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

by Atkinson, F J

  Here, he had found a peaceful world far removed from the surrounding, menacing, lands. Here, the monks had managed to live an ordered life, and the reason for that order was their worship of Christ. The monks possessed little; wanted nothing material from the world, yet seemed happy and fulfilled.

  At Brythonfort, Maewyn realised that he needed to go back to Hibernia—now felt that he possibly belonged there—and had finally persuaded his mother to travel with him across the sea to visit Mule’s grave.

  Now as he stood overlooking the monastery grounds with the others, Maewyn knew he had come to his spiritual home; knew he would never go back to Britannia. Rodric met them and took them to the refectory for food and drink. Here, Flint and Maewyn reacquainted with many of the monks they had met on their previous visit, including Donard the scribe, and the bishop, Tassach.

  After refreshments, they went to the pond. Here, a solitary cross, bearing the name ‘Aiden’ stood. Huddled together in mutual consolation, the family shed their tears beside the grave.

  ‘He loved it here,’ said Maewyn, to Flint and Nila, as he stood back to view the cross and the green pond. ‘Here, he would lie on his belly, alongside Elowen, and chatter his days away waiting for the fish to bite.’

  Flint smiled when remembering the day he and Dominic had found the monastery. ‘He was doing just that when I first saw him. The day we left for the docks … the day he died.’

  Many days were to pass at the monastery, until one morning as he walked the nearby woods with his mother, Maewyn expressed his desire to stay with the monks and increase his learning of the Holy Scriptures.

  Nila was not surprised. Since Mule had died, Maewyn had become far more introspective. She knew he had changed irrevocably and now wished only for his happiness and peace of mind to return. Reluctantly, she concluded that it would be best for him to stay, and before they had finished their walk she had given him her consent.

  Bishop Tassach had consulted with Rodric and Donard and all had concluded that Maewyn’s vocation was sound. They would accept him into the postulancy, a trial that would last six months. Then, if found to be of the right mettle, they would accept him as a novice.

  On the day that Nila and Flint left to return to Britannia, a glaring irony occurred to Flint. ‘Here you will live under the nose of the very man who would have enslaved you, and he will never know. To him, you will just be another monk from the continent.’

  Amidst many tears, Maewyn had embraced Nila and Flint then. They would meet again, Maewyn knew that, but for now his place was in Hibernia.

  Later, he watched as his mother and Flint sailed away. Watched until the boat had gone completely from view.

  History would remember Maewyn and his decision to return to the Hibernian monastery. There he would become a novice and be named Patricus. There he would become a famous man, known later to the world as Patrick, whose ministry would serve to rid Ireland, not of its snakes, but of the snake cult of the mac Garrchu people, who would become Christian. There he would be with God, and just as importantly, he would be with Mule.

  After Nila arrived home, she took up residence in the new village. Here, with Elowen and Govan close by, she would never feel alone.

  Newly built nearby, a small, stockaded fort housed a legion of Arthur’s fighting men under the leadership of Flint. Now the men could react quickly to any Saxon incursion.

  Employed to cook for the men, Nila was now able to see Flint every day, and so life became bearable for her after the loss of Aiden.

  Modlen, however, had coped less well than Nila. She had the children, Ula, Art and Cate, now, but missed Augustus terribly. Missed how he could be gentle in the way that big men could be gentle; missed his booming laugh; his sense of fun. Above all, she missed how he made her feel safe and protected.

  The children also ached with longing when they thought about him, because, like Modlen, they too had felt safe with him—felt that, at last, someone had come into their world, not to punish and hurt them, but to love and protect them. His absence still pained them; it would not go away; they yearned for him.

  Modlen’s life within Brythonfort’s walls was far from easy. Together with Sarah and Anna (two women who were left widows after the battle at the oxcarts), she rose early each morning to toil beside the bakery ovens. Her days ended in the afternoon, and that was the best time for her; the time she felt less like a workhorse and more like a mother, because for the first time in her life she had her two boys and girl waiting for her at the end of her working day.

  After a particularly hot day in the bakery, Modlen took the bandana from her head and used it to wipe the beaded sweat from her face. Sarah, similarly inflicted, wafted her own face with her scarf as she watched the last of the loaf-filled trolleys leave the room.

