Withred touched Augustus’ arm, ending his ponderings. ‘Gus, we must leave. We have a sea journey and task ahead of us, and time is running out.’
Augustus’ glance conveyed both his acceptance and concern. He took Junia’s hand in his. ‘Outside, my love, are Saxon ponies, provisioned for two weeks. Remember my directions. Twelve days should get you to Brythonfort if all goes well. There, you will meet a man named Arthur, the same man who some people in these parts talk about as if he is a God. Listen to me Junia’—she met Augustus’ eyes as he pulled her hand to his chest—‘Arthur is not a God but he is a good man; a little stern, but good nonetheless. Tell him who you are. Tell him you are the women who saved Gus when he came to you injured last year. Tell him what happened here and explain that Withred and Gus are well and on their way to Angeln. Then he will let you into Brythonfort where you will be given shelter.’
Provisioned for the journey to Brythonfort, the Saxon ponies stamped and snorted in the courtyard. The sad assembly went to them, and after a brief and emotional farewell the three women and girl rode through the gates of the villa.
Augustus and Withred pulled themselves up on to their own well-provisioned horses and took one last look around. Titon was standing at the feet of Augustus’ horse, for Titon was the dog’s name—that he had learned from Junia. ‘I don’t think I ever want to come to this place again,’ he said.
‘Me neither. Let’s hope the rest of our journey isn’t as lively,’ said Withred as he heeled his horse into a trot out of the compound and headed for the port of Norwic.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gherwan and Murdoc rode over the elevated wooden boarding on their journey to Travena. To persuade Ffodor and his eighteen hundred men to join Arthur’s cause would be their task. Two days earlier, they had left Brythonfort and since then clattered over many such causeways—the wide network of structures providing dry footing for the horses over the sodden ground of the Levels. Indeed, the causeways were a common feature of the land, and crisscrossed it and provided raised passageways between the outcrops of higher ground.
These islands, which stood proud of the terrain, were the site of random habitations in the area. Here, the local people, who supported themselves by hunting and fishing in the marshes, were friendly to both Arthur and Ffodor. Most were happy to live on land governed by the two renowned lords, aware that their proximity to them meant protection.
As the low sun dipped to the horizon, marking the end of their second day, Gherwan and Murdoc eased their horses off the causeway and on to dry ground. Gherwan surveyed the topography ahead of him. ‘There should be no more marshes now,’ he said. ‘By this time tomorrow we’ll have reached Travena.’
Murdoc drew himself deeper into his hooded cloak as the thin wind threw its grey February drizzle at them. ‘And I for one will be glad to arrive at the place,’ he said as he peered up at the darkening sky. ‘We need to make camp now, though, before this rain soaks us through.’
Later, an orange fire hissed beside them as they sat upon their bed packs beneath an outcrop of hazel. Murdoc had entwined the branches above them, just as Dominic had taught him, forming a canopy which served to protect them from the worst of the downpour.
Occasionally, a drip of silver rain would find its way through the tangled wickerwork and fall upon Gherwan’s shoulder-length, grey hair. Murdoc regarded him as he warmed his hands on the fire. As Arthur’s oldest captain, the warrior commanded extensive respect from all in south-west Britannia. Eloquent and tactful, he had been that natural choice to tackle the tricky diplomacy expected at Travena. Like Arthur, he had ridden for Rome and fought the Saxons and other invaders on countless occasions. Murdoc had heard many tales of Gherwan’s exploits on the battlefield. Fifty years old you may be, he thought, but still I should not like to cross you.
Gherwan, who could sense Murdoc’s scrutiny, turned to him. ‘You seem distracted, Mur. Do you worry about tomorrow?’
Murdoc threw a twig onto the fire and watched as it ignited and flared. ‘Not worried so much; more fearful that Ffodor’s grudge doesn’t stop him sending help to Brythonfort.’
