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

by Atkinson, F J

  Ffodor paused a moment as he took in Gherwan’s statement, then said emphatically: ‘More like why Arthur has not had the grace to come himself.’ Before Gherwan could respond, Ffodor waggled his fingers at him with some impatience. ‘No ... never mind. Just tell your tale, so I can either send you on your way like whipped curs or put you in chains for having the gall to ask me for help.’

  Gherwan continued. He told of the gathering of Hibernian and British forces. Of the suspected allegiance they sought with the Saxon invaders in the east. How between four and six thousand men were expected to swarm into the western peninsular. He speculated that Aquae Sulis was the natural target and the gateway into the protected lands. That Arthur would be outnumbered was inevitable. Ffodor and his resources had to help, reasoned Gherwan. This was not just Arthur’s fight.

  Inscrutable, Ffodor listened to Gherwan without interruption. When his account came to its conclusion, Ffodor walked back to the long timber table and sat on its edge, his hands behind him as he looked, pursed lipped and thoughtful, at the knight.

  After some moments, he said: ‘It seems you’ll be well and truly outnumbered without my help—by two-to-one or thereabouts.’

  ‘Aye, that is true,’ conceded Gherwan. ‘But if they outnumber us, they’ll come here and outnumber you, so doesn’t it make sense to meet them together?’

  ‘No—it does not. Their numbers will be fewer by the time they get to me. Arthur’s intervention and the sucking marshes will see to that. Here, I’ll be fresh, whilst they’ll be weak.’

  ‘They’ll also be battle-hardened and keen,’ pushed Gherwan.

  Ffodor ignored Gherwan’s observation. Instead, he turned to Murdoc. ‘And what of you? What is your role here?’

  ‘My role, high lord,’ said Murdoc quietly, disliking the man’s tone, ‘is to explain to you what can happen when Saxon ambition is left unchecked.’

  ‘You think I don’t know what they can do? Do not forget I killed the bastards when riding for Rome.’

  ‘And in doing so, you sheltered the isle from them. But Rome has gone, and because the eastern lands lacked a champion they fell to the Saxons, just as these lands will fall if the lords become complacent.’

  ‘Become complacent,’ spat Ffodor. He glanced at Rogan again, the look conveying, Listen to this peasant, he comes to my hall and tries to tell me how to govern my lands! In response, Rogan shook his head with disbelieving dismay. ‘You are telling me I’m complacent; you who stand there, from God-knows-where ... from some guttersnipe tribe from the eastern lands.’

  ‘I come from a village flattened by them,’ said Murdoc hotly. ‘I was the only survivor along with my daughter! So, yes, I come from nowhere, great Lord—NOWHERE! Because my home has been taken from me.’

  Gherwan shot a warning look towards Murdoc. Having noticed Ffodor’s reaction, he was aware his companion’s outburst had made an impact, but now was the time to tone down his address. The glance was not lost upon Murdoc, who continued with less heat. ‘You see, because we had no Lord to protect us, we were left open to attack. I fled to the vast eastern woods with my child, and we would have perished if not found by Dominic.’

  Rogan spoke for the first time. ‘His name has become famous, even here. An accomplished woodsman, I am told, who helped defeat a raiding party in the woods some two years ago.’

  ‘Yes, that is he. I rode with him and we were able to kill them all because of Dominic’s guile and Withred’s tactical expertise.’

  ‘Again, you utter a name known to us. A man said to be brutal in combat, yet a traitor to his own people.’

  ‘A traitor to rape and torture, rather,’ defended Murdoc. ‘Yes ... he is brutal to wrongdoers, but he is also a man of good character, and a man unquestioningly loyal to Arthur.’

  Ffodor spoke. ‘So you’ve already proven you can defeat them’—a disdainful curl came to his lip—‘even with help from one of them it seems. Back then, you had no Lord to protect you. Now you have Arthur, so should be invincible. Why bother me with this?’

  ‘Because we defeated no more than thirty men that day and met them on equal terms. Now we could be crushed. You’ve already said we’d be in trouble without you, and be outnumbered by two-to-one.’

  ‘Well?’ said Ffodor. ‘What of it?’

