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

by Atkinson, F J

  ‘Take the child of course; we’ll get a fortune for her in Norwic.’

  ‘What about the father?’ asked Eldstan. ‘He’s ready to fight by the look of it.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to deal with him.’

  ‘W-what, tie him up and put him in the hut like you said?’

  Raedwald shot Wilburh a now’s as good a time as any to tell them look. ‘No, we don’t tie him up,’ he said. ‘Not now he’s armed himself with the adze. We need to kill him, it’s the only way.’

  Eldstan held up his palms in rejection and backed away as if confronted by his most feared nemesis. ‘No ... you didn’t say anything back in Camulodunum about killing anybody. “We find a homestead, steal a child and return to Norwic,” you told us.’ He turned to Baldward and Dudda for support, their nods conveying to Raedwald, Yes, he’s right … that’s what you said.

  ‘So you think that raiding parties come out here, then find slaves, then maybe shout harsh words at them to get them to hand over their children ... Oh, come on!’ Exasperated, Raedwald looked to Wilburh, then cast a quick glance back towards the hut. ‘Look—we need to get this done. The woman has gone inside with the girl, and the man needs to be taken care of.’

  But now it was obvious to Raedwald, as he looked at Eldstan, Baldward and Dudda (who had grouped together in a mutual huddle of rejection) that they would never kill. He pointed back towards the forest. ‘RIGHT!’ he exploded. ‘Get yourselves back into that forest and die there, because only a gibbet awaits you in Camulodunum!’

  The three shrank away from the heat of Raedwald’s outburst. Dudda was the one who eventually summoned the courage to respond to him. ‘I for one will leave for the forest; I no longer want to be any part of this. I’ll take my chances in Camulodunum, maybe even go to Norwic.’

  Raedwald could tell that all three were of the same mind. He raged at them. ‘Away with you and go then!’ Yearning to slay them but not having the time, he turned to Wilburh and saw that he too was hesitant. ‘And you ... get your sword out ... what’s wrong with you, man?’

  Wilburh darted a nervous look towards the Briton who was standing his ground in front of the hut. Slowly, he took up his sword.

  The others had turned away and led their ponies into the forest, unwilling even to witness the oncoming fight.

  Raedwald’s onrushing lunge at Braden was immediate and clumsy and the homesteader was easily able to avoid the seax strike. In terms of reach, Braden’s adze had the advantage over the short swords of Raedwald and Wilburh, but his first hack with it missed Raedwald.

  Wilburh, who had hung back, now saw Braden wrong-footed. His slash at him was even more inexpert than Raedwald’s but somehow his seax hit the mark, splitting Braden’s scalp from ear to crown.

  The Briton staggered and brought his hand to his head as his vision began to blur. He removed the hand and saw it smeared in his own blood.

  ‘With me, finish him!’ Raedwald screamed his instruction to Wilburh as he sensed Braden’s incapacity. This time, Raedwald’s heavy, horizontal swipe ripped Braden’s bicep to the bone, causing him to drop the adze. Again, Wilburh seized upon the opportunity to lunge at Braden unopposed. Ham-fistedly, he thrust the point of his sword into Braden’s stomach.

  As soon as Braden fell, Raedwald and Wilburh were upon him as their bloodlust erupted. Braden rolled onto his back using his arms as a fleshy shield as they slashed and stabbed at him, but soon he sprawled dead and torn, his arms shredded.

  Panting and splattered in Braden’s blood, the Saxons finally stopped stabbing at him—exhaustion, rather than an abatement of savagery, causing them to end their assault. Raedwald looked to the hut.

  Seren emerged with Cara in her arms. A desperate scream came from her when she saw what they had done to Braden. She took a hesitant step towards his corpse but realised it would take her closer to the killers. Thinking of Seren and possible escape she looked towards the distant tree line, but wavering and aghast, she remained unmoving.

  Raedwald wiped his sword on the grass at his feet then moved towards Cara. ‘Help me here,’ he said. ‘Grab the sprat while I deal with the woman.’

  ‘No—no! Get away from her!’ Seren’s scream rang hollow and awful as she stepped back into the hut. She was prepared to scratch and bite like a vixen to protect Cara, but the pommel of Wilburh’s seax, delivered with force upon her forehead, ended her fight before it could begin. Wilburh grabbed Cara as Seren dropped to the reed-strewn floor of the hut.

