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

by Atkinson, F J

  ‘See,’ said Hrodgar with a lopsided half-grin, ‘even your fellow lodgers have had enough of you.’

  At that very moment, Raedwald decided he would dearly love to kill Hrodgar. Instead, he said: ‘I think it would be better if we went to the meeting.’ He fought to keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘The sooner we can get on the trail, the sooner I can prove myself to you.’

  Hrodgar said nothing, merely looked through Raedwald. He let his gaze linger a while, then dropped his arm. Giving a mocking, little grunt of a laugh, he waved Raedwald past him.

  Three days earlier Will had entered Camulodunum with some trepidation. At first, he feared he would stand out in the Saxon stronghold but the worry proved groundless. A good scattering of opportunist Britons, ready to trade with the Saxons, now resided in the bustling town, so one more native did not register with anyone.

  As he looked around, he saw the decaying bones of the former Roman stronghold. Courtyards, once resplendent with mosaics, now lay cracked and decaying. Fallen roofs, ruinous towers and the dilapidated gatehouse hinted at the town’s past splendor. Everywhere, old brick structures pushed brokenly from the ground. Overlaying all of this was the indelible, pragmatic stamp of Saxony. Plank-built, thatched houses, noisy, clanging workshops and corals of ponies, spread across the broken topography of the place. At regular intervals, languid curls of smoke issued from the thatched roofs of numerous alehouses, brothels and lodging houses.

  As Will sidled down a narrow, dim street, his senses were assailed by a myriad of sights and odours. The stench of human excrement and urine was everywhere, seemingly unnoticed by the bustling throngs who elbowed their way through even the smallest alleyways. To Will, a man who had spent most of his life in the languid forests, the place seemed to be nothing more than a cauldron of shouting and pushing.

  A door burst open before him and a cursing harlot spilled into the street. A boot appeared from the doorway and connected firmly with the woman’s backside, sending her sprawling onto the litter-strewn floor. Instinctively, Will stooped to aid her, but the woman—spiting with rage—snatched her arm from his grasp. Mercifully, her expletive-laden Germanic outburst was lost upon him. He held up his hands, happy to demonstrate his intention to let her be.

  Relieved to pass her by, he walked from the alleyway and entered one of the many eroded, bustling plazas. The place had long since lost the ambiance of a peaceful, fountain-adorned Roman backwater; now it was a boisterous collection of stalls and noisy merchants. Will winced when hearing their barking shouts, as they competed to attract the patronage of the milling crowds. Needing air and relief from the bombardment upon his every sense, he made for the open central area of the town.

  Here a commotion had broken out as a body of men filed in through the gates. It was the third such arrival Will had witnessed in as many days. A squat Saxon led the newcomers to a coral. The crowd parted as the riders passed, the smell of sweat and leather, cloying and intense.

  The Saxon went to a daubed hut that seemed ready to fall down, and stood at its door. As Cunedda, then Diarmait stepped out, Will became aware a situation was beginning to develop. Shortly after, he watched as a younger, ruffled-looking man emerged.

  He followed discretely, as all walked from the square and into the bowels of the town. After passing through a confusing, twisting warren of alleyways, the men reached a tavern. Above its door swung a huge drinking horn. Cut from a massive white-horned bull, the symbol removed any doubt, if indeed any still lingered in the mind of the casual passer-by, that this was the place to be in Camulodunum. Furthermore, a lurid phallic symbol, painted in red upon the establishment’s door, informed that ale was merely one pleasure the place had to offer.

  When twenty paces from the entrance and some ten paces behind Cunedda’s entourage, Will heard the unmistakable mass-murmuring of a room packed with people. Two no-nonsense Saxons stood guard. They nodded to the squat man who led Cunedda, Diarmait and the youth towards them. Will had gone far enough. The meeting was about to happen and he would not get through the door. As the men went into the room, he turned and walked back down the alleyway—his intention now, to leave town and return to his camp half a mile away. He would wait for them to complete their business.

  Hrodgar had assumed his self-appointed role as master of ceremonies and took his place at the centre of the planked tables that formed a line across the back of the room. On his right sat the three men he had sent for: Wigstan the Jute, Cenhelm the Saxon, and Osbeorn, another Saxon. On his left sat Cunedda, Diarmait and Raedwald.

