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

by Atkinson, F J

  Now his men were hungry and weary after a long day’s march, and as darkness fell, Abloyc saw the light from the village.

  ‘Smell that,’ said Abloyc. ‘Venison if I’m not mistaken. I would happily kill the entire village to eat freshly roasted venison … by Jupiter, I would.’

  Cunedda perused his captain, aware he would do exactly that if left to his own devices. ‘Not the wisest thing to do, Abloyc: make enemies of our neighbours, seeing how we hope to settle not six miles from here.’

  ‘Still it would get us ready to deal with the Uí Liatháin bastards when they make landfall,’ said Abloyc as he continued to gaze at the glowing village. ‘Gods’ know; my arms are aching and stiff; a bit of sword-play would loosen them.’ In emphasis, Abloyc kneaded the knot out of his shoulder.

  ‘No, we don’t kill children; how many times must I repeat myself on the matter,’ said Cunedda, eying Abloyc with some disdain. ‘Save your swordplay for the Hibernians when we meet them. If you wish to loosen your shoulders you can spar with me anytime you want.’

  Abloyc threw Cunedda a sardonic half-smile. ‘I think not Cunedda; the last time I sparred with you I ended up with a bloody head.’

  ‘Well if you insist on going at it hammer and tongue what am I supposed to do,’ said Cunedda. ‘My father always taught me to fight fire with fire.’

  ‘All the same, I’d rather loosen my limbs on them,’ said Abloyc as he nodded towards the villagers who were near enough now to see. Before Cunedda could reprove him again, Abloyc added: ‘But I am aware you will not allow such sport, so I will hold my sword for now.’

  When Corran stopped singing, Bevan looked with the others towards the gathering of men at the village edge. His mind leapt to the Saxon threat; to the scourge that had already torn across much of the south-east. But why did they merely stand and stare at them; why had they not attacked. A nervous murmuring circulated around the table. Then, a noise from behind had Bevan turn. It was Corran. He was down from the table and beside him.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Corran. ‘Hope they go away? … Invite them to the feast?’

  ‘We wait for now. We have but one deer; that would nowhere near feed them, anyway.’

  Their dilemma evaporated when, close enough for Bevan to see them in detail, two of the men walked into the brand-light of the clearing. They were imposing men, and Bevan guessed them both to be taller than any man at the feast. One man wore his hair long and braided. The other had a shaven head; his only facial hair being a blonde, chin beard. Both had faces studded with gold; the precious metal piercing their nostrils, earlobes and upper lips.

  Still stunned to silence, Bevan and Corran waited as the larger of the two men—the braided one—approached him. The man looked at Bevan, then at the gathering of silent people who sat at the tables. By now, parents had retrieved boisterous young, and many of the bairns now sat on their mothers’ laps, wide-eyed and expectant.

  ‘You feast well; the harvest and livestock must have been kind to you this year,’ said Cunedda as he swept his hand towards the gathering.

  Bevan was relieved to hear the man talk in his own British tongue. At least they were not Saxon, which explained why the men had hesitated at the edge of the clearing; why they had not cut their throats. ‘This is the produce of several villages,’ began Bevan. ‘Tonight is the start of midwinter as you doubtless know, and the feast here serves to both celebrate the solstice and help us forget its hardship for a few days.’

  Cunedda nodded his comprehension to Bevan. ‘We know about the winter feast, indeed celebrate it ourselves back home. Like you, we are native to this isle, and doubtless, like you, we lived well with the Romans when they walked the land.’ Cunedda could feel the fear; could even smell it in the confines of the clearing. Behind him, stood his men—their sinister spear-burdened profile a dark shadow against the starlit sky. He shouted now towards the tables, intent on assuaging the anxiety of those who sat in trepidation. ‘Worry not, we are not here to cause you harm!’ He looked to Bevan again as a relieved murmur drifted from the tables. ‘If you would see fit to give us water we will be on our way.’

  Before Bevan could reply, the other man—the bald and bearded one—stepped beside Cunedda. He nodded towards the spit, where the venison had cooked to perfection. His voice held a hint of assertion. ‘And maybe you could see fit to carve me a slice off that roast that so teases my nostrils. My belly aches with hunger after a long day on the trail.’