  ‘Take the child outside,’ said Raedwald. ‘I’ll deal with the woman and make sure she doesn’t hinder us.’

  Wilburh, throbbing with battle-fever, his earlier reluctance a distant memory, read Raedwald’s intent. ‘Yes, I’ll hold the brat but don’t kill the woman until I’ve had my go with her,’ he said.

  Seren’s eyes rolled as Raedwald dragged her to the back of the hut and tore at her dress. Another one not quite with it, he thought as he pulled his hose down to his knees.

  Flint was one hour south of Corinium on his way back to Brythonfort. The town, like many others, had gone into decline after the withdrawal of Rome. However, an industrious local man had utilised the cleared area of the old amphitheater and erected a huge timber building upon the grounds there. Here, his pottery business thrived, supplying much of the local area with their needs. Such was the renown of his products that many Britons now journeyed miles to obtain them.

  Flint and eight knights travelled beside a covered wagon packed with wares as it headed back to Brythonfort. Their presence beside the wagon had been of dual purpose: to ensure the wagon was untroubled by robbers, as well as checking out the country beyond the northern limits of Arthur’s protectorate.

  A curl of smoke coming from beyond a low hillock to the right of the track alerted Flint to a possible habitation—the first he had come across for several miles. He looked to Emrys, a young knight of promise who was on his first patrol for Arthur. ‘Think we should take a look, Em?’ he asked. ‘Get a flavour of what’s been happening in these parts?’

  ‘Well, that’s what we’re here to do,’ replied Emrys. ‘Just me and you on this one is it?’

  ‘Yes, no need to take the rest of the men.’ Flint wheeled his horse around to face the others. ‘Stay with the wagon,’ he instructed. ‘I’m taking Em with me to chew the fat with some locals.’

  The wagon creaked to a halt and the men dismounted, glad to have a rest from the saddle.

  Flint and Emrys rode at a trot on the rutted track that led to the homestead. Emrys was the first to get sight of the dwelling as he rounded the knoll, his abrupt stop immediately alerting his companion.

  Flint looked at a ragged man holding a hysterical child. His glance, there’s something not right here! was not lost on Emrys.

  Flint, tense and ready to act, feared the worst as he jabbed his horse forward. ‘What’s upset the child and what’s your name, fellow?’ he asked.

  The man, whose expression had changed from elation to despair upon seeing the knights, attempted to mumble a reply as he placed the child to the ground.

  ‘SAXON!’ shouted Flint upon hearing the Germanic tongue. ‘See to him, Emrys, I’ll take the trail and follow the pony tracks, they may have taken slaves away.’

  Inside the hut, Raedwald’s blood turned from fire to ice upon hearing the cry. He rolled off Seren and arranged his disheveled clothing as he realised something was amiss. Events were happening outside. A horse rattled by the hut and Wilburh had given off an alarmed cry. He knew he had to get out, knew it was his only chance. They would be in the hut soon and that would be the end of him. He cast a quick glance at Seren who still moaned in her concussion. She could not be allowed to talk to the Britons when her senses returned.

  He groped about in the dim light of the hut feeling for his seax. He found it and slicked the blade across Seren’s throat—her moans becoming a gurgle as her blood drained into the rush matting beneath her.

  He looked at the door, knowing the Britons f
or now were preoccupied. But the door was not an option ... outside the door death lurked. He turned towards the back wall of the hut and jabbed the point of his sword into the wattle frame. The willow split and he tugged at it until he could see a layer of daubed and cracked mud; a thin barrier between him and the outside. He punched out and the mud collapsed to leave a shoulder-width hole. Raedwald dragged himself through the hole and scrambled to his feet.

  Ahead, lay a series of low hills. Hearing nothing now from beyond the hut, he ran in a stumbling gait towards the first hill. He crested it, then he half-fell, half-ran, down its slope. Thanking the Gods for his escape, he came to a thin stream and began running along its stony shore, heading for the spinney growing in a curve away from the banking. A steep dell clogged with thick brush, ran along the entire length of the spinney. Exhausted, Raedwald slid into the dell and lay panting beneath the shrubbery.