  Modlen could not help smiling at Sarah as she comically stuck her tongue out of her wide, open mouth, and panted to emphasise her discomfort with the heat. Modlen was about to say what a particularly, warm, panting dog she resembled, when Arthur stepped into the doorway.

  He beamed at Modlen. ‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘The day you’ve been waiting for. They approach the gates.’

  Modlen’s look said it all. At last, after six months, the day has come!

  Dominic was the first to appear through the gates. Rozen, the herbs woman, rode beside him.

  Riding behind them, framed by the archway of the huge gatehouse, rode Murdoc and Augustus. Cate sat sidesaddle before Augustus on his pony. The boys Ula and Art skipped and gamboled alongside them, unable to contain themselves, such was their joy at seeing Augustus.

  Murdoc’s own daughter, Ceola, sat with Murdoc upon his mount. As Augustus reached Modlen, he handed Cate down to her, then gingerly dismounted.

  Modlen took Augustus’ bearded head in her hands and looked directly into his pale-blue eyes. ‘Four months turned into six,’ she wept. ‘I thought I would never see this day … the wait was like six years.’

  Augustus, much reduced in size now, pushed the heel of his hand into his eyes to stem the flow of his own tears. Overcome and unable to speak, he could only look at Modlen; could only love her.

  Modlen let him go and stepped back to study him. ‘You’ve gone to nothing,’ she wept. ‘All your bulk has gone.’

  ‘It’s nothing that a few weeks of your cooking won’t mend,’ said Augustus as he wiped his wet hand onto his tunic. ‘And meanwhile you’ll have to put up with bedding a slender fellow, eager for love.’

  Modlen went to Augustus again, hugging him close, her laughter now displacing her tears.

  Murdoc embraced Martha, as Ceola went to play with Ula, Cate and Art, who stood with their arms around Augustus and Modlen. Soon Dominic joined Murdoc and Martha, and they walked together up the path to the hall, leaving Modlen, Augustus, and the children to their reunion.

  ‘I thought he would surely die when we took him to Wilfred,’ said Dominic. ‘He had barely the strength to breath and his wounds were going putrid. Rozen arrived in the nick of time.’

  Martha addressed Murdoc as she glanced back down the hill. ‘Modlen had given up hope, you know. As the time dragged on, she thought he would die in Aebbeduna. She was readying herself to travel there. Then twelve days ago you left with Dominic to get him, and she never slept from that day.’

  Dominic looked tellingly at Murdoc … at Martha. ‘He told me what he did back there.’ Shaking his head in wonderment, he continued. ‘His modesty will prevent him from telling anyone else, but believe me it was a deed that defies the words to describe it.’

  Arthur, who had now joined them, had overheard Dominic. ‘Nevertheless you must tell me of the deeds when we get to the hall. For now, though, Augustus has earned the right to rest.’ He looked to the walls of Brythonfort, his eyes anxious. ‘But now we need to talk. Moves are afoot. I have summoned Withred and I need your counsel.’ Dominic read the look in Arthur’s eyes and knew that, for him, rest was not something that was going to happen any time soon.

&nbs
p; Martha sighed inwardly as Dominic exchanged a knowing look with Murdoc. She wondered why men could not live in peace; wondered if there would ever be a time when the killing would stop.

  She looked up to the December sky—a sky that tumbled with turbulence and unrest. How apt it is, she thought. The perfect canopy for this troubled land.

  The End

  Badon Hill

  BEING THE THIRD PART OF

  WOLFBANE

  Book three of the Dominic Trilogy

  F J Atkinson

  PROLOGUE

  Fifth century Britannia was no place to be in mid-winter. Hanging like a rain-sodden canopy over the bleak winter fields, the sky offered a begrudging gloom, even at the zenith of day. Thin and searching winds further compounded the misery of the incarcerated, deterring all but the hardiest peasant from wandering too far from the relative shelter of draughty huts.

  Occasionally, a fall of snow would serve to lift the spirits of the people—the deluge elevating the land from its grey mundaneness to a sparkling, white optimism. Yet the joy of the covering was usually short-lived, as a quick melt or stubborn freeze would often follow.