  Bevan studied the man and liked not what he saw. Unlike the braided man, this fellow had cold eyes; humourless they were and bore into him like dagger blades. The man was daring him to refuse his request; Bevan did not doubt that.

  But fortunately for Bevan, Cunedda had the measure of the situation, and before the headsman could agree to Abloyc’s request (which he undoubtedly would do, for Cunedda could see that the Briton before him was not a stupid man) Cunedda stepped in. ‘That will not be necessary, good fellow. My friend here,’—he gave Abloyc a sharp stare—‘my friend here is never full; his belly always craves food. I can see that you have many mouths to feed, so if you would be good enough to get the water for us we will be on our way.’

  ‘Of course.’ Bevan was relieved and happy to busy himself, if not only to step away from the other who now glowered at him. Cunedda signalled towards his men at the edge of the village and some of them stepped forward with goat-hide water pouches.

  With Corran’s help, Bevan took the pouches to the village water supply and proceeded to fill them. When they had done, Cunedda’s men took the water.

  Cunedda made to leave. ‘We go now to Deva,’ he told Bevan. ‘There we intend to stay, so we are to become your neighbours.’

  Bevan considered this. He looked at the braided man and felt the power—the sheer presence—he radiated. How the man was accustomed to using his power (for he was undoubtedly the leader), or how he would use it in the future, Bevan could only guess. However, the other man genuinely troubled him, because Bevan had seen enough of the world to recognise a black soul when he saw one.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Almaith walked naked through the body-littered hall. The feast had lasted three days and come to its conclusion when the last standing man had fallen to the dirt ground. Now the scene resembled the aftermath of a pitched battle, with bodies draped and limp across floor and table.

  But Almaith had saved herself. Unlike the rest of them, she had placed her hand over her cup when approached by the wine bearers. Then she had watched as the assembly had become more and more raucous; more and more incapacitated; until, one by one, they had become victims of their own gluttony.

  Yes; Almaith had saved herself; saved herself for the handsome merchant who now lay amongst his own vomit in a shadowy corner of the hall. Almaith’s hair—long, grey and parted down the middle—fell to either side of her pockmarked face, down as far as her lumpy, sagging hips. Her pendulous and veined breasts swayed as she picked her way through snoring bodies and headed towards the youth. Standing proud of her breasts, such was her excitement now, her well-suckled nipples (the brown areola of which spread in a saucer-sized disc around them) pulsated with every beat of her racing heart. Her stomach, like her breasts, was pendent, and hung down from her like a sagging skirt; mercifully hanging low enough to hide her genitalia.

  Now she grunted with the effort of removing the heavy chair which lay upturned beside the snoring merchant. The scrape of the timber did not disturb the man who lay on his back—he was long past the point where he could be disturbed. Almaith knelt before him and lifted his tunic.

  She hoped his penis would be susceptible to her manipulation, even though the man was clearly debilitated. She was not to be disappointed, and it did not take the man long to rise to the occasion as Almaith rolled his member between her hands, as if rubbing her palms together on the coldest of days. Salivating as the penis reached its highpoint, Almaith stooped to place it between her lips. For some moments, she sucked and gabbled to herself as
she simulated copulation upon it, whilst the man, now in the grips of some somnolent erotica, mumbled and groaned below her.

  As his grunts became louder, Almaith, who was careful not to wake him, nor generate the spurt that would soften his erection, reluctantly removed his member from her mouth. Now she straddled him and looked at the throbbing flesh below her. She fondled the erection with anticipation. Almost to climax herself now, she could stand it no longer and eased herself upon him.

  Like riding a runaway horse, she bounced and gyrated, her movements becoming more exaggerated as her juices slopped from her. Her squeaks became squeals, the squeals then turned to screams as she felt the man release his warm outflow inside her. It was enough to bring on her climax. With abandon, she threw her head back to screech her pleasure to the rafters of the hall.