  Emrys was in no doubt what to do as he rode towards Wilburh. Arthur’s edict on the matter of Saxons caught within the confines of British habitation was quite clear: his instruction called for immediate execution.

  As Flint heeled his horse into a gallop along the track that led to the forest, Emrys turned his attention to Wilburh. The Saxon had taken advantage of Emrys’ slight hesitancy and fled up the track. Unconcerned, Emrys goaded his horse into a quick trot.

  As he ran, Wilburh nursed the vague hope that the Briton behind might have compassion in his soul, so turned to beg for his mercy, but a grey blur accompanied by the hiss of cold steel through even colder air, was his last sensation before his clean decapitation.

  Emrys dismounted and picked up the head just as Flint returned from up trail. Strung together and tied to the back of his saddle, bounced three more heads—Eldstan’s, Baldward’s and Dudda’s.

  ‘No mercy,’ Flint quoted Arthur verbatim, ‘for any Saxon found in the protectorate in the vicinity of a homestead.’

  ‘No mercy,’ concurred Emrys as he lifted Wilburh’s head for Flint to see.

  After studying the head for a moment, a look of alarm slid over Flint’s features.

  ‘The child,’ he said.

  ‘The hut,’ said Emrys.

  Both ran down the track to the hut and were able to get there before the child could enter. Emrys picked her up as Flint went in. Moments later he emerged, his face set pale and grim. ‘Take the child to the wagon,’ he said as Cara buried her head into Emrys’ shoulder. He dropped his voice so it was barely above a whisper. ‘Looks like we’ve got another orphan for Augustus and Modlen to look after.’ His haunted look and shake of the head told Emrys all he needed to know.

  Raedwald shivered as nighttime found him still in the ditch. In fear of pursuit, he had crouched hidden for half of the day, but had worried needlessly. Unknown to him, Flint had assumed the hole in the hut wall was due to natural decay rather than forced exit, having seen many such huts whilst on the trail.

  Raedwald decided to move under cover of darkness and take his rests during the day until he reached the concealment of the forest again. Then he would make for Norwic and find a ship to take him to Saxony. He still had the necklace and it still hung with many semi-precious stones, one of which would pay for his passage home.

  For three days and nights, an increasingly weakening Raedwald stuck to his plan: stumbling throughout the nights, drinking water from the muddy puddles which lay everywhere, and sleeping fitfully by day. He was lost, he knew that now; knew he should have reached the forest days ago.

  As the fourth day dawned, he at last saw the trees before him. Unbeknown to him, it was the wrong forest—the western Dobunni forest—yet a desperate Raedwald entered it with hope, convincing himself he had found the eastern woods. Close to collapse, he squelched through puddles of silver rain, occasionally falling to his knees to drink from them as his strength ebbed away. By midday, he feared he would die. His belly was hollow and his energy depleted. Kneeling against a gnarled and ancient ash, he fell immediately to sleep, his contorted, slavering face pressed against the grey bark.

  ‘Whaa—‘ He awoke with a start when kicked from the tree.

  ‘Why have you entered this forest?’

  A man dressed as a hunter and carrying a stout stick had delivered the question in Celtic.

  Raedwald sat on the forest floor and blinked away his confusion as he looked upwards to the man. Behind the man stood two others, similarly attired.

  ‘I ... I ... do not understand your language,’ uttered Raedwald. ‘I am not of these—‘

  On hearing his tongue, the men became noisy and animated, drowning out the rest of his reply. They looked down on him—their faces betraying anger.

  They dragged him upwards. Raedwald guessed his end was near when a tensioned bow was thrust a finger’s width from his face. He winced as he awaited the arrow’s delivery, but the first man was to stay the archer’s arm.

  Again, a lively discourse ranged between the men, and Raedwald sensed they had different ideas about how to deal with him. Eventually, he was dragged away from the tree and his arms bound behind him. One of the men went to his pack and removed a piece of dried salmon from it. He thrust the fish into Raedwald’s mouth.

  Three days passed as Raedwald was pushed before the men, firstly through the forest then along the stony roads of the cleared land beyond. Midway through the morning of the fourth day the ringfort came into view. Spread beyond it was the grey sea. Raedwald now knew that he was on the wrong side of Britannia.

