Withred gave a dry little laugh as he ducked back into his tunic. ‘Listen,’ he said as his head emerged from the garment’s neck. ‘Gulls are above us, we must be near the shore.’
‘The eastward one I hope,’ said Augustus. ‘God knows which direction we blundered in when we ran away.’
‘Has to be the eastern shore,’ said Withred as he sniffed the air. ‘We’re too far from the west for it to be otherwise.’
Augustus peered upwards through the skeletal canopy of beech. ‘Let’s hope so, because I’ve had enough of this wolves’ pantry and the sky’s beginning to darken again. I’ll get some firewood.’
That night, the fire burned high and bright as Withred and Augustus took turns at watch. Exhausted after the trials of the past days, both men had no trouble plummeting straight into bouts of deep sleep when their turn came.
Next day, the morning sky held the shade of the nearby sea. They followed a faint trail, ever upwards, until coming to the rim of a headland. Below them, the ground fell away to a brutal, swamp-infested plain. A tattered shroud of mist overlay the primordial surface of the swamp. Through the miasma, drifted an eerie amalgam of hoots, croaks and whistles. Beyond the plain lay the White Sea—silver and sparkling under a low sun. Neither habitation nor boat was visible
Augustus was lost for words as he absorbed the primeval splendor beneath him. Withred could not help but smile as he took in Augustus’ astonishment. ‘Now you know why the Romans didn’t come,’ he said. ‘They would never have tamed this … never.’ Feeling very small, they were silent a while.
Eventually Withred spoke again. ‘Fear not, Gus, I know where we are, and I can get us through the swamps and to the shore,’ he said.
For half of that morning they picked a route downwards through the steep tumble of rock outcrop until reaching the wetlands. Once on level ground, Withred left Augustus and Titon to wait, as he went to search for signs of the path he had used years earlier. An ancient alder caught his eye. He rode towards it. Tied to its lower bough was a weather-beaten cloth. He studied the earth beneath the tree and saw signs of passage. Away from the rough ground a faint trail meandered eastwards towards the morass. Satisfied he had found the route through, he beckoned to Augustus who waited with Titon five hundred paces away.
Withred met him beneath the tree. He pointed to the marshes. ‘See, there’s the path. I’ve ridden it before. I remembered the Alder. It’s used as a marker.’
Augustus was not fully convinced the passage would take his weight. ‘I’ll stay behind you,’ he said. ‘If you sink up to your Angle balls, I’ll know not to go that way.’
But the path held firm, and after half a day of threading his way through the swamp, Withred led Augustus on to firmer ground some half mile from the sea. ‘Now we head northwards,’ he said as he walked the horse towards the coastline. ‘We’ll keep to the shingle beach until we reach the first of the fishing villages.’
‘How long before we arrive at your aunt’s village?’ asked Augustus.
Withred studied the sky, assessing the daylight. ‘Mid-morn tomorrow, I reckon. Would’ve been quicker with two horses but at least we survived the wolves. Darkness isn’t far away, so today is out of the question.’
‘Any trouble from here on?’
‘Hopefully, no. The people along this coastline are mostly friendly and treat strangers well, so we should sleep under a roof if we can reach a village I know of before sundown.’
Two quiet hours were to pass before the sun dipped behind the western headland, laying its slick of gold over the marshes. Augustus alerted Withred to a cluster of huts half a mile along the beach. As they got closer, they saw that a fire burned in a communal area set back from the high water mark.
Aebbe looked up from her stitching as her keen ears heard the clatter of hooves upon shingle. ‘People approach, Cynebald,’ she said to her husband. ‘Two men, a horse and a dog ... a big dog.’
Holding his infant daughter, Cynebald got to his feet and strained to see through the failing light. He turned to a group of men who chatted beside the fire. ‘Strangers approach,’ he shouted. ‘Get your spears and come with me.’ He handed the girl to Aebbe and left with eight others.
Cynebald tensed as he noticed the bearing of the travellers. Confident fellows, no doubt, why else would they be on the White Sea foreshore at sundown? Sigbald, his brother, handed him a blazing brand as the group reached them. The mounted man was a colossus who snapped orders to the dog in his British tongue—the other seemed vaguely familiar.
‘If I didn’t know better,’ he muttered as the man on foot approached him and dropped his hood. Cynebald appraised him. Gone was the long dark hair. Now the head was as bald as the sun. No longer clean-shaven, a sable beard flecked with grey grew to the man’s chest. But the melancholic eyes—the positively haunting black eyes—as well as the sharp cheek bones chiseled upon a face which somehow managed to be both brutal and handsome, left Cynebald in no doubt that Withred had returned to Angeln.
‘Wit—Withred, it is you, isn’t it.’ Cynebald’s tone was incredulous as he squinted through the gloom at the imposing man before him.
‘Yes it’s me, Cyn, I’m back to raise an army.’
Cynebald paused then said emphatically: ‘An army!’
Withred looked towards the night fire. ‘I’ll tell you more as soon as we’re sitting around your fire’—hunched from cold, he turned his back to the ocean—‘because the wind coming off the White Sea has frozen our balls to ice.’
‘Er—y—yes, yes, forgive my rudeness; it’s just that you’ve put my head in a whirl. Come please; follow me to the warmth of the fire.’ As Augustus climbed from his saddle, Cynebald’s eyes grew big. Never had he seen a man as massive as the Briton who stood before him. ‘Come,’ he said again. ‘The sooner we sit down the better.’
