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

by Atkinson, F J

  The jeering crowd ended Erec’s contemplations and brought him back to the present. The people of Aquae Sulis seemed to be at unrest and that worried him.

  As Hal and Menw ran from the gates, Augustus, with the throng behind him, boomed after them. ‘If I see you two here again I’ll strip you of your skin as well of your clothes. Get under the stones from which you crawled, you worthless…’

  Augustus voice trailed away as he noticed Erec and, as ever, he was impressed by the knight. Only slightly shorter than he, but just as imposing, Erec was a handsome man, whose blonde braided hair fell to his jawline. A full beard covered his angular face; a face now full of concern.

  Glad to see Augustus apparently in charge of God-knew-what, Erec shouted: ‘What gives here, Gus?’ He watched Hal and Menw run away from the city.

  Augustus scratched at the curly hair that grew from the back of his neck. ‘Nothing worth much of a mention,’ he replied. ‘Just two bullies with nowhere to live anymore and without a shred of clothing to wear.’

  Erec cast an indifferent glance towards the now-distant exiles. ‘Hmm ... never liked them anyway ... too smart for their own good.’ He slid from his horse and embraced Augustus as the crowd dispersed. ‘Good to see you, man, but it’s not the best of news; word is out that Guertepir has gone northwards in numbers. And ... listen to this, my friend; it’s also been reported that some tribe from beyond Hadrian’s wall—most likely the Votadini—have travelled to Deva. It seems that things are about to get interesting.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As soon as the traveller had arrived at Brythonfort with news of Guertepir’s journey northwards up the western peninsula, Arthur had dispatched Dominic and Tomas upon the road.

  Two day’s travel saw the pair bypass Aquae Sulis and reach Corinium. From there, they took the network of lesser roads, westwards, until reaching the shoreline of the western peninsula—the route taken by Guertepir. For two further days, they stuck to the road as it passed through wood, field and marsh. Whenever passing a homestead or small village, they took care to blend into the adjacent countryside, having no wish to endure any lengthy conversations or explanations of why they were on the road. Although they expected no problems from the folk living on the western peninsular, many of who were Desi exiles of Hibernia, they nevertheless knew them to be curious folk when seeing strangers.

  It was the bellowing of cattle that first alerted Dominic and Tomas to the movement ahead of them. Garbed in russet cloaks of broken weave, both rangers had no trouble blending into the shrub cover that pushed shoulder-high from the ground twenty paces from the road.

  ‘That sounds like a lot of cattle,’ said Dominic, as he lay on his belly below a twisted winter bramble.

  ‘Far too many for any of the small farmsteads we’ve passed,’ said Tomas, nodding towards a cluster of buildings that lay within a fold of ground nearby. ‘That family yonder can only have twenty cows at the most, and that seems fairly typical.’

  As they watched, a billowing of dust rolled up the road. The first of the cow herders rode through the miasma, emerging as if creatures spawned from a desert land. Their presence caused Dominic and Tomas to shrink a little further into the shrub cover.

  ‘Under all that shit, they’re Guertepir’s men,’ Dominic said. ‘I can tell by their bearing on those horses ... typical Hibernian riding style.’

  ‘So, they’re here to herd cattle?’

  ‘More likely to steal them. It’s what Hibernians do when scraping for gold. Looks like Guertepir’s extravagances have caught up with him’—he gripped Tomas’ arm and pointed to the nearby smallholding—‘maybe we’re about to find out.’

  As they watched, a larger group of horsemen emerged from the swirling cloud and made for the homestead. Dominic, who had been to Guertepir’s ringfort recently, strained to recognise them; strained to recognise Guertepir. But he could not recognise any man before him, the dust was far too thick for that.

  At the farm, the riders were met by three men and two boys—probably a father and sons, thought Dominic. Arms were raised as a squabble ensued, then the man fell to the ground. As his sons stooped to attend him, a thin reedy scream sounded above the lowing of encroaching cattle. ‘The bastards have killed the father,’ said Tomas. ‘Look ... the mother has arrived.’

