his strength, we will talk with Arthur about it.’

  Augustus sighed at Modlen’s words. ‘It’s two weeks since he left for Hibernia. How long must we wait until we act on this? Soon winter will be here, and any journey back to Norwic to find the girl will then be difficult to say the least. Now should be the time to move east, why can’t Arthur see that?’

  Modlen had been through it all before with Augustus, but she remained patient, knowing how the subject plagued him. With her hand on his thick arm, she looked tenderly into his bleak eyes.

  ‘Because Arthur has a lot before him,’ she said. ‘He believes the raiding parties will come again before the weather keeps them at bay, so he needs all his men at hand. The scouts are out looking for Ranulf, or any other warlord who decides to chance his hand. If Tomas or Will return with news of invaders then all the men of the protectorate will be needed to repel them.’

  ‘I will go and look for Cate, then,’ said Art suddenly. ‘I think I can remember how to get back to Norwic. If I’m sneaky I’ll be able to steal her from the bad men.’

  ‘And I’ll come with you,’ said Ula. ‘Together we’ll be able to carry her back here if she’s hurt.’

  Augustus and Modlen turned their attention to the twins, smiling as they thrust their spare frames forward in defiance.

  Augustus knelt before them. Taking Ula’s small hand and enclosing it gently within his fists, he affixed both lads with a fond gaze.

  ‘How brave you both are; but the wilderness of Britannia is no place for twelve-year-old boys to walk alone.’

  His heart ached as he looked at them. Having witnessed the bloody slaughter of their parents and much-loved grandfather, the boys had to deal with their own inner demons. It was apparent during the day when they would mutter and fidget apparently for no reason, and at night when their sleep echoed with desperate little screams and murmurings. Augustus and Modlen often exchanged sorry looks when hearing the boys’ torment.

  Already, though, their love for Augustus and Modlen was growing. Often, they spoke about their new guardians when lying in their beds. Modlen was kindness, itself; always ensuring they had clean clothes to wear and comforting food to eat.

  They were aware that Augustus had taken acute injury for their sake. As for Dominic and the others … although probably kind and good, they seemed determined to pursue a pressing mission and had left Brythonfort. The boys knew that Augustus had tried to go with them; knew his injuries had prevented him, and for that they were grateful. From the day he had started to recover they had spent many hours with him.

  He had walked with them through the woods that lay near to Brythonfort and found them good trees to climb, helping them clamber onto the first branches if they were too high to reach. Modlen had scolded him when the boys had returned home with tales of their tree climbing adventures. Augustus had only laughed, saying, ‘Lads should be lads, and, anyway, the climbing will make them agile and tough.’

  As Augustus watched Modlen with the boys, he thought of Cate. Thought of how she would love Modlen; how Modlen would love her; how different Cate’s life would now be if he had prevented Ranulf from stealing her. His torment would not go away. He knew it never would.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Tomas and Will had spent the entire day shadowing Ranulf’s group as they moved ever westwards towards Arthur’s protectorate. They had watched as the group of seventy men had passed by small farmsteads, ignoring the people who dwelt within them.

  ‘They are too few to attack Brythonfort, but enough to sack a large village,’ observed Will as they rested up, hidden from Ranulf and his men who had halted for the day.

  ‘That’s why they leave the farms alone,’ said Tomas. ‘They want slaves in numbers and quickly so they can get themselves out of dangerous country as soon as they complete their raid.’

  ‘I think the time may have come,’ said Will. ‘Time we split up. You’re on your own from here on, Tom.’

  He parted the bushes before him. Two hundred paces away, Ranulf and his tracker, Irvine, sat together having a discussion beside a lively campfire. Satisfied that now was a good time to leave, Will went to retrieve his pony.

  All that day, Toma
s had expected Will to make the decision. He knew, the closer they got to Brythonfort and its villages, the more important it had become to warn Arthur of the approaching threat. From now on, he would be scouting alone. Will was about to leave for Brythonfort.

  He embraced Will, as he returned with his pony and made ready to leave, knowing their goodbye would have to be brief and discreet.

  ‘Two days should get you back to Arthur,’ said Tomas quietly. ‘So hopefully we’ll meet up within four days if all goes well.’

  Will looked edgy as he mounted his pony and lifted its reins to send it in a slow walk away from the lookout. ‘All will go well, you have to believe that,’ said Will as he left Tomas to his own devises.

  Ranulf warmed his hands on the fire and continued to stare into it as he spoke to Irvine. ‘The men are getting impatient. Twenty days in the saddle and still nothing to show for their hardship.’

  ‘It doesn’t do to rush these things’ said Irvine, himself staring as if entranced into the fire. ‘All the villages are already plundered up to here, and the population is sparse.’

  Ranulf looked from the fire and nodded to the woods ahead. ‘We’re getting perilously close to Arthur’s lands. From now on we need to be extra careful.’

  ‘That’s why you employ me,’ said Irvine pointing into the fire. ‘I stop you getting your arse scorched.’

  ‘The route ahead is new land for us,’ said Ranulf, ignoring Irvine’s observation. ‘Maybe tomorrow will dawn upon a juicy British village to sack.’

  Irvine stood and stretched the stiffness out of his back, groaning as he spoke. ‘Maybe … but any untouched villages from now on could well be within half a day or less of Arthur’s roaming militia.’ His stretching done, he peered through the failing light towards the surrounding shrub growth. ‘I’m uneasy and I don’t know why,’ he frowned. ‘I think I may take a look around after dark.’