As the night drew on, Cynebald and the fifty men of his village became aware of all the happenings in Britannia. Withred and Augustus had learned how recent winter storms had flooded much of Angeln. Many had perished in the deluge and this saddened him. However, his mention of new territory to settle in Britannia had evoked much interest amongst the group, leaving Withred to think that maybe the ill winds of Angeln had blown some good upon Arthur’s cause. As a courtesy to Augustus, Withred had occasionally halted the discussion and translated a summary to him.
Now, mindful that the thorny issue of his desertion had not been mentioned at all during the discussion, Withred decided to broach the subject.
Surprisingly, Cynebald seemed unconcerned over the matter. He shrugged. ‘Like all tales it is different depending upon who tells it. Some say you did it for greed, some say for a noble cause. As for me, I think I know you well enough to believe you did it for the best of reasons.’
Sigbald, Cynebald’s brother, came in. ‘But now we can get it from the stallion’s mouth as it were. Why did you go over to the Britons?’—he cast a quick glance towards Augustus who sat with Titon at his feet—‘not that I’ve anything against them personally.’
‘Let’s just say I didn’t share Egbert’s thoughts on how to treat them after a raid.’ His black eyes bore into Sigbald now. ‘Come on man, you should know me better than that. I don’t kill children; I don’t rape women.’
Sigbald shifted uncomfortably. Yet it was not Withred’s piercing stare or his emotive assertion that had unsettled him—rather it was the mentioning of Egbert. He looked to his brother who appeared equally uneasy after hearing the name of a man whose name had been mentioned only days before.
Like Sigbald, Cynebald knew about the death of Withred’s aunt. Knowing Withred as he did, he was also aware of what the woman meant to him. Always intending to tell him of her heartless murder and rape, he had nevertheless avoided the subject until now, preferring instead to talk of the drama unfolding across the water. But the mention of Egbert had brought to mind his meeting with a man on the shores of the White Sea some ten days gone.
The man, a Saxon, was trave
lling north, exchanging cooking pots for dried fish as he travelled. After Cynebald had traded with him, a general chitchat followed and during its course Cynebald told the Saxon of the callous murder of Mildrithe, the much beloved healing woman who lived north of him. Then to Cynebald’s amazement, he learned that the Saxon knew much more about the deed—indeed knew who had committed the outrage. The runt of Egbert, a youth named Raedwald who was known to the merchant, had crossed his path some four days earlier and boasted of the killing.
After he had finished imparting his news to Cynebald, the merchant had spat his disgust at the deed and left to continue his trading along the coast.
Cynebald now realised the time had come to tell Withred. In the way of broaching the subject, he asked him: ‘Where are you headed after you leave in the morning?’
A fond smile played upon Withred’s lips. ‘To my aunt’s village of course. It’s eight years since I spoke with her. All this talk of war and alliances has not left room for the smaller things—the important things. Is she still saving lives and easing aching backs and knees?’
Cynebald cast his eyes downwards. He sighed and said: ‘She’s dead, Withred.’ He raised his head and met Withred’s startled stare. ‘Slaughtered and raped by Egbert’s bastard son—a lout named Raedwald.’
‘W—what. Why?’ asked Withred, penetrated.
‘A blood killing in revenge for the death of his father.’
‘But why my aunt? Whatever had she done to deserve …’ And then the truth came to him. He was to blame. His treachery had spurred into action a sick and twisted mind. The mind of a man who veins coursed with Egbert’s poisoned blood.
‘What’s the matter? What’s the matter, man?’ Augustus who had not understood the words but sensed they had devastated Withred, now moved closer to him. Weeping now, elbows on knees, his fisted hands pressed against his temples, Withred could only shake his head. Muffled and heavy, his sobs drifted downwards as he expelled his grief. After a while, he managed to throw Augustus a wretched look. ‘My aunt’s dead ... I killed her, Gus. It’s because of me.’ He wiped the snot and tears from him but his pain came again. ‘Ah, no ... ah, no,’ he sobbed as he fell to his knees.
Augustus looked meaningfully to Cynebald. Aware of the delicacy of the moment, Cynebald left August alone with Withred, as the Angle continued to cough his sorrow onto the earthen floor.
The next morning, pale and weary, Withred was ready for the trail. Cynebald came to him as he readied the horse for the journey. ‘I must see her burial site,’ he explained to Cynebald. ‘At the very least, I need to make an offering to Nerthus beside her grave.’
Cynebald placed a consoling hand upon Withred’s arm ‘Yes I know, and I’ve found you another horse for the journey … a big one for Gus.’ He stood a moment, then asked: ‘And the other things we talked about last night?’
‘Ah, yes. How long before your riders return with the other chiefs?’
‘Two days. My men left at first light.’
Withred frowned. ‘Two days … so long?’ He sighed. ‘Need brooks no delay, yet late is better than never. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. I’ll address the chiefs on this beach.’
Augustus, who was mounted and waiting, leaned in his saddle and in way of thanks took Cynebald’s arm in the Roman grasp.
At mid-morning they reached Mildrithe’s village. Astounded, the villagers went to Withred and embraced him. They knew him well so he had no recrimination to fear from them. Later in a clearing beside the adjacