‘And how will you get him to enter the village?’ asked Simon, himself utterly intrigued by Arthur’s scheme.
Arthur looked over to Will, inviting his input.
Will said, ‘I leave with Tomas after this meeting, and we’ll seek out Ranulf and his men. Then we’ll follow them and track their progress. Once they are near enough to our lands and we feel they are ready to raid, I’ll return and inform Arthur.’
‘And Tomas?’ asked Simon.
Arthur took over now. ‘If I may, Will.’ He looked intently at Simon, knowing he and Tomas had gone suffered much before coming to Brythonfort. ‘Tomas will allow himself to be captured, and then lead them to the village.’
Simon was not happy. ‘And what if the fiend decides to kill him? How can you know how Ranulf will react when he finds out he has been under scrutiny from Tomas?’
‘We do not know,’ said Arthur,’ but Tomas assures me, he knows how to handle Saxon despots, having had much practice in the art.’
Simon looked at Tomas. ‘And are you happy with this, lad?’
‘Happy enough,’ said Tomas, not wanting to distress Simon further. ‘It was my idea. I put myself forward for this. If I can survive two years under Egbert, I’m sure I can last long enough to get this done. I’ll make myself more useful to them alive than dead. That’s how you survive with these people.’
‘And what did Dominic say of this,’ asked Simon, knowing as he did, the close bond between Tomas and Dominic.
‘He was only at Brythonfort for two days before he continued to the west in his quest for the children, so luckily for me he didn’t have more time to persuade me not to do it. Before he left, though, he gave me his advice as usual.’ Thomas smiled. ‘Told me he had confidence in me, but to take the utmost care.’
‘And so you should,’ said Simon, deeply worried, as the meeting drew to its conclusion.
Two days before Ranulf’s entrapment in the compound, Will had gone to Arthur with his briefing, leaving Tomas to play his part with Ranulf. After delivering the news, Will immediately left and returned to watch Ranulf’s group again.
Arthur had gone to within two miles of the village, where he had met with Flint, Govan, and forty other men, women and children. Dressed as peasants, their aim was to present an image of a rural community to Ranulf and his plunderers. All the men were archers; the women and children volunteers. Knowing they had only a day at the most to prepare, they had then moved into the village.
All the huts within the compound had already been filled to the roof with tinder-dry straw. Robert, the artisan, had practiced at Brythonfort until he had found the optimum density at which to pack the straw. Too loose and it burned out to quickly … too dense and it would not ignite.
Before dawn the next day, Will had returned. Having shadowed Irvine throughout the night, he knew the man had reached the village and hidden in the copse. Will had then entered the village through the small, disguised gate at the back of the compound. Once inside he imparted his information to Arthur.
The next morning, knowing that Irvine was watching the village, Arthur and Flint, who were dressed convincingly as peasants, opened the gates of the compound. Shortly after, they left for the fields with the rest of the village occupants, leaving Govan behind as a safeguard.
Govan, who knew that Irvine was watching the village, had had to think quickly when Irvine had actually approached him, acting the dispossessed peasant. He guessed the reason for the man’s audacity and decided to show him around the village, keeping him away from the windowless, straw-stuffed huts.
After giving him his tour, Govan had furtively watched as Irvine had left him and returned to the copse to continue his observation.
Just before dusk, Arthur and the others had arrived back from the fields, secured the gates behind them, and waited for Ranulf’s approach. When the first knock on the gates had come from Tomas, everyone inside the compound had left by the back gate— everyone except Arthur and Flint. After wisely ignoring Tomas’ first request for entry, they had acted upon hearing the second summons and opened the gates.
Alongside Flint, Arthur had sprinted across the compound and had gained half the distance to the hidden, back gate before Ranulf had pushed the main gates open. Whilst Ranulf and his men were still getting their bearings within the village, Arthur and Flint had stood outside having gone through and locked the small back gate.
Now, as he lay beside the main gates, Tomas was unceremoniously grabbed, then hoisted to his feet. Thankfully, the shadows before him were familiar. ‘Dominic, Withred,’ he whispered joyously. ‘What a sight you are after these past two days.’