  Four further days were to pass as Raedwald lived on his nerves in his cell in the ringfort. On his first day, they had attempted to clean him somewhat and thrown buckets of cold water over him. Rough sacking had been his towel, and Raedwald had nursed the hope that if they wanted him clean, they wanted him alive. Later that morning the reason for their clemency became apparent when a hag of a woman entered the cell. With her were two guards who insisted he lay down and undressed. Raedwald had complied, knowing he had no choice. The woman had then told the men to leave and had lifted her dress and sat upon him. In spite of himself Raedwald had become hard and the woman had ridden him to orgasm, both hers and his.

  Raedwald had flinched when the door had opened again. This time, though, it was a tall and imposing Briton who entered. The man spoke the Saxon tongue to him and asked him about Camulodunum. In particular, he inquired about his connections in the town. Raedwald had been unable to resist boasting of his importance and influence and the man had gone away pensive, yet seemingly satisfied.

  Almaith was to visit him five more times during the next two days and nights. Then, on the fifth morning of his imprisonment he was taken from his cell and marched into the hall of the ringfort.

  Guertepir now looked at him as if he had just crawled out of the ringfort’s cesspit. Two guards grasped Raedwald’s bound arms, immobilizing him. Guertepir waved the guards to take a step backwards.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Guertepir, his nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Perhaps I’ll be able to keep my wine down now.’ He looked to Cunedda who was standing nearby. ‘I’ll talk to him through you. How good is your Saxon?’

  ‘Good enough,’ said Cunedda. ‘We did trade with Saxony when I lived above the wall. I could get by then, I can get by now.’

  Guertepir nodded, satisfied, then looked Raedwald directly in the eye. ‘Cunedda tells me you have connections in Camulodunum, is that right?’

  Raedwald nodded his acquiescence. ‘Yes, my father was a fearless and respected leader and this gives me standing and influence in the town.’

  ‘And your father was?’

  ‘Egbert ... Egbert was his name.’

  Guertepir pursed his lips and frowned in the manner of a man trying to remember something. ‘Nah ... never heard of him,’ he said after a moment’s contemplation. ‘But no matter ... carry on.’

  ‘A warlord named Hrodgar was in the town when I left and he was gathering men for a raid into the lands beyond the ancient forest.’

  ‘How many men?’

&nb
sp; ‘Usually between forty or fifty for a slave raid.’

  Guertepir threw up his hand in exasperation as if to say forty or fifty, what good is that? He spoke directly to Cunedda. ‘Two thousand would help us, you said. That didn’t sound like two thousand to me.’

  ‘Keep with me on this,’ said Cunedda, who had been translating. He turned to Raedwald. ‘When we spoke the other day you said you would be able to persuade the warlords in Camulodunum to raise the quota we require for this war. Why do you now talk in such low numbers?’

  ‘I talk only of the numbers used on a small raid. Once you lure them with the promise of land in the southwest they’ll flock to you in droves.’

  ‘And you’re sure of this?’

  Raedwald, who had bought himself time and possibly his life with his promise, now played his trump card. ‘Yes, but only upon my introduction. By all means, show a presence to demonstrate you’re serious, but it would be madness for a British warlord to ride into Camulodunum without Saxon endorsement ... without my endorsement. At the very best you would be laughed out of town, at the very worst you would never leave the town.’

  ‘No. It seems more likely that you would be laughed out of town. Look at you, covered in grime and of obvious low status.’

  ‘You forget, my lord, that I would have you, and’—he nodded towards the impressive Diarmait who was standing beside Guertepir—‘him beside me to boost my status.’

  Guertepir, who had become impatient and hungry for news as he listened to the Germanic staccato, grabbed Cunedda’s arm. ‘Well?’ he pressed. ‘Stop gabbling in that devil’s tongue and tell me what he says.’

  Cunedda looked disdainfully at Guertepir’s hand upon his sleeve. He tugged his arm away and let his gaze linger a moment longer upon him before relating his conversation with Raedwald.

  When Cunedda had finished, Guertepir sighed, nodded slowly, then sighed again. ‘I just hope we are not kicking over a basket of vipers, but I will go with your plan. The extra two thousand men will make a difference, but that must be it: two thousand only; if more of the bastards come they’ll want everything.’