One year gone, Ffodor had travelled to Brythonfort with his daughter, Marcia. Named after the wife of a Roman general he once knew, Marcia was the apple of Ffodor’s eye. As far as he was concerned, she could do no wrong. However, years of overindulgence and spoiling had ruined her, resulting in the development of a petulant and demanding young woman. Ffodor’s guards, especially his handsome captain, Rogan, were often disturbed from their sleep by Marcia, because as well as having an appetite for fine wines, golden ornamentation and expensive clothing of the Roman style—and Ffodor made sure she was not lacking in any of these—Marcia also had a taste (a voracious appetite, in fact) for sex; and much to his exhaustion and utter dismay Rogan was soon to discover this.
He dreaded the night visits from Marcia because she was a plain, unclean girl—her love of feasting and drinking having transformed her from a slender adolescent, to an overweight frump of a woman. Her father’s genes had ensured her face would never adorn a Greek vase, and even in an age of grubby bodies, her reluctance to enter clean water meant that anyone in her company would discretely turn away and silently gag.
Yet Rogan had no choice but to service her, Marcia having made it clear that if he refused she would tell her father he had entered her chambers in the night and forcibly taken her.
So when she arrived at Brythonfort, Marcia was already carrying a child—most probably Rogan’s if the frequency of her nocturnal visits was anything to go by. At the fort, she had noticed Flint and immediately forgotten about Rogan. In fact, she had become besotted with him, although he was haplessly unaware of it. But as the days passed, the zealous Flint, who was preoccupied with his duties and patrols for Arthur, could not help but become aware that Marcia always sought his attention, whether alone or in a crowd. Yet Flint felt no attraction at all towards Marcia, always making his excuses when cornered by her.
Inevitably, she had become cross with him. She was accustomed to having her own way, but here in Brythonfort people behaved differently. One night she decided to enter Flint’s sleeping quarters. There, she slipped naked under his sheets as he slept. Flint had awoken astounded and horrified, and shoved her from his bed. Covering her with his gown, he guided her to his door. From there, she ran screaming towards her father’s bedroom. A disturbance erupted and a furious Ffodor summoned Arthur. Arthur sent for Flint and listened as Marcia accused Flint of wrongdoing. Flint vehemently denied Marcia’s accusation of rape, facing up to Ffodor who was intent on retribution. Ffodor called for his guards, Arthur for his, and a standoff occurred.
Arthur took Flint to one side, away from the commotion, and spoke to him alone. He told his version and Arthur believed him. He knew his man, having worked closely with him since his arrival at Brythonfort as a raw-boned adolescent; knew Flint to be sound of character and true to his word. Besides, Flint had already told Arthur of Marcia’s unwanted attention towards him and although they laughed over this at the time, Arthur had advised him to keep his distance.
After his conversation with Flint, Arthur returned to Ffodor, who still seethed and demanded action over the matter. Arthur told him that as far as he was concerned Flint was innocent of any wrongdoing, and in his opinion Marcia was acting out of spite because Flint had spurned her. Unable to accept that his daughter was capable of such bad behaviour, Ffodor was outraged and again demanded punishment—even execution—for Flint. Arthur was having none of it, and after another hour of arguing and threats, Ffodor had stormed from Brythonfort with his entourage.
Gherwan was pursed-lipped and thoughtful as he looked into the dancing flames. After a moment, he said: ‘Aye, it would be a grim outcome if Ffodor decides to let personal matters guide him on his decision.’ He studied Murdoc, who still stared, transfixed, into the fire. He felt that Arthur had been wise to choose the Trinovantian for this trip—the man having witnessed the destruction of his villa
ge and the slaughter of his loved ones. Murdoc knew what the Saxons were capable of. If anyone could persuade Ffodor to put personal differences aside for a greater cause, then Murdoc could.
The next day, the cold rain, helped along by a gusting wind, needled straight into their faces. By mid-afternoon they sat soaked in their saddles. ‘Damn this winter,’ grumbled Gherwan, hand to brow, straining to see through the wall of water. ‘The marshes were bad enough, but at least we were dry most of the time. I’ve never know a season as wet as—‘
‘Ahead,’ interrupted Murdoc, whose younger eyes had the better of Gherwan’s. ‘There! Atop the headland.’