Suddenly he remembered he had to shut the gates. Luckily, Withred was on to it and quickly dragged them together. Dominic picked up one end of the heavy securing beam. ‘Get the other end, Tom,’ he urged, ‘or else they’ll be back out.’
Together they lifted the beam and dropped it into the hasps. Dominic gave Tomas a brief hug and patted his back. ‘Good to see you, lad, and what a hero you are after what I’ve heard.’ He looked to the compound and pointed above it. ‘Now you can watch the sky light up for your reward.’
‘You two are not supposed to be here,’ said Tomas, as he embraced Withred who had come to him.
‘No. We finished our little trip to Hibernia, and then we were supposed to rest, according to Arthur,’ said Withred. ‘But how could we miss this.’
Tomas was about to ask Withred about Hibernia when the first two fire arrows flew from the back of the compound.
Fifty strides from the palisade, the brazier burned with a bright yellow fire. A pile of fire arrows, half the height of a man, their points wrapped in fat-soaked hemp, lay near to the brazier. Arthur and his archers lined up and waited their turn to light their arrows from the flame.
They allowed Flint and Govan to the front. They were to send over the first arrows. Stern faced, they pulled back and released. ‘From Bran and Mule,’ they muttered as the arrows flew in an incandescent arc over the palisade.
Ranulf’s face was a mixture of rage and panic as more fire arrows soared over the palisade. ‘How could I have trusted that little British piece of pig shit. GODS!’ he raged, as Tomas’ treachery dawned upon him.
Instinctively, he looked towards the gates just as an arrow found the thatched roof of a nearby hut. Loosely thatched, the roof immediately ignited and fell into the straw-packed room below.
Ranulf and Irvine held up their arms against the heat as they ran past the burning hut. Upon reaching the gates, they pulled back on the empty hasps that had previously housed the securing beam. The gates gave slightly but solidly resisted their pull.
As he looked with disbelief at the gates, Irvine’s back felt as if he walked shirtless on the hottest of summer days. He turned to look at the inner compound—his eyes shot with flame, incredulity and sheer terror, as more of the huts caught fire before him. He watched as the men ran panic-stricken between the burning huts, desperate to escape the searing heat but having nowhere to go. Ranulf, meanwhile, had resorted to pushing and growling at the gates.
Outside, Arthur had instructed his men to avoid lighting the fence itself, but many huts stood twenty paces from it, and these now blazed keeping the men away from the perimeter.
As the first awful scream sounded, Ranulf looked wildly around. Running towards him—his arms batting wildly against his body—ran Seward.
Ranulf moved to one side as his man crashed into the gates, then fell to the floor where he wriggled and twisted as if a soul damned to eternal suffering. Irvine looked with disbelief at him. He looked at Ranulf, his haunted stare asking, why doesn’t he die?
Ranulf looked absently at his tunic sleeve. It had started to steam, such was the intensity of the heat now radiating within the compound. He looked back to Irvine and saw that he too was steaming. He watched with horrid fascination as Irvine’s hair began to frizzle and contract into his scalp.
Stifling a desperate, mad giggle, Ranulf opened
his mouth to inform Irvine of his ruined hair. As he inhaled, he sucked scorching air into his lungs. Gagging and coughing now, he clutched his throat, just as one of the huts went up with a loud ‘whoomp.’
As Irvine fell to his knees, now shrieking and alight, Ranulf took off in a desperate, pointless run as a shower of orange sparks drifted down around him. Thick, grey smoke now swirled around the compound, agitated by the convection currents created by the blazing fires. Seeking relief from the heat that engulfed him, Ranulf cast aside his helmet—too hot, now, even to touch.
The stench of scorching meat caused Ranulf to gag, just as the tunic that underlay his chainmail hauberk ignited. He noticed, with an almost morbid fascination, how the fabric burned beneath the chainmail; almost like a fire behind a grate.