  The release had woken the man, who to his utter dismay found that the curvy, voluptuous serving wench of his dream was in reality Guertepir’s hag of a wife. Like the horse that Almaith had made him, he bucked in revulsion when seeing Almaith bestride his thighs. But he had no need to work too hard. Deprived of her fleshy pommel—for the man had softened at once upon seeing who sat upon him—Almaith slid from him and stood up.

  The man looked down at his loins; saw they slopped with her juices as well as his own. He scrambled to a sitting position and shrank away from Almaith. ‘Away from me you witch!’ He pulled his tunic down to cover his manhood, then promptly vomited upon the earthen floor of the hall.

  ‘What have we here!’ The voice boomed and came from beyond the tables. Guertipir arrived with his man, Diarmait. He took in the scene; looked at his wife who stood hunched and naked before the cowering, young merchant. He nodded to Diarmait, who removed his woolen cloak and placed it around Almaith. ‘Take her back to my rooms and make sure she takes to her bed.’

  ‘At once, my Lord.’ Diarmait, whose face held not one hint of surprise, led Almaith away.

  Guertepir looked at the man below him. ‘Whatever I ordered from you yesterday, double it,’ he said as he extended his arm to help the man to his feet. Guertepir explained himself. ‘You’ve saved me a gruesome job, you see. Better still you’ve made her happy for a while, and as long as she’s happy her father sends me gold from Hibernia.’ Guertepir began to laugh then; the sound hysterical and cruel as he walked from the chamber.

  Two days later, he sat in the same hall, but now the place was empty apart from one other man.

  Guertepir petulantly jabbed his finger into the knotty wooden table before him. ‘Do not tell me I can no longer spend on feasts and entertainment, it’s not what I want to hear.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Kelwin, the guardian of Guertepir’s purse, ‘but if you carry on as you are, you won’t have a pot to piss in this time next year.’

  ‘And what of my reserves, man. The last time I looked my vaults were stuffed with gold.’

  Kelwin threw up his hands in frustration. ‘The last time I saw you in the vaults was three years ago. Since then you have thrown lavish feasts nearly every night.’ As he looked at his master, Kelwin realised that maybe the question of his finances was academic to say the least. If he continued the way he was going he would be dead within the year, anyway. Up close, Guertepir’s face was blotched with drink; his enlarged, porous nose riddled with rosacea. Thick, self-indulgent lips were lavender in colour, hinting at an inner disease. He, Kelwin, liked a drink as much as any man, but knew when to stop—when to respect his body—unlike Guertepir who had no such resolve.

  ‘What about the gold from Hibernia,’ asked Guertepir, frowning. ‘My wife’s father is rich … he has more cattle than any man I know. He still sends me gold, that I do know; the ships carrying it come in regularly.’

  ‘Yes they arrive here and the gold is taken straight to the vaults, but I’m afraid it is your only major income and it’s not enough. The feasts you throw cost much, far more than comes in. Quite simply, my Lord, demand is outstripping supply at the moment.’

  ‘So you’re telling me to cut down on the feasting; the enjoyment; the entertaining?’

  ‘Either that or increase your revenue,’ said Kelwin.

  Guertepir’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And how would I do that?’ he asked. ‘It would be no good taxing the people round here, because just like me, as you so eloquently put it, they don’t have a pot to piss in.’

  ‘How you gain your funds is your own business, my Lord, but one thing I do know is this: the price for cattle is high in Hibernia at the moment, and your father in law would buy as many heads as you could supply to him. Remember, you send me to him occasionally to keep him on your side. He always yearns to increase his herd, and so his standing in the community. I believe it’s important over there in that waste land.’

  ‘I think you forget that my grandfather came from that waste land,’ rumbled Guertipir; ‘driven out by the Uí Liatháin bastards, he was. And I still consider myself Hibernian, so hold your tongue on the matter of my homeland or I’ll have it served up as an appetiser at my next feast.’ Guertipir sighed, looked at Kelwin, sighed again. ‘Increase revenue … sell cattle … good in theory, but I have no cattle to sell, save the small herd of white longhorns that crop and tidy the castle lawns.’