Gherwan, squinting and grimacing, soon recognised the shape of a huge wooden palisade. ‘That’s it, I’m certain it is,’ he shouted. ‘Travena is before us; I’m as sure as I can be in this murk.’
Another half mile of wet travel confirmed Gherwan’s assurance. As they approached from the south-east, Travena towered high above them, its loftiness accentuated by the rocky outcrop upon which it sat. Towering spikes of timber, fashioned from entire trees, formed the walls of the hillfort. Wet, dripping and massive, they projected an air of sombre impenetrability. Soon they approached the entrance where, huddled within the sheltered passageway between the inner and outer gates, two sentinels stood.
‘Seem an indifferent bunch,’ said Murdoc as he noticed how their arrival had only stirred mild interest from the guards.
‘That’s years of living under the protection of Rome for you, then years of not having been troubled further,’ said Gherwan as he slid from his horse to meet Ffodor’s men who now sauntered towards them.
‘Your business here?’ demanded the first guard.
‘To meet with your lord, Ffodor,’ said Gherwan. ‘Tell him Gherwan has arrived to speak with him.’
The guard’s eyebrows shot up upon hearing the name. Like most of the people of the southwestern peninsular he had grown up with tales of Arthur and his knights, many of whom (Gherwan included) had assumed a legendary status. Without preamble, he left to convey his news to Ffodor.
‘What? He sends his lackey? He has not the grace to come himself! The temerity of the man!’ Ffodor’s dark eyes blazed under his bushy, unkempt eyebrows as he stamped across the hall. Beside the hall’s timber table, sat the rooms only other occupant: a plump young woman of nineteen who was preoccupied with breast-feeding her baby.
Marcia looked up moodily as the snuffling infant continued to gnaw at her breast. ‘For God’s sake, papa, get them in and listen to what they have to say.’
‘The dungeons—I’ve a good mind to have them thrown into the dungeons,’ shouted Ffodor. ‘After what Arthur’s bastard knight did to you, they deserve to wallow in the shit of the caves of Travena.’
‘Just get them in here,’ repeated the girl, weary now. ‘Perhaps they bring news that will please you.’
‘Please me, I very much doubt it.’ He tapped his beaky nose conspiratorially and gave a crafty wink. ‘If I know Arthur, he’ll want something. Oh, yes, he’s sent them because he wants my help.’ He fingered the twisted-gold torque around his neck as he paused for thought, then turned to the guard who lingered outside the hall. ‘Well? Why do you stand there? Get them,’ he snapped. ‘Oh, and tell your companion to get some of my men in here while you’re at it.’
The son of a wealthy merchant, Ffodor had spent his childhood in the trading town of Isca, some sixty miles east of Travena. Originally, a Roman port, the town still held a position of strategic importance, providing, as it did, the main ingress into the southwestern lands of Britannia. Consequently, Ffodor was to enjoy an upbringing of privilege as his family became wealthy upon the trade flowing through the town. Marcius, Ffodor’s father, had ensured his only son would want for nothing, and when aged only seven, the boy was put under the pupilage of Justus—a Roman Legatus and accomplished warrior.
Marcius paid Justus much gold to teach his son the art of Roman warfare. His wealth also financed a small force of local men and youths, and he formed his own militia in the town. Ffodor and the other recruits were to meet several times a week by the open spaces of the dockyard, where Justin, along with twenty of his legionaries, would put them through vigorous training—both individually and as a group. For five years the drills continued until the small British force had no equal in the area.
When Ffodor came of age, he led his men, alongside Roman scouting parties, throughout Southeastern Britannia to meet the increasing upsurge of invaders from the continent. For ten years he fought Saxon, Angle and Jute, often standing beside Arthur. In 410 AD Rome finally withdrew from Britannia and Ffodor and Arthur returned to their southwestern lands.