As the tunic burned itself out, Ranulf felt the skin on his torso tighten, then split. His ensuing howls and screams sucked yet more blistering hot air into his lungs, further compounding his torment. He slumped to his knees as his own hair began to combust, and like Seward, he fell to the ground; his body going into an orgasm of agony.
He was not the first to die, nor was he the last. Later, as the fires finally began to abate and die down, all seventy of his force lay charred and dead on the seared floor of the compound.
As the blaze had taken hold, Arthur and his men (the women and children having returned to Brythonfort in the ox carts long before the arrows had started to fly) retreated away from the heat. Here they waited—their need to add to the flames no longer necessary.
As they sat in a stubbly field, their arms resting lightly on their splayed knees as if they were awaiting the sunrise, Dominic, Withred and Tomas sauntered towards them.
His shadow backlit by the burning compound, Dominic sat on his haunches before Arthur. ‘That couldn’t have gone better,’ he said. ‘Word will get back to them, it always does, and it’ll make them think again before coming out here.’
‘What are you two doing here?’ asked Arthur, slightly exasperated, yet glad as ever to see Dominic and Withred.
‘Thought we’d look out for Tom,’ said Dominic, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder to where the lad stood with Withred. ‘At least we left Murdoc back at Brythonfort as you wished.’
Arthur shook his head resignedly, not in the least surprised by Dominic and Withred’s appearance. ‘No doubt his good lady, Martha, had something to do with that. It would be better if you two had women to keep you at Brythonfort—that way you would get nagged to take rest when you need it.’
‘To smell bastards burning is worth a whole month of rest,’ said Withred, his stark profile burnished gold by the blaze from the compound as he turned towards it.
Arthur stood and went to Tomas … embraced him. ‘Well done lad,’ he said. ‘I never doubted you’d come through this. I’ll have the minstrel write a song praising your deeds—it will tell of the brave youth who helped to remove a prickly thorn from the arse of the west.’
As Tomas blushed, Dominic laughed along with the others. He looked beyond the fields, towards the east. Tomorrow, maybe the day after, he knew he must set out again. For him, rest was not something that was going to come any time soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was the heart-rending sound of Ula, as he cried out for Cate in his troubled sleep, which had finally moved Augustus to leave Brythonfort. He had risen early that day, and left while Modlen still slept. He knew she would be appalled at his intention to leave alone and travel to the east coast. Worse still, she would prevent him from leaving, because Augustus, who feared no man, always listened to his wife.
His twin brothers, William and John, had watched as he rode out of sight into the darkness. Later that day, they would tell Modlen the reason for Augustus’ absence and consequently endure her ire for letting him go.
The night was speckled with silver and still held no hint of dawn as Augustus set off towards the Roman road. A day’s ride would see him to the road—a road he had travelled on months earlier when riding to Norwic with Dominic.
He intended to take the same route and pass through Londinium. If stopped and questioned, he would be a merchant travelling to Norwic to do business. His saddle pannier contained a selection of miscellaneous items to back up his story.
Dawn came and he continued to ride—his first day passing without event. Stiff from his first day in the saddle, and still feeling the soreness of his past injuries, he camped that night beside the Roman road.
The next morning, he again left at first light, knowing that seven more days lay before him before he would come to Londinium.
The villages he passed on his way were, at first, British, but this changed the nearer he got to Londinium. Here, Saxon incursion had led to the displacement of the British peasant by the Germanic. Barefoot, blond children, fascinated by his size, would watch the British giant in awe as he passed by their homesteads.
No one challenged him on his first days, the occasional groups he met on the road having no dealings with war or raiding, and by the midmorning of the seventh day of his journey, he sighted Londinium.
Here, he had a side mission, and after clattering over the one bridge that spanned the river named Tamesa, he entered the tumbledown town.
Months earlier, when visiting the town with Dominic and the others, he had been moved by the plight of a brave little family who were struggling to survive by scavenging on the shores of the river. That they were Saxon mattered not to Augustus. He saw them merely as people struggling to survive the often-cruel surroundings of his homeland.