  Tomas made to gain his feet, but Dominic put a restraining hand upon him. ‘No! Stay hidden. There’s nothing we can do here; not against so many men.’

  Released from their pen by the riders, the twenty cows from the homestead had already blended with the main body of cattle and begun to move with the herd.

  An unending movement of cattle and men continued to amble past Dominic and Tomas. Dominic squinted as he peered through the dust and attempted to count the riders. Such were their numbers that the procession continued for much of the morning. Dominic frequently exchanged looks of astonishment with Tomas as the extent of the cattle theft became apparent. When the last of them finally passed by, another large body of men emerged from the dust.

  ‘What the…’ began Dominic.

  ‘They’re not Guertepir’s men. Even I can tell that,’ said Tomas.

  ‘No, they are not; they are Britons from beyond the wall; I’ve seen their horses and livery before when I worked for Rome. Will also rode with me then, and we ventured northwards with the legions as far as the Antonine wall. Their shields bear the sign of the juniper and that makes them Votadini, but what in hell’s name are they doing this far south?’

  Dominic counted seven hundred riders (again all well-armed) following the cows. Eventually, the last of them passed by, leaving Dominic and Tomas watching the empty road. When the dust finally settled, they got to their feet and ventured from the shrubbery. Southwards, in the distance, they could see the dust cloud that followed the mass movement of men and cattle.

  Dominic sighed resignedly as he nodded towards the farmstead. ‘Looks like Guertepir has changed their lives forever.’ Fifty paces from them, a woman wept at the side of the fallen man. Dominic and Tomas went to them. The woman shrank back as they approached, whilst the sons sprang to their feet.

  Dominic held up his palms in non-aggression. ‘Do not be hasty. We are not with the raiders, but we saw what they did.’

  The woman’s wretched face was an amalgam of dust and tears. She looked at Dominic, then beyond him. ‘And who is he who rides with you?’

  Startled, Tomas and Dominic looked behind them. Sat upon a mule, bumping down the track towards them, was a monk.

  Dominic’s mouth was agape. Chance meetings with past acquaintances were rare in Britannia, but Dominic actually knew the youth who now approached him; knew him as Ingle, the young monk from Hibernia.

  Ingle’s own face rivalled Dominic’s in incredulity as he got close enough to recognise him. ‘What in the Lord’s name are you ... ’ His voice faded to silence when he saw the group of homesteaders surrounding the dead man. By now, his sons had lifted him from the road and started to carry him back to their hut. The woman, too preoccupied with her grief now, turned from Dominic’s group and followed her sons.

  ‘The raiders killed him,’ said Dominic in response to Ingle’s questioning look. ‘He wouldn’t give up his cattle so they just killed him; there’s nothing we can do for them now.’

  Ingle slid from his mule and embraced Dominic, his voice respectably subdued such was the gravitas of the scene. ‘Well-met Dom, believe it or not but I was seeking you out ... well, seeking out Brythonfort anyway.’

  Dominic turned towards Tomas. ‘This is my companion, his name’s Tom. We were sent to watch proceedings here.’ Ingle and Tomas (two youths of a similar age) exchanged nods. Dominic continued. ‘Now perhaps you can tell me what the hell possesses a monk from Hibernia to ride alone in the middle of nowhere this day?’ Before Ingle attempted to reply, Dominic noticed him glance at the sack that lay over the rump of Tomas’ horse. It occurred to him then that Ingle looked half-starved. ‘No don’t answer me yet. We’ll eat first. You
can tell me what happened when your belly’s full.’

  Ingle began his story after the meal, telling of how he had come to Britannia; one of a group of eight monks led by Rodric—an admirable man known to Dominic from his trip to Hibernia. Their mission was to convert the pagan people of Deva and its surrounding countryside. It was Ingle’s second trip to Britannia in two years and one he had greatly looked forward to. At first things went well, and Ingle enjoyed his incursions into the green lands around Deva, meeting people whom he came to regard as friends. He was popular amongst them such was his cheery disposition and mischievous sense of fun. Consequently, was able to convert many of them to Christianity. They are reluctant to offend you by saying no, Rodric had laughed.