When back at Isca, Ffodor, a serious and industrious man, yearned for his independence from his father and approached him asking to relocate and set up his own trading outlet. Marcius agreed, and after a quest for a suitable site, they found a village on a headland on the northern coast of the southwest peninsular. Named Travena meaning village on a mountain, the promontory would be easy to defend, and adaptable as a port from where Ffodor could amass his own personal wealth. Along with his small army, he relocated to Travena and began to build its high timber walls.
It did not take long before Ffodor had to repel his first attack from the Cornovii tribe from the deep southwest of the peninsular. Not surprisingly, Ffodor’s army, fighting the Roman way, was able to fend off the fierce woad-daubed Cornovii—a territorial people who took exception to strangers relocating near their lands. From that day, Ffodor, who knew never to underestimate an enemy, had held the Cornovii in respect. Although tactically naïve compared to his own force, they had nevertheless fought with extreme courage and resilience.
The defeat of the Cornovii brought respite to Ffodor and he was able to finish off the strengthening of Travena. Now he was a Lord, and his revenue began to pour through the dockside of the port sprawled below his cliffs. To the people of the surrounding villages he became a welcome addition. As a high Lord he would protect them as they went about their daily lives. A firm but fair man as well—one who listened with patience to any disputes and ruled accordingly.
Ffodor’s prosperity had then grown, along with his army, until he commanded a force big enough to repel potential attacks from the Saxon hordes.
Gherwan and Murdoc now followed the guard across the open space between the gates and the hall. Against the huge wall to their right, a large lean-to provided shelter to a group of seventy horses. In front of this, a number of men sparred in the failing light. The shouting of an instructor echoed around the inner compound, his cries reverberant and solitary.
‘He appears to keep his men in good shape,’ said Gherwan. ‘I was afraid complacency may have settled after the peaceful years they’ve had down here.’ He turned his attention from the knights and lowered his voice an octave as they neared the doors. ‘Remember to show deference to him,’ he advised. ‘Do not forget that Ffodor is as great a king as Arthur, although without Arthur’s common touch. Unlike Arthur, this man expects reverence and attention. When we enter the hall, do as—‘
They paused as the compound became silent. The drill instructor had stopped his shouting. Looking across, they could see why. The other guard had approached him and after a hurried conversation, the trainer and twelve other men ran across the open ground towards them.
‘Seems like he wants his men around him,’ mused Murdoc. ‘Wants to show us a bit of force, maybe.’
They reached the doors and the guard led them into the brand-lit hall. Murdoc coughed a little as he inhaled the oily smoke. Before him, standing with his hand on the shoulder of a young woman who sat before him, stood a tall commanding man. Vulture-like, with his beady, piercing eyes and prominent nose, Ffodor was dressed in an ankle-length, brocade tunic. A black bearskin covered his shoulders, complimenting the lightweight, fur stole of the woman before him.
‘With me,’ said Gherwan as he grabbed Murdoc’s sleeve and dropped to one knee before Ffodor.
As Rogan strode to Ffodor’s side, Gherwan and Murdoc got to their feet. Murdoc gave a quick glance towards Marcia who stroked the cheek of her baby. Both of her breasts were on show as the infant nuzzled at her—a situation that concerned her not at all. She noticed Murdoc’s brief attention, noticed he had penetrating, green eyes and a handsome head. She flickered a coquettish smile towards him before casting her eyes downwards to the baby again. Murdoc averted his gaze and looked to Gherwan.
‘Our news is grim, indeed, high lord,’ said Gherwan in the way of introduction. ‘Men gather in numbers to the north and east; men intent of breaking the peace that lies upon these lands.’
‘So Arthur has sent you to elicit my help, I take it,’ said Ffodor, glancing to his man, Rogan, who reciprocated his expression of astonishment. ‘The same man who stands up for the worthless knight who impregnated my daughter has the temerity to send his people here.’ He gave an incredulous little chuckle. Rogan, ever keen to please his lord, responded likewise.
‘If you’ll hear me out, high lord,’ said Gherwan, aware that his diplomatic skills were about to be put to their severest test, ‘then I feel you would at least understand why we travelled so far to reach your impressive stronghold.’
Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 64