  For the previous five days, the feeling that something big was about to happen had swept through Camulodunum like a forest fire. The news had soon left the town and rushed through the taken lands until petering out along the coastal strips and forests. The rumours of a large envoy of British and Hibernian warriors arriving at Camulodunum had created a stir, adding to the consensus that moves were indeed afoot in Britannia.

  Consequently, the alehouse was standing-room only, with many of the men forced to climb upon tables and benches to get a better view. The room now hummed with expectant, enthused conversation.

  Hrodgar looked to Wigstan, Cenhelm and Osbeorn. They nodded and he stood. The sound of benches scraping against stone sounded as men climbed high to see. Hrodgar banged his fist upon his table. A tense silence fell.

  ‘I see here many followers of mine,’ he began. ‘Men who I know to be worthy of the task put forward by the Britons and Hibernians who have travelled to this town.’ A hush blanketed the room. ‘Also, in this alehouse, I see Wigstan’s men; Cenhelm’s men; Osbeorn’s men. No doubt you all know what this meeting is about.’

  ‘Raping Britons, taking their land and shitting on their turf!’ came a shout from a wag at the back of the room.

  Hrodgar allowed himself a little nod and half smile as he waited for the laughter to abate. ‘Yes, that’s what it usually turns out to be,’ he continued, ‘but this man here’—he nodded towards Cunedda—‘has plans to make your toes curl.’ He extended his arm towards the Briton, inviting him to stand.

  Cunedda took to his feet and looked around. Saxon expressions in the room ranged from curiosity to downright hostility. A glance downwards to the four Saxon commanders, confirmed Cunedda’s conviction that the night would not be an easy one for him. He had already worked on Hrodgar and felt he had partially convinced him of the benefits of the alliance. The other three, though, appeared anything but won over.

  Wigstan the Jute, whose blond hair was slicked with goose fat and spiked upwards, glowered at him and lightly and impatiently chopped the table with the ledge of his hand, waiting for Cunedda to begin. Cenhelm and Osbeorn wore similar scowls. Cenhelm’s moustache was plaited and hung below his chin, and this he twisted between his forefinger and thumb as he took in Cunedda. Osbeorn was the brother of Bealdwine—the man killed by Dominic in the eastern forest. Osbeorn hated all Britons and, like his brother, possessed a hooked nose and narrow, animal eyes. He bore them into Cunedda now as if trying to pierce his brain.

  Unperturbed, Cunedda began. ‘With or without you I will march upon Arthur and lay his lands to ruin.’ He allowed his statement a few seconds to sink in as glances became exchanged and a low muttering began. ‘Yes ... I will march with four thousand men against Arthur. If you choose not to accept the offer I am about to put to this room, we will march without you.’

  ‘Four thousand you say,’ Wigstan regarded him with scepticism. ‘The British tribes are too scattered to amass such a number.’ He took a quaff from his horn and belched dismissively at Cunedda.

  A ripple of laughter swept the tavern. Cunedda ignored it. ‘Then you know naught of my tribe and the treaty we have already forged with Guertepir, the Hibernian king.’

  ‘Then you must educate me on the matter,’ said Wigstan, his smile still laced with doubt.

  ‘Very well,’ said Cunedda. He began to explain the finer points of the alliance; giving specific details about numbers. The room was silen
t as he spoke—occasional coughs and fidgeting his only interruption.

  Towards the end, he introduced Diarmait to the assembly. ‘This man can vouch for everything I have told you,’ Cunedda said. ‘He is Guertepir’s man and is the captain of his army. He speaks not your tongue but will answer any question through me.’

  ‘What do you want from us,’ interjected Osbeorn suddenly. ‘Why do Britons—people who we have driven into the dust and a people I hate with every sinew of my body—come to us now for help.’ His eyes blazed at Cunedda, demanding an answer.

  ‘Quite simple, Saxon lord,’ said Cunedda. ‘We want two thousand of your men to join us to ensure there‘s no doubt over the outcome of the forthcoming war with Arthur. For that you get what Arthur has kept from you till now: southwestern Britannia and its ports.’

  Cunedda let his words sink in as the room erupted with conversation. Hrodgar, who already knew some of the details, removed his dagger and banged its hilt upon the scarred planking before him. ‘Quiet!—QUIET!’ His cry went unheeded so he climbed up on the table and again screamed for order. His voice was lost amongst the furore. Cunedda joined Hrodgar on the table. He raised his arms beseechingly above his head. Slowly, the room fell to silence again.