  Ingle told Dominic and Tomas how life had been austere but pleasing for the monks at Deva, until the arrival of Cunedda and the Votadini, that was. With no garrison or militia to defend their town, the people were left with little choice but to accept the inflow of men from the northern lands. No blood was spilt and the men took up residence in a quarter of the city that was mostly ruinous and weather distressed. Indeed, when their leader visited the monks on his second morning, Ingle had found him to be stern yet unthreatening. The man—a pagan—insisted the monks did not bother them with the nonsense of Christianity and Rodric had readily agreed to this, knowing that conversion often took months or even years to achieve. But another man who walked with the leader—the one named Abloyc—really bothered Ingle; troubled him to the extent that he voiced his concerns to Rodric. Rodric, a shrewd and clever man, also felt the bad energy radiating from Abloyc, and counselled caution as far as the man was concerned.

  Then things changed. Another group of men turned up at Deva, these having approached from the west, along the northern shoreline of the peninsula. Ingle feared that a savage battle was about to erupt, but Cunedda, the leader of the Votadini, left the city and went to parley with an envoy of the newly arrived men. When Cunedda returned he met with Abloyc and debated with him late into the night. Ingle witnessed Cunedda leave with much of his army the next day. Curiously, he had joined with the other force and travelled behind them, westwards, along the northern coastline of the peninsula.

  But to his dismay Ingle bumped into Abloyc later that morning. Cunedda had left him behind with five hundred of his men to retain a presence in the city. It took Abloyc very little time before he approached the monks, and that was when things started to go wrong for them. Now free of Cunedda’s restraining hand, Abloyc began to push the monks around, deriding them for their “nonsensical creed” and “mad hair and skirts.” He forbade them to leave Deva, and one morning when they met for prayers, Rodric was not with them. Abloyc struck Ingle for his insolence when he enquired of the whereabouts of Rodric, and later that morning they found him cut, tortured and dead by the city walls. The distraught monks lifted him and buried his body at a small gravesite inside the city.

  After this, things became far worse. Abloyc insisted they report to his quarters every day and wait on his every need. Always, they were derided and belittled by him and his circle of lackeys, and one by one the monks disappeared. In the four days since Cunedda had left the city, Abloyc had reduced the monk’s numbers by six, until only Ingle and an older monk named Constance remained.

  Ingle knew it was time to get out or die. Under cover of darkness, he waited with two mules beside the walls of the city. But Constance, who had been serving Abloyc that night, did not show. Ingle feared the worst and decided to leave without him, knowing that his own life was very expendable at that moment. His intention was to travel westwards along the northern coast until reaching the port at Segontium from where he hoped to find a boat to take him back to Hibernia, but when reaching the port he was forced to hide when learning that Cunedda, who had passed that way, was gone. Three hundred of his men remained at the port to act as a blockade against invasion from Hibernia.

  Therefore, Ingle found himself in a dilemma. He could not go back to Deva, for there he would be surely killed, and now he could not home. He thought of Maewyn, the boy from Britannia who now trained as a monk in Hibernia. The boy had told him many tales of his life in Britannia; told him of Brythonfort and its safe haven and strong king. Indeed, Ingle had already met three worthy men from Brythonfort: Dominic, Withred and Flint. He decided to travel south along the road that led from the port. His intention was to somehow reach Brythonfort and find sanctuary there. He soon realised the road was the same one taken by the two armies, and after two days travel he saw a swirling dust cloud before him. He also noticed the empty fields beside the road where cattle had once so obviously grazed. The armies had been amassing a herd as they headed south; that was apparent to him, and soon he could actually smell the cattle as he caught up with the slow moving mass of men and cows before him. From then on, he had been extra careful to remain at an unseen distance from them.

  ‘And then you saw us,’ said Dominic, who had listened intrigued and without interruption to Ingle’s story.

  ‘And what a totally unexpected and astounding sight for sore eyes you are,’ said Ingle.

  Tomas lay propped on one elbow on the floor as he chewed on a hard tack biscuit from his pack. ‘You did well to get away when you did,’ he said. ‘I too was under the yoke of a wicked man; for a full two years he beat and abused me before I found Dominic in the woods and escaped.’

