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

by Atkinson, F J

  Augustus, far from won over, replied: ‘Yes, I know, I cut off his master’s head ... remember.’ He pointed at the mastiff which continued to look at them with trusting eyes. ‘And that vicious fiend probably ate him.’

  ‘Come, then, we’ll leave,’ said Withred, hoping their visit to the amphitheater had somehow helped Augustus.

  Outside, they mounted their horses and continued down the track towards Norwic. Augustus was at first contemplative and lugubrious as he rode beside Withred, but his silence was short lived. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ he said, as he tilted his head back to the track behind them.

  Loping along twenty paces to their rear, the dog had decided its fortunes would be better served, its belly better filled, by latching on to the two travellers.

  Withred could only smile. ‘At least it doesn’t want to eat us, Gus. Leave it be, it wishes us no harm. The exercise will do it good and we’ll soon leave it behind.’

  Augustus gave a sceptical grunt and heeled his pony into a fast trot. Withred reciprocated, and soon Griff’s villa came into view. From a distance, it looked no different from the place Augustus had ridden from a year earlier.

  ‘Two women—Griff’s servants—patched me up after I returned here after my struggle,’ said Augustus. ‘They told me they would survive without Griff, but I’ve often wondered what became of them.’

  ‘Maybe they still dwell here,’ said Withred. ‘The place certainly looks habitable. We may as well take a look while we’re passing.’

  ‘Why not,’ said Augustus as he tore down the track. ‘It seems you intend to drag me to every place of my nightmares.’

  As he neared the villa, Augustus realised its pristine condition had suffered noticeably since his last visit. The gates, always kept shut by Griff, now hung agape. One of them, having come off its lower hinge, had dropped to the floor and jammed into the mud, becoming immovable. Vegetation, stripped of its summer foliage, grew from cracks in the rendered walls—something the fastidious Griff would never have tolerated. With instincts prickling, the men halted before the gateway.

  ‘Better if we enter quietly,’ cautioned Withred as he dismounted, ‘… leave the horses outside.’

  Their feet had just touched the ground when the dog arrived. ‘Quiet might not be possible with this around our ankles,’ grumbled Augustus. ‘Stay here!’ He pointed his command at the mastiff. The dog sat, its ears pricked, its body attentive, as it awaited further instruction.

  ‘Looks like it’s got a new master,’ said Withred as he took in the scene. ‘Come ... let’s see if the women still live here, but let’s have our wits about us.’

  His call for a cautious approach proved wise. The villa consisted of a perfect square of structures surrounding an inner courtyard. Augustus and Withred lingered at the gates, looking in. Across a dusty, leaf-strewn square, stood six Saxon ponies.

  A woman’s scream came from a room Augustus guessed to be Griff’s one-time opulent apartment. Withred made to move forward.

  Augustus immediately read his intent. ‘No! We don’t have the time and those ponies tell me we’re outnumbered.’

  Withred paused and peered into the courtyard. He grudgingly shrugged his agreement. ‘I suppose not. We’re no use to Arthur killed or wounded.’

  ‘Quietly then; on your mount and let’s get back on the road.’ Augustus moved from the gate and led his horse away. He noticed the mastiff still sitting to command awaiting his instruction. ‘And you ... you piss off!’ He passed it by and when ten paces from the gates, pulled himself onto his pony. Withred was beside him instantly. At a slow trot, and with the dog following, they headed towards the Norwic road. Before they had gone any distance, a child’s scream sounded from the villa.

  Both turned in their saddles. Augustus looked at Withred, Withred at Augustus. ‘I can’t ride away from this,’ said Withred. ‘It’s not me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Augustus as he halted his horse.

  Ohtrad had become bored with winter and yearned for the raiding season to begin again. He was also bored with the whores of Norwic. Consequently, he had persuaded four of his friends—had dared them, even—to travel with him to the old amphitheater. The place was haunted, he knew that, but being scared shitless was better than being bored shitless as far as he was concerned.

  As for his companions: they were a worthless bunch on the periphery of Angle society. They were men content to follow others as long as they got a reasonable share of the spoils, and a second or third go at the women on the raids.