  ‘This lord: The Saxon raiders are a vicious pack who will not stop until they reach the southwestern coast. Then their occupation of the south will be complete. In taking these lands, they‘ll leave no village untouched. That’s what they do: they strike fear into the people and drive them away; the lucky ones, that is—the souls who are not killed or enslaved.’ Murdoc’s eyes blazed with a fervent passion as he again recalled his ordeal. ‘I was such a man, I got away, and sometimes I wish I had not. What they did to my wife I will not even try to tell you, and it happened before my eyes, and God help me before the eyes of my infant child. If it were not for her I would have ended my own life that day, but I didn’t’—he cast a glance at Marcia; a look not lost upon Ffodor—‘because my little girl needed me, just as all daughters need the protection of their fathers.’

  ‘And I will protect mine ... when the time comes,’ said Ffodor emphasising every word.

  Gherwan, who had allowed the impact of Murdoc’s passionate address to fall upon the room, sensed a change in Ffodor; but before he could add weight to the argument and win him over, Marcia spoke.

  ‘Why should you help them, father?’ She drew the infant from her and pulled the Roman stola she wore across her exposed breasts. All turned to her. ‘Do not forget how Arthur treated you—treated me!’ She looked to the side, her nod summoning a nursewoman from the shadows. The woman took the baby from her and left the hall. Marcia stood and joined the group who lingered beside the table. She shrugged further into the stola and fastened its silver-corded belt around her waist. ‘If he’s such a magnificent king then he will be able to handle this without help from us,’ she continued. ‘Do not go to him; he insulted me and now he clicks his fingers’—in emphasis, she clicked her own fingers—‘and expects us to gallop to his aid with an entire army.’ She turned to Rogan, her air defying him to disagree with her. ‘What say you, champion? Do you think your Lord should run to Arthur?’

  ‘You ask me … want my—‘ Rogan quavered. Having been won over by Gherwan and Murdoc, and accepting the core of their argument, Rogan had intended to offer his advice to Ffodor—to counsel him to help Arthur. Now, though, things had changed. Marcia’s stare had left him in no doubt she would make life difficult for him if he flouted her. What she had accused Flint of, she could also level at him, though this time it would be true. How she would do it and still get her father to abandon Arthur he did not know, but the threat was enough. He had no wish to be castigated and forced to leave Ffodor’s household.

  ‘Well?’ said Ffodor with strained patience. ‘Are you awake, Rogan? As my champion, I value your advice. Now spit it out, man!’

  ‘I—I—think it wise not to act hastily,’ he replied. ‘We don’t even know if these forces are hostile. But if they do come to attack Arthur, then let him meet them. Regardless of your past differences with him—for I think those should not have a bearing on this—Arthur must be left to cope with his own matters, like we dealt with ours recently.’ He had referred to an outbreak of unrest that had led to the far-western Cornovii tribe attacking some of Ffodor’s farmsteads and villages. Ffodor had contained the rebellion and driven the Cornovii back to their own territory.

  Gherwan intervened, speaking directly to Rogan. ‘You cannot compare a tribal dispute with what’s about to happen now,’ he reasoned. ‘A few savages bloodying the nose of Ffodor, your Lord, bears no resemblance to the carnage ready to erupt.’

  ‘See, father—the insults continue,’ burst in Marcia. ‘He demeans your achievements and would have it that your victory over the Cornovii was worthless.’

  ‘Enough—enough of this,’ said Ffodor, wandering over half a dozen things at once. ‘We are going round
in circles when the answer has been plain from the start,’ He turned to Rogan. ‘You were right when you said Arthur should be left to deal with his own matters, but wrong when you said our past difference have no bearing on this—for they indeed do matter to me.’ He regarded Murdoc now. ‘I listened to what you said, and your account was indeed harrowing. The tale served its purpose—the purpose being I will not now throw the pair of you into my caves, for I think that you, man, have suffered enough, and never let it be said that Ffodor lacks in magnanimity.’

  ‘Not throw us in your caves,’ said Gherwan exasperated. ‘Is that the best you can do? The land is threatened and you think this will be resolved by not throwing us in your caves. What about helping us defend the liberty of Britannia.’ Gherwan’s tone now became pleading. ‘Ffodor, I beseech you; forget this—this personal dispute—there is much more at stake here.’

  Indignant, Ffodor replied: ‘NO! I am wronged and demand satisfaction on the matter before I will even consider raising the levy and sending men to Arthur.’