  A thaw meant ankle-deep slush, which soaked into the leather boots of those lucky enough to own footwear. Others, mainly children and the destitute (and there were many of these), braved the conditions barefoot whenever need demanded they search for firewood or descend into dark root cellars.

  Yet, if the snow lingered, this too would bring its own hardship. On these occasions, much of the land became impossible to traverse; leaving folk with little to do but stare at the frozen fields from wind-whispered doorways.

  As such, the midwinter feast was much anticipated. After starting on midwinter’s day, the celebrations would last for seven days and provide the peasants with a modicum of respite from the smothering stranglehold of winter.

  Bevan welcomed a recently arrived group from a neighbouring village. He knew them all well; knew everyone, in fact, who had assembled for the feast. In all, the populations of four villages had come to make merry. Twenty in number, the latest arrivalshad dragged a stout log for the winter burn, creating with it a wet furrow across the fallow fields.

  To make the feasting area attractive and welcoming was the next undertaking. Evergreens, such as holly, adorned many hut doorways, over which mistletoe (fashioned to make kissing-boughs) had been placed. Much anticipated by the younger villagers, these had often served to spark into life the latent fancies of many a youth.

  Clement weather, for now, blessed the gathering, and the log soon began to steam as the kindling’s yellow flames danced below it, exorcising its dampness. A ring of rough log benches encircled the central fire and upon these, sixty villagers sat and luxuriated in the spreading warmth.

  A second fire roasted a haunch of venison; and, already, Bevan and his sons had started to carve slices from it. Loaded on to pewter plates, the portions found their way to the waiting and salivating feasters. Most had provided several barrels of mead—the recipes of the fermentations being a source of pride and friendly rivalry. The quicker any particular mead could make a fellow fall on to his arse (and make no mistake; many a villager would do just that) the better it was deemed to be.

  It did not take long this night for the feast to become merry and animated. Already, the gaiety had intensified, as adults, fuelled by the mead, began to jest and revel in the light of the square. Around them, thrilled children—their excitement heightened to near frenzy by the jollification—skittered and dashed between the tables.

  Corran, a jovial barrel of a man, his usual ruddy complexion now intensified to crimson thanks to the toasting flames and gut-warming mead, banged his empty drinking-horn on the table in a demand for attention.

  ‘A song!’ he shouted. ‘A song to do this feast proud—performed by me, the greatest songster in all of Britannia.’ He accompanied the boast with an extravagant, hat-doffing bow.

  The crowd cheered as Corran stood on the mead table. Another man, wielding a homemade wooden flute, was quick to join him. In a rumbling bass of a voice, Corran started to sing, nodding towards the flautist, who soon took up the tune.

  ‘The winter’s yolk, doth freeze my loins,

  The seasons frosts doth make me shiver,

  Oh, how I yearn for summer’s breeze

  To set my cod into a quiver.’

  Hoots of laughter from the men, and peals of shocked screams from the women now drowned out Corran, who, with thumbs tucked under his belt and chest thrust forward, ploughed straight into the second verse.

  ‘I warm my arse by the fire’s glow,

  Keep head bone-dry ‘neath woolen hood,

  And when I see my true love’s bumps,

  My cod is warmed by rush of blood.’

  This time, the gathering—a people starved of joy and mirth since the dark onset of winter—positively erupted. Throughout the uproar, Corran allowed himself a comical, lewd smile of contemplation. His wife could only throw her apron upwards to cover her face as her table neighbours slapped the timber in fits of laughter. Corran began the third verse.

  My tunic comes down to my knees,

  And up my legs I feel a breeze,

  But worry not, for soon I’ll feel,

  The sweet, smooth skin…’

  After hanging on his every word, Corran’s audience were stunned to silence as his voice faded away; their concern deepening when beholding his alarmed mid-distance stare. Like he, they looked beyond the glow of the fire, where, defined as a series of dark shadows against the frosty sky, stood a great host of men.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cunedda ap Edern had spent his entire life (some twenty-seven years) on the eastern fringe of Britannia in the wild land between the Roman walls of Antonine and Hadrian. His people—the Votadini—had earned the protection of Rome when, decades earlier, Cunedda’s grandfather, Padarn Beisrudd, had agreed to keep the region free of hostile Pictish and Hibernian occupation.