  ‘Yes—yes,’ he shouted. ‘You will get ALL the southwestern lands and ALL the gold that lies therein, and I have been told the Britons dig it in cartloads from the very earth beneath their feet.’

  Cunedda jumped down and sat beside Diarmait again. ‘Let them exhaust their zest,’ he said above a new outburst of noise. ‘I told you these people liked gold—will do anything to get their hands on it—listen to the noise they make, does it not tell you I was right all along.’

  Diarmait coldly eyed the Saxon leaders who were having their own vigorous conversation. He gave a slight nod towards them. ‘That may be so, but they will be difficult to control, let alone their men.’

  Slowly and with a stubborn, rhythmic persistence, Hrodgar began to bang on the table. The place fell to a stuttering silence.

  Cenhelm, who had worn a contemplative frown and twirled his moustache throughout most of the uproar, now stood and directly addressed Diarmait. ‘Like me’—Cenhelm wafted his hands across his torso; an invitation for Diarmait to take in his gold-bedecked person—‘Guertepir has a fondness for gold. What’s to stop him marching his men into the southwest and taking it for himself?’

  Cunedda translated Cenhelm’s question. Diarmait had his answer ready. ‘Yes, I cannot deny it, my master covets gold also, but the prize he seeks is not the southwest; his army would be stretched too far; he already rules most of the western peninsular and that is enough for him. What my master wants is Aquae Sulis, for there he intends to set up a pleasure palace for his wife.’

  Cenhelm absently fingered the golden torque at his neck. ‘I hear the town is crammed with treasure. It would be worth the grind of the campaign just to see the place.’ He turned his attention to Cunedda. ‘And what of you, Briton? You, who are prepared to ride against your own people. Why would you do such a thing if not to obtain more land for your tribe?’

  ‘My ambitions do not extend to Arthur’s province,’ Cunedda said. ‘I seek alliance with Guertepir and the freedom to patrol his lands—territory that provides landfall for my enemies. That’s my reason for standing here tonight. As I speak, Votadini people are on the move to Deva and the surrounding country—that is our new home. Guertepir’s friendship ensures we will be protected from the raiders of Hibernia.’

  ‘So let me get this right,’ came in Osbeorn. ’All you want is Aquae Sulis and the security of the country north of it. And for that we get to scourge Arthur’s lands until we come to the sea.’

  ‘Yes—two thousand of your best men when added to our four thousand should be enough to overcome Arthur and his allies.

  Exasperated, Osbeorn threw up his hands. ‘Two thousand! Two thousand! You keep mentioning two thousand! Why not ask for four thousand and get this finished with quickly?’

  Because you’re Saxons and would want everything—Aquae Sulis, Northern Britannia the western peninsular—everything!—should you match us in numbers, thought Cunedda. He and Diarmait had already spoken to Hrodgar over the matter, and found him to be an unlikely if arrogant ally. So he decided to let the Saxon answer. ‘Hrodgar,’ Cunedda invited. ‘Perhaps you can explain this to Osbeorn.’

  All turned to him.

  ‘I asked you here, Osbeorn,’ said Hrodgar, ‘along with Wigstan and Cenhelm, because I know the number of men you can call upon. And—yes—with my warriors that comes to the two thousand men the Briton and Hibernian need.’

  ‘But why such a specific number?’ pressed Osbeorn.

  ‘Are you listening to me, man,’ said Hrodgar, his patience waning. ‘If it’s just the four of us we get a bigger share of the taken lands, and the four of us can only muster two thousand men between us. Think of it, we will be able to quarter the kingdom. If we bring in more chiefs our tracts are bound to shrink in size.’

  ‘And no need to worry about your northern border,’ burst in Cunedda. ‘Guertepir and my Votadini will keep it free from unwanted invaders. If they approach you they must travel through our lands as well.’

  Hrodgar nodded his endorsement. ‘Yes, I know it seems an unlikely alliance; I was also doubtful the first time these people approached me, but the more I’ve thought about it the more sense it makes. We want different things—they want security in the north and west, we want Arthur’s lands and beyond. Oh, and listen to this’—Hrodgar looked directly at Osbeorn—‘you get to meet Dominic; the man who removed your brother’s head and let him bleed out like a stuck swine.’