  ‘And meanwhile the armies march and prepare to move on us while we can muster only half their numbers. And ... “satisfaction on the matter” … what satisfaction do you seek?’

  ‘It’s simple. Send me the scoundrel who made me a grandfather. Send him here to Travena to accept his duties to my daughter and I might just spare him his head.’

  Gherwan was dismissive. ‘Out of the question. Flint is important to Arthur, and Arthur believes he has done no wrong and will not abandon him. Besides, the man is one of Arthur’s best knights and it would be madness to remove this man from the field in times such as these.’

  Ffodor’s demeanor became resolute. ‘Then I cannot help you. If Arthur is stupid enough to turn down my support because of his misplaced faith in one man, then so be it, this conversation is over.’ Ffodor’s twelve knights still stood by the door. He addressed them. ‘Take these men from Travena and get them on the road back to the Levels.’

  Gherwan attempted one last appeal. Looking at Rogan, he said: ‘I know you; we met briefly on a campaign, and I believe you to be a man of sound reason. Surely, you know what’s happening here.’ He flashed his eyes towards Marcia, aware that somehow she had influenced Rogan earlier. ‘Do not let others cloud your judgment, speak to your Lord. Try to persuade him on this.’

  Rogan, uncomfortable, remained silent as Marcia’s eyes bore into him. The guards approached Gherwan, took his arm, and started to pull him towards the door. Snatching it free, he blistered: ‘Hands off, I will go freely!’ Surrounded by the men, Gherwan and Murdoc walked from the hall.

  Ffodor shooed them away with his hands. ‘Out!—Out!—Get on your way and do not return. Tell Arthur that Ffodor does not easily forgive those who do him wrong. Those who call his child a liar.’

  As he was pushed through the door, Gherwan again appealed to Rogan. He turned and shouted: ‘Make him see sense, man. I know in your heart you are with us on this. Make him see sense!’

  Then they were outside and into the cold night. Their horses had been readied from them, and they left Travena bitter and frustrated.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Cunedda, Diarmait and Raedwald had lingered within the walls of Camulodunum for five days awaiting the arrival of the three Germanic chiefs. Along with Hrodgar, the captains would listen to Cunedda’s appeal for a union and provide four hundred men each if convinced. Needful of keeping the Saxons of Camulodunum on their side, Cunedda and Diarmait had agreed to the garrisoning of their main body of men outside the town.

  Raedwald rested his elbows upon the sill of the window opening as he looked out at a dreary February morning. As he watched, a group of riders entered the town. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘The Jute has arrived from Cantiaci. That should be the last of them. Now we’ll get the chance to talk at last.’

  Cunedda moved to the ingress and nudged Raedwald aside. ‘Yes, it must be the man they call Wigstan.’ He turned to Diarmait, his eyes betraying his intimation. ‘It’ll be good to finally get out of here.’

  The expression was not lost on Diarmait, who, like Cunedda, had found his enforced proximity to Raedwald testing to say the least. The Saxon, who could count on no friends in the town, had badgered Cunedda and Diarmait to share their billet with him. During their journey to Camulodunum, the two leaders had become excessively tired of the overblown, blustering youth, so it was with no small measure of foreboding that they agreed. Since then, having done nothing to endear himself to the two hard-nosed veterans, they had grown to detest him. His invented tales of courage in combat, they recognised as pure lies, and his boastfulness over the matter of reprisal, they found distasteful; being, as they were, fathers of large families and men averse to gratuitous destruction.

  ‘So we need to convince four of them that this endeavor is worth their while,’ said Diarmait. ‘Wigstan, Hrodgar, Cenhelm and—and—‘

  ‘Osbeorn,’ burst in Raedwald. ‘His brother, Bealdwine, rode with my father and was the best scout this isle has ever seen, and also a fierce warrior with no equal in hand-to-hand combat.’

  In spite of his reluctance to endure another of Raedwald’s diatribes, Diarmait’s interest had been sparked. ‘Was, you say. So I take it this Bealdwine is not in Camulodunum. What happened to him?’

  Raedwald’s face darkened. ‘Ambushed in the forest, he was. By the coward, Dominic, no doubt. Probably sneaked up behind him—his corpse found hanging from a tree upside down some months later. They knew it was Bealdwine by his tunic; his head was missing.’