  Their journey to the amphitheater took them past the villa. Ohtrad was aware of the tale. Griff, as well as his champion, had been found dead on the floor of the arena. Their ghosts were said to haunt the place, adding a further thrill to the adventure.

  It was Swithulf, an unkempt man of dubious personal hygiene, who first saw the woman outside the villa gates. Olive skinned and dark haired, she had left the courtyard to empty a jar of laundry water into a swath of shrubbery outside the gates. Swithulf had immediately grabbed Ohtrad’s tunic sleeve and pointed her out.

  Ohtrad then decided upon a change of plan. Unlike the worn-out whores of Norwic and Camulodunum, this woman was a beauty—a Roman beauty by the look of her. He decided to abandon the trip to the amphitheater. Instead, they would ride into the villa and see what mischief they could make. He was aware he needed be cautious because what lay beyond the opening was anybody’s guess. He led his rag-tag group down to the gates, halted, and looked into the inner courtyard. Inside, he saw an old wagon hitched to a mule—a farmers rig by the look of it. Confident that no nasty surprises awaited them he had entered the compound.

  To his surprise, and delight, he discovered the woman was not alone. Another of similar beauty also resided at the villa. Both had nervously approached his group asking the nature of their business. Still cautious, Ohtrad lied to her, telling her his party required water. The women, visibly relieved, headed for the villa’s well.

  Meanwhile, Swithulf dismounted and sauntered to the mule and wagon. Beyond the rig, he saw an open door … heard voices. Furtively, he had sidled up to the ingress and looked inside. Within the room, a peasant sat with his wife and daughter; the girl being no older than thirteen years. Swithulf had then signalled Ohtrad and the others to get moving.

  As the Angles whooped their spontaneous cry of delight and anticipation, the olive-skinned women ran to the gates, but Penda and Waldhere (two more of Ohtrad’s cohorts) were soon to catch them. Upon hearing the commotion, the farmer—a Briton who had broken his journey to Norwic market to receive hospitality from the women—had edged outside to investigate the disturbance. Ohtrad, who by now realised just how he intended to spend the next few days, saw the farmer as nothing other than a hindrance. Callously, he had slid from his horse, run to the man, and stabbed him repeatedly with his dagger.

  Ohtrad, with the help of Swithulf and the fifth man, Frethi, had then turned his attention to the farmer’s wife and daughter who had emerged from Griff’s apartment after hearing the commotion. Appalled at their discovery, they screamed out their grief and fear, their stricken looks wavering between the farmer and the men who approached them.

  Ohtrad, Swithulf and Frethi had manhandled them back into the room just as Penda and Waldhere arrived with the other two terrified women. Ohtrad had secured the door and sat down against the outer wall of the room.

  Three days passed, during which time the Angles raped and beat the females. Always drunk from their own ale, as well as the jugs of Gaul wine they found at the villa, the men had defiled the women in every imaginable way until their liquor-sodden bodies had become spent of their seed. Then, they slept, but upon awakening began the abuse all over again.

  Bare-chested and wearing just his filthy hose, Swithulf now lurched towards the door that adjoined his room. He said: ‘The young wench, I think I’ll have the young wench next; she tickles my fancy she does.’

  Waldhere, who lay slumped against the back wall of the apartment
nursing a jug of wine, snorted his derision at Swithulf. ‘Tickles your fancy because there’s no struggle in her, that’s why.’ He belched and looked towards the adjoining door as Swithulf opened it. ‘Come to think of it,’ he slurred, ‘they’ve all lost their fight now ... they just look at you with those dead eyes, they do ... gives me the shivers, it does.’

  Against the opposite wall, Ohtrad, Frethi and Penda, who were having a break from their relentless assaults on the women, directed their bleary gaze towards Waldhere.

  Ohtrad then grunted to his knees, ready to gain his feet and follow Swithulf. ‘Glad they don’t fight it anymore,’ he mumbled. ‘Don’t think I’ve the strength left to fight back.’

  A disparaging cackle came from Frethi, who slapped the wall and pointed at Ohtrad. ‘Ha ... Ha, Ha ... too weak to fight a woman ... what chance would you have against Arthur and his Britons.’