  Osbeorn blanched at the name, such was the depth of his hatred for Dominic. ‘You mean he rides with Arthur?’ he muttered icily.

  ‘Scouts for him, mainly, but he’ll certainly be on the field of battle—wolf’s hat and all—so he’ll be hard to miss.’

  ‘Six hundred of my men—Gedriht, Geoguth, and Duguth. Also whoever I can raise from the fyrd; as soon as I can get them here, they’re yours,’ said Osbeorn. ‘The chance to slowly skin that wretched coward alive is worth it alone.’

  ‘And I will raise about four hundred,’ shouted Hrodgar, enthused now. ‘We’re half way there already.’

  Whoops and shouts broke out in the room as followers of Hrodgar and Osbeorn, who had pushed to the front as they strained to hear the debate, became boisterous. Bare chested and riding upon the shoulders of companions, many of the younger men—the Geoguths—now punched at the air as they shouted their encouragement to the crowd.

  Raedwald, ever mindful that his input to the discussion would attract the wrong sort of attention from Hrodgar, had remained quiet throughout, but as the atmosphere in the room became infectious, he found himself up on his feet as he clapped in rhythm to the emergent chanting.

  Hrodgar addressed Wigstan and Cenhelm, who watched as the scenes of revelry escalated. ‘Well?’ he shouted, as he fought to make himself heard. ‘Will you add to it? With the Britons, we already number five thousand, a formidable gathering you must agree, and I for one intend to go … with or without you!’

  Wigstan’s ice-blue eyes glittered beneath his flamboyantly spiked hair. ‘And split the kingdom two ways instead of four ... I think not! My people have been crowded into Cantiaci for long enough, I pledge my five hundred men!’

  ‘And I pledge my seven hundred!’ shouted Cenhelm above the clamour. ‘The best shieldwall this island has ever seen will crush the life out of the dogs.’ Standing, he raised his arms, his golden armlets and wristbands dropping down to his inked biceps. He threw back his head and took in the roar.

  Cunedda exchanged a glance with Diarmait as the wall of noise enveloped them. He had planted the seed and the tree had burst from the ground. Now they could plan for invasion.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dominic’s return to Brythonfort had been brief. As soon as he forwarded the news of Cunedda’s continuation to Camulodunum, Ar
thur had dispatched him to Corinium. Here, he would watch the northern road for troop movement from Deva. Cunedda’s man, Abloyc, would undoubtedly take the direct road through Corinium should he decide to march south.

  Dominic stopped at Nila’s village. The mother of Aiden, Flint and Maewyn, she lived half a day’s ride from Brythonfort.

  Eighteen months had passed since the Saxon raider, Ranulf, had burned her world down to the scorched earth and killed her husband, Bran. On the day of the raid she had been at Brythonfort visiting her son, Flint, and so had survived. Furthermore, Ranulf had stolen her children—the abduction moving Arthur to send Dominic, Augustus, Murdoc, Withred and Flint on a quest to find them. Sadly, the party returned without Aiden—the lad having drowned in Hibernia.

  For many months Nila had been inconsolable, but eventually she settled into her new life as a cook for a nearby fort. Flint operated from the outpost and she was able to see him when his duties brought him back. As for her other son, Maewyn, he was now a novice monk in Hibernia.

  Desiring to be within the reach of a tract of forest one day’s ride away, Dominic had moved from Brythonfort to Nila’s village. Since then, he had often spent the evenings with her around his night fire speaking at length about his quest to find her sons. He was aware of how Nila gained comfort from talking about the search; it was her way of coping with the loss of Aiden and Bran. And so he was happy to tell her all he could remember.

  But one thing bothered Dominic. Except that bother was too mild a word—tortured would be nearer the mark. Dominic was tortured because he felt a deep fondness towards Nila. Indeed, he had begun to spend less time in the forests and more time in the village such was the depth of his feelings, and for Dominic this was unheard of. His first thought upon awakening and his last image before falling asleep was always sad, beautiful Nila.

  The crisis threatening to rip Britannia apart had almost come as a relief to Dominic. Now he could consider matters more pressing, except to Dominic nothing was more pressing than the chance to cast his eyes upon the woman who constantly inhabited his thoughts. Not that Dominic was a stranger to women.