This day the riverside was empty but for one man who squatted and jabbed his bark-stripped stick into the shingle shore. A wicker basket was beside him. Augustus decided to approach him.
‘Good morning to you, fellow,’ he shouted. ‘My name is Gus and I seek a man named Godwine; a man spare of build who has been known to work these shores.’
The man, still squatting, held up his hand to shield the sun from his eyes as he squinted up at Augustus. ‘A Saxon he is, and I know him well,’ said the man. ‘Even tempered and agreeable fellow, lives against the wall in the town.’
Augustus was in luck; the man was British and spoke his tongue. ‘Yes, that’s him. Just wanted to make sure he was still around. Thanks for your help.’ He was about to leave and continue into the town when it occurred to him that Godwine did not speak Celtic, nor he Saxon. He turned back to the man. ‘Tell me, do you speak the Saxon tongue?’ he asked.
The man stood up. ‘Enough to get me by,’ he said, as he picked up his basket of finds. He shook the basket towards Augustus, its hollow rattle suggesting the man had not had a good morning. ‘The man who buys this off me is Saxon, so are most of the people in this town for that matter, so it helps me get a better deal if I can actually talk to them.’
Augustus rummaged in his belt purse and took out a silver coin. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he displayed it to the man. ‘This is yours if you would do me the favour of coming with me to see Godwine and talk between us so we can understand each other.’
Looking at the silver bit, the man realised it bettered anything that lay in his basket. ‘Of course I’ll come,’ he said. ‘My name is Hueil and it will be good to take the strain from my knees for a while.’ Augustus tossed him the coin and they left the riverbank and headed into the town.
Godwine recognized Augustus at once. ‘Once seen, never forgotten,’ Murdoc had once said of Augustus—an insight that now sprang immediately to his mind. Godwine’s wife, Hild, and daughter, Udela, joined Godwine as Augustus gave him a bear hug in greeting; a hug that left Godwine’s feet dangling. After kissing Hild on the cheek, he held out his arms for Udela, who after a moment’s hesitation, consented to be lifted and hugged (gently) by Augustus.
He looked at the child and noted her face was not as full as he remembered. Hilde and Godwine also looked undernourished and unwell. Hueil assumed his role as interpreter as Augustus began to chatter with them.
He learn
ed that the pickings on the shoreline had been sparse, and food hard to come by. Two days had passed since the family had eaten anything other than kelp carried from the sea by the river.
After listening to their tale, Augustus thanked the Gods he had decided to visit them on his way to Norwic. ‘I suppose you wonder why I came,’ he said, after giving Udela back to Hilde. He walked to his pony and routed through its pannier. ‘Apart from wishing to see you all again, it was to give you this.’
He pulled out the fishing net and folded it across his arms to show it to Godwine. Found in a dusty basement in Brythonfort, the net’s origin was uncertain. Augustus had come across it during his convalescence, and upon finding it, had immediately thought of Godwine and his family. He had promised himself, then, that he would take the net to Londinium one day. Circumstances had since provided him with the opportunity.
Godwine looked stunned as he viewed the pristine and unused net. As Augustus held it forward for his inspection, he stroked the weave, as if entranced.
After a while, he looked up to Augustus with brimming eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice emotional and barely above a whisper. ‘You do not know what this means to us.’
Hilde, now holding Udela, came over to Augustus, her tears coursing freely down her face. Together with Godwine, she hugged Augustus.
That night, the family—along with the interpreter, Hueil—had their first cooked meal for three days; the food donated by Augustus. Together, they ate a hearty supper around a crackling fire, and spoke long into the night.
The next morning, Augustus said an emotional goodbye to Godwine and his family, promising he would return one day when the opportunity arose.
Five further days were to pass before he got his first sight of Norwic. Although arduous (Augustus had still not fully recovered from his injuries), his journey from Londinium had been uneventful. The campaigning season was now over and the road held no threat. Only casual travellers and merchants journeyed upon it, and they merely nodded their greeting to him as he passed them by.
Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 50