  Swithulf left the drunken exchange in his wake as he stumbled into the adjoining room. Before him, the four women, naked and filthy, shrank against the wall. Seeing Swithulf make towards her daughter again, the mother screamed at him. ‘NO!—NO MORE! Haven’t you had enough. Leave her be. She is already torn and bleeding. What use can she be to you!’

  Swithulf met the woman as she rose to meet him. He grabbed her wrists as she came at him, struggling briefly with her. After disentangling himself, he delivered a slap across her jaw; a clout delivered with all the venom he could muster.

  As the woman fell stunned onto the floor, the other two women formed a protective cocoon around the girl.

  ‘What the …’ Ohtrad had entered the room, ready to resume his depravity. He took in the scene. Swithulf was standing in front of the crouching women, his hose down to his knees as he masturbated before them. Ohtrad pushed him to one side. ‘Lazy bastard—scared of a bit of a struggle.’ he muttered. Now he ogled the girl, who shrank from him. He threw his next remark over his shoulder at Swithulf. ‘Watch ... and don’t squirt over me or I’ll cut your cock off.’ He crouched and grabbed the girl’s arm. ‘Let me show you how it’s—‘

  Spontaneously, the women screamed as Withred slipped into the room from the outer door. Without preamble, he was upon Ohtrad, who had stopped mid-crouch and let go of the girl. Anticipating a fight at close quarters, Withred had armed himself with his dagger before entering. He thrust it into Ohtrad’s gaping mouth.

  As quickly as the knife was in, he removed it and turned to Swithulf who was standing transfixed as an alarming pounding and snarling came from the other room. Such was the speed of his next attack, that Withred struck Swithulf before Ohtrad had fallen dead on the floor behind him.

  Dispassionately, Withred thrust his dagger under Swithulf’s sternum and into his heart—the power of the movement raising the abuser from his feet. He removed the blade, allowing Swithulf to drop beside Ohtrad. Seething, he strode to the adjoining door.

  Earlier, Withred and Augustus had decided to take one room each. A furtive look into most of the rooms surrounding the courtyard, had left them with just two rooms to search. Augustus, aware of the layout of the villa from his previous visit, guessed the remaining room to be Griff’s adjoining apartment. He had silently signalled Withred to take the right-hand door.

  As Augustus took the other door, a movement at his thigh caused him to look down. Beside him stood the dog, sniffing out the room, unsure of its role. A hasty look around made it clear he had taken the room’s three occupants entirely by surprise.

  Frethi was wide-eyed with fear as he viewed the giant looming over him. He looked towards the adjoining door as if to escape through it. Augustus remembered the dog. ’KILL!’ he snapped, and pointed at Frethi. Now fully aware of its role, the dog went to work on him, and as the snarling and tearing began, Augustus turned to Waldhere and Penda who had risen to meet him.

  Penda, still drunk, fumbled for his knife. Augustus, who was weaponless, lost no time in meeting him. His powerful slap, landing palm first against Penda’s face, served to slam his head into the wall. Penda slid down it, unconscious.

  Meanwhile Waldhere, intimidated by Augustus, had decided to run. He managed to slip past him and reach the door. Aware his man was getting away, Augustus reached down and pulled the dog from Frethi’s face. He pushed it towards the door recently departed by Waldhere. This time the mastiff needed no instruction from Augustus and bounded outside. In was upon Waldhere in five strides, knocking him to the ground.

  Augustus turned to the adjoining door just as Withred stepped through it. The Angle’s hollow-eyed look told its own tale, prompting Augustus to peer into the room. He saw the women, naked and wretched. Then he saw what they had done to the girl. He hitched his breath at the sight, just as Penda’s groan evinced his returning consciousness.

  Ashen, Augustus turned to him. ‘A man are you?’ he snarled. Grabbing Penda’s neck, he dragged him upright as if weightless. His voice now poured from him like ice melt from a fissure. ‘Makes you feel good‘—he slammed Penda’s head against the wall—‘treating women like offal’—again, he slammed the head—‘stripping them naked’—three more slams and Penda’s head started to split—‘and leaving them to spend the rest of their lives’—four more and Penda’s head came apart—‘with only’—slam—‘your ugly face’— slam—‘left in their memories.’