  As a child, Cunedda had hero-worshipped his father, Edern, and by the time he was twelve years old, Cunedda, who by now accompanied Edern on his frequent patrols, knew every mile of the two Roman walls. Fluent in Latin, Edern would often take his son into the Roman forts and the lad became popular with those garrisoned there, many of whom were now British and foreign auxiliaries. Few Romans remained; trouble back in Rome had necessitated their withdrawal from the island. Therefore, British families, including many from the Votadini with nowhere else to go, continued to reside at the forts along the wall.

  In his fifteenth year, Cunedda, who by now rode alongside his cousin, Abloyc, was involved in his first skirmish. Edern had come upon a party of Picts heading for a Votadini village near to the abandoned wall of Antonine to the north of the realm. As was the way with Picts, their group comprised of wives and children as well as warriors. The engagement was short and brutal and Cunedda had killed his first Pict that day—a lad of a similar age who ran screaming and undisciplined towards him. Cunedda felt ambivalent towards the kill. Part of him swelled with pride at his father’s subsequent endorsement, yet somewhere inside he nursed a deep sadness as he witnessed the boy’s mother shriek over his corpse.

  On that day, Cunedda saw a side to Abloyc that greatly disturbed him. As was customary, Edern ordered the killing of the remaining Picts, mostly children, women and old men. The kills would be clinical and rapid–Edern having no desire to extend the misery of the survivors; his purpose being merely to eliminate the seeds of the Pictish warriors. Cunedda had witnessed such culling before, but never taken part. Expected now to participate in the executions, he dreaded the ordeal. Before he could begin, however, a wild screaming alerted him towards Abloyc, who possessed no such scruples over such cold slaughter. In fact, Abloyc, who had already killed his first infant, was holding the child’s head aloft and taunting the mother with it.

  Appalled, Cunedda had stridden to Abloyc and struck him, knocking him to the ground. Abloyc, spitting with rage, went for Cunedda then, but once ag
ain found himself knocked to the ground, and this time Cunedda beat him so thoroughly that Abloyc took no part in any further killing that day. By the time Cunedda had finished with Abloyc, the rest of the killing was over, and mercifully, for that day at least, Cunedda was able to avoid a task he dreaded.

  Twelve years later, his father was dead, leaving Cunedda to guard and protect the land. Abloyc, who usually rode with him, sometimes led his own patrols when the Votadini had more than one attack to deal with. Free from the restraint of Cunedda, Abloyc would give full vent to his barbarity on these occasions, and the subsequent tales of his cousin’s excesses inevitably filtered through to Cunedda, filling him with repulsion.

  The Picts and Hibernians continued to be a threat, and Cunedda knew it was merely a matter of time before they swamped his land. He travelled south of the wall, came to the town of Deva, and saw that it was walled but not garrisoned. He decided that day that the town was right for his people. There, they could defend themselves. Better still, the town was just a short way from where the Hibernian threat—the Uí Liatháin clan—often made landfall on Britannia. Here, Cunedda and his people would be able to defend themselves from invasion; here they would have early warning of their approach. As for the Picts—they were welcome to the barren lands between the walls; could have the wild winds from the Oceanus Germanicus. As far as he was concerned, the elements could happily scourge their painted, bare bodies.

  Cunedda had been a solid leader and his people respected him. He bade farewell to his wife; his six daughters; his seven sons; then left with a vanguard of fifteen hundred warriors. They travelled westwards along the wall of Hadrian until reaching the town of Luguvalium on the bleak western shore. The townsfolk had watched the approach of the fierce-looking Votadini (all carrying shield and spear) with some concern, but their anxiety was unfounded. Cunedda passed them by; having no wish to get embroiled in battle with them. Without even entering the town, he led his men southwards to travel the passable Roman road until reaching the Cilgwri peninsula. Here, he turned westward again until coming to the prominent road named Watling Street.