  Ingle looked at Tomas and liked what he saw. He guessed his age to be sixteen and could see he was confident yet unassuming. Enveloped in his dusky cloak, he looked every inch the young tracker; a smaller (far less wrinkled) version of Dominic, in fact. And his eyes were striking ... so striking. Penetrating and intelligent as they were, they also had a hollow depth to them. Ingle could tell that Tomas would never forget his two years of servitude. What he had endured he, Ingle, could only imagine.

  ‘I don’t think I would have lasted two days, let alone two years, with Abloyc at Deva,’ said Ingle. ‘I suspect I’m the only monk who survived. I’m not sure if he disliked monks or just liked killing.’

  Dominic got to his feet and looked at the sky. ‘I’ve a feeling we might find that out before long, but for now we still have half a day of daylight before us. Time is important now and we need to get back to Brythonfort and report this. Any movement of armies is bad news in these troubled times.’

  ‘You know who leads the armies, then?’ asked Ingle.

  ‘Yes, now I do. The cattle thievery points to Guertepir, and the juniper emblazoned shields to the Votadini from above the Wall. What they are doing together is a mystery, but worrying nonetheless.’ He looked at Tomas as the youth climbed onto his horse. ‘Troubled times lie ahead, lad. Only the Gods know what this will lead to. Looks like we’re going to be in the saddle for some time yet.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Raedwald was the tainted, bastard seed of Egbert. Raped by Egbert when barely into puberty, Ealdgyd, his bitter mother, harboured no love for Raedwald, seeing him as nothing more than an Ebert-inflicted disease.

  In his early years, Raedwald had endured many beatings and scoldings from Ealdgyd, and this treatment had marked him out as something of a pariah—a pathetic individual to be teased and mocked at. Feeling increasingly isolated, he took to walking the woods alone, where he would trap birds and other small creatures, torturing them to slow deaths and blaming them for all the ills and misfortunes in his life.

  Inevitably, the day arrived when he became big enough to say, “No more!” to Ealdgyd. Then he had beaten her thoroughly, breaking her teeth and nose and leaving her to lie prone and wretched in the leaf litter of the forest.

  Consequently, Raedwald had then become the dominant figure in his household, and his standing in the village soared accordingly. Now it was Ealdgyd’s turn to be ridiculed.

  As for his father, Raedwald had always hero-worshiped him, seeing him as the mysterious avenger of Saxony on the dark isle of Britannia and having no idea of Egbert’s actual black depravity. Not that it would have made any dif
ference, because Raedwald himself was now corrupt. Bad genes and a brutal upbringing had seen to that.

  When news came to him that his father was dead (worse still, dead at the hands of the renowned but traitorous Angle, Withred) Raedwald had gone berserk.

  He had killed Ealdgyd that night, dragging her into the forest and cutting her throat as he blamed her for his father’s absence. After scraping a mound of leaves over her, he had returned to his hut where, long into the night, he had screamed out his misery and anger as he lay wretched and broken upon his straw pallet.

  A year passed and Raedwald’s hate for Withred festered within him like a sickness. He imagined a multitude of ways to get back at him; ways to kill him slowly and painfully. To go to Britannia and seek him out was his intention, but he did not possess the currency needed to pay for his passage across the Oceanus Germanicus to Camulodunum on the eastern seaboard of Britannia. If he was ever to get there, he would need gold, he knew that, but no one in his village had any gold to steal.

  It was a chance meeting with a gnarled Angle, recently returned from Britannia, which finally set Raedwald into motion. After Raedwald told the Angle he was Egbert’s son (a fact he bragged about at every opportunity), the man whistled and remarked how Raedwald must yearn to cut Withred’s throat. Raedwald concurred, and then became excited when the old warrior, during the course of his general chit-chat, told him of Withred’s aunt—a renowned herbalist who resided in Angeln on the White Sea shore. Furthermore, the man was able to describe the route to the woman’s village, telling Raedwald that four days travel on a good pony would get him there.