  ‘I think he’s dead, Gus; his brains are all over the wall.’ Withred pulled at Augustus’ thick arm. Augustus glanced at him, then dropped what was left of Penda.

  ‘I’m ashamed to say they are Angles like me,’ added Withred. ‘My folk have started to settle the lands north of Camulodunum and many now reside in Norwic.’

  ‘Not like you at all,’ said Augustus, still breathless after his raging demolition of Penda. ‘No … these were lowlifes ... renegades; I’m sure many good people reside amongst the settlers, just as there are simple, Saxon folk wanting to get on with their lives. Godwine and his family in Londinium are such people.’

  A movement from behind had them turn. Naked and filthy from his debauchery, Frethi was still alive. The dog had opened his face, leaving a meaty mish-mash of skin flaps. His exposed teeth grinned strangely at them from his lipless mouth. He turned his remaining eye—the other being glutinous and shredded—towards them. He attempted a sentence, but only a ‘gheesh,’ came from him.

  ‘I guess he wants us to finish him,’ deduced Withred.

  Augustus thought of how many children men like him had orphaned. ‘What ... and deprive him of his new role as a beggar on the streets of Norwic where he’ll be pissed, spat and shat on. No. I think not, my friend.’

  Withred grabbed Frethi under his armpit and hauled him outside. ’First things first, then,’ he said. ‘Can’t show him to the women, though. They don’t need to see this.’ He dragged Frethi, who had barely the strength to stand, across the courtyard. There, he observed the dog; saw it feeding upon Waldhere. ‘Gus,’ he shouted as he passed the mauling. ‘Your dog’s eating fresh meat out here. Perhaps you’d like to take it in hand; make sure it doesn’t go looking for a second course.’

  My dog, thought Augustus with some exasperation. Since when did that killer become my dog?

  Withred continued with Frethi until he reached the gate. ‘Out with you,’ he said as he pushed him on to the track outside the villa. ‘Keep going until you get to Norwic. If anyone asks what happened to you, and you can manage a reply, tell them you’re a fiend and that you got your comeuppance.’

  Frethi stumbled away and Withred returned to the courtyard. ‘I’ll attend to the women,’ he said to Augustus, who was kneeling by the dog, having dragged it from its feast. A blood-soaked linen sheet lay over Waldhere.

  Withred stuck his head inside the room containing the women. Terrified, they still crouched, huddled and naked. With deference to their modesty, he averted his gaze as he addressed them. ‘We mean you no harm,’ he reassured. ‘You’ve no need to fear me or my companion. In fact, two of you already know him, but for now I’ll find you clothes to wear, then you can
go to the bathhouse. I’ve no doubt you can’t wait to wash away the filth of those men.’

  Two hours later, Augustus and Withred were able to sit with the women. Having no desire to return to the room of their ordeal, they had settled in the apartment previously used by Griff’s man, Ambrosius.

  Augustus sat with his arms around the shoulders of Cassia and Junia, the two women from Rome—the same women who had helped dress his wounds the previous year after he had suffered his trial at the arena. Augustus knew they needed his help now; realised they could no longer live at the villa. There, they would be exposed to other wayward men; other Ohtrads and the like.

  The farmer’s wife and daughter sat with Withred. The Angle had taken the girl’s hands in his and spoken softly to her. He had explained to her that not all men were bad. He had reminded her of her father whom they had removed from the courtyard and who now lay swathed in a clean linen sheet awaiting his burial. “Judge men by him, not by the people who hurt you,” he had whispered. The mother, too, he had comforted, taking her head upon his shoulder as her grief poured outwards.

  Augustus glanced at Withred and considered the man; reflected on what a riddle he was. That he was capable of love and compassion was obvious; he could see that for himself at that very moment. Yet, a fiercer or more adept adversary he had never seen. The man was cold, brutal and cynical when faced with an antagonist. Why such a warrior had once ridden with the raiders, he would never know, but Augustus had to agree with Dominic’s assessment on the matter. He had put it: “Better to have Withred inside your cave pissing out, than outside your cave pissing in.”