  Diarmait raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You say this Bealdwine had no equal in combat?’ He gave a dry chuckle. ‘It seems he certainly found one in Dominic. Now his fame has spread, along with his other cohorts: Murdoc, Augustus and Withred. Heard of them, have you?’

  ‘Heard of them and intend to kill them all.’

  Diarmait regarded Raedwald and wondered what in the name of Christ he was doing in the man’s company. Having been Guertepir’s master of the guard for some fifteen years, Diarmait had seen men come and go. Many, like the Saxon puppy who stood bristling before him, were loose in the mouth and usually loose in the bowels whenever things got tough.

  Diarmait had spent his early childhood in Hibernia. When eleven years old, and one of twelve children, he had seen his father killed as he defended the herd of twenty cows that kept his family fed and free from poverty. Left to care for her brood without any means of support, Diarmait’s mother had no option but to send her children away. Diarmait went to live with an aunt on the isle of Britannia in the kingdom of Dyfed. The woman’s husband was a pitiless man who regularly struck Diarmait for the slightest transgression. His aunt, too terrified of the brute to intervene, had watched, impotent, as Diarmait had been forced to endure the man’s ill nature.

  By now, Diarmait viewed the world with cynicism and bitterness and his demeanor became taciturn and grim. His life as a virtual slave on his uncle’s smallholding continued loveless and arduous. Five years passed and Diarmait grew into a loose-limbed, athletic adolescent. One day, after a minor lapse, his uncle struck him across the head with a knotted cord. Diarmait realised he could take no more and a crimson rage had flooded him.

  His aunt’s screaming had filtered into his consciousness ending his frenzy, but it was too late. Diarmait’s uncle lay dead on the ground, his body battered and his head crushed flat from Diarmait’s stamping. Pushing his aunt away and rebuking her for allowing his abuse to continue for so long, he had stumbled, confused yet strangely fulfilled, from the homestead. For a year, he survived by earning food for labour, his wanderings taking him ever closer to Guertepir’s ringfort. There, he found a position as a herdsman, where his impressive physique and cold eyes grabbed the attention of Coirpre—the captain of Guertepir’s guard. Guertepir had then seen his potential, and like all prospective recruits, Diarmait went straight to Guertepir’s wife, Almaith. Diarmait emerged after three days—his virginity a distant memory. He had passed his first test.

&nbs
p; Five more years were to pass, and Diarmait got used to killing Saxons for Rome as he roamed Dyfed routing out rebels. His prowess soon caught the eye of Guertepir with whom he rode. On one bleak March day, after a messy and difficult engagement with a determined Saxon raiding party, Coirpre had fallen. Diarmait’s actions that day—having turned defeat into victory as he savagely defended Guertepir—had earned him his promotion to the captain of Guertepir’s guard.

  Grim and uncompromising, Diarmait had been shaped by his life. Little wonder he was singularly unimpressed by the Saxon youth before him now. His tone was an amalgam of scepticism and light ridicule as he addressed Raedwald. ‘Kill this Dominic would you. And how would you do it? I believe he is—‘

  Hrodgar entered the hut, saving Diarmait the agony of having to listen to Raedwald’s fanciful response. Brusquely, he snapped: ‘To the alehouse—now!—the three of you. We are ready to consider your proposal. Tell the others what you have told me and you may get our support on this.’ He stood at the door as, first, Cunedda, then Diarmait, went by him. In response to Hrodgar’s glower, Diarmait let his gaze linger upon him a moment. He had killed many like him when in the employ of Rome—had seen the glitter of egotism fade from their eyes as they bled out.

  A slight twitch of Hrodgar’s face and an intensification of his stare dared Diarmait to say what was on his mind. But the Hibernian would not be drawn. Instead, he gave Hrodgar a dismissive smile.

  Lastly, Raedwald came to Hrodgar. Placing a gold-encircled arm across the doorway, Hrodgar stopped the youth in his tracks. ‘You’ve done well to remain in possession of your cock and balls after stealing the horses,’ he said with a twist to his lip. He nodded towards Cunedda and Diarmait who waited outside the hut. ‘It’s lucky you’ve got those two looking after you; by Woden it is!’

  Raedwald looked to Diarmait for support, but the Hibernian seemed happy to let Raedwald squirm and sort the situation out for himself.