  ‘Yes, most of your vast herd are already sold to pay off your debts.’ Kelwin nodded sagely, his expression telling Guertepir: You see; it’s exactly what I’ve been telling you; your extravagance has left you high and dry.

  The truth of it only fuelled Guertepir’s anger. ‘Hell and fury!’ he exploded, ‘what am I supposed to do, then; things have to be paid for!’ He twiddled his fingers at Kelwin, inviting a response. ‘Come on then, man; your supposed to be my advisor on these matters; advise me.’

  ‘If you were to head northwards along the western coast you will see fields full of cattle,’ said Kelwin. ‘All the way up to Deva.’

  ‘You’re suggesting I steal livestock?’ asked Guertepir with some incredulity.

  Kelwin shrugged. ‘I’m suggesting no such thing, my Lord. I’m merely pointing out the desperateness of your situation. One thing’s for sure, though: the British leave the herds unguarded. Unlike your fellow Hibernians, they are complacent on the subject of cattle thievery.’

  Guertepir had resumed his drumming of the table. He stared long and hard at Kelwin, chewing on his lip as he considered the covert proposal. Eventually, he made to dismiss him. Now businesslike, he said: ‘Leave me now, and send me Diarmait; I have much to discuss with him.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Aquae Sulis had been the jewel in the crown of Roman occupation for four centuries.

  Millennia earlier, the Brythons (a folk who attributed much power and magic to water) had been the first to discover the mineral springs bubbling from the earth. Furthermore, they had found the water to be hot and stone-green in colour, and this had considerably elevated the importance of the place.

  Its aura had not been lost upon the Romans. Pagans themselves, they at once recognised the divine significance of the shrine. Consequently, they had transformed it from a boiling, gravel-ringed pool, sited within a forest, to a temple dedicated to their Goddess, Minerva. A huge stone caldarium had been built to hold the emerging water, and this enabled them to actually immerse themselves within its holy embrace. Next to this huge, hot pool, they had built both a warm and cold pool—the tepidarium and frigidarium. The complex had been a magnet to pilgrims who had worshipped at the shrine of the Goddess Sulis (also identified as Minerva by the Romans). Inside the defensive walls of the town, they had also built many dwellings—these to service the needs of the pilgrims who visited what had become the most important site in the Roman world.

  After the Roman withdrawal of Britannia, the town had fallen into disrepair, and seemed to be heading the same way of many such towns, which had been stripped of their stone and timber, and almost vanished from the landscape. But Aquae Sulis lay just sixty miles from Arthur’s stronghold of Brythonfort, and Arthur had been aware of its importance and b
eauty since his childhood. He knew the town was worth saving, and for eight years had been responsible for its restoration.

  He had garrisoned a small force of his knights at Aquae Sulis—their role being to protect the artisans and workers who laboured there. Cleared of their accumulated silt, the baths had been restored to their former glory, and now brimmed with stone-green water. The buildings, too, had been returned to their habitable former state, and Arthur had made sure they were equipped for permanent habitation now; an improvement on the occasional pilgrim use of before.

  The final task was now underway: the rebuilding of the stone walls. Much of the material had been lost over the decades; the stone being prized and desirable for many uses; but now the walls had been built to their original specification and the town once again had a curtain wall to protect it.

  The garrison of knights was under the captaincy of Erec, a weapon’s instructor from Brythonfort. Along with his wife, Morgana, he had spent his last eight years living between Brythonfort and Aquae Sulis. With little to threaten them (the Saxons knew better than to travel anywhere near Arthur’s lands), life had been quiet for Erec and his knights, who had often relieved their tedium by mucking in with the labourers if there was a ditch to be cleared or a stone to be shifted, and this willingness to help had served to break down the barriers between the artisans and military men.

  It was in one of the renovated buildings (a wine tavern) in the narrow, main street of Aquae Sulis, that Pwyll the labourer now sat. Never the brightest of men, Pwyll was a loner who always put in a hard day’s toil for his master. Honest yet diffident, Pwyll kept his own company and looked forward to the end of each day, and the cup—or two—of wine which he considered a just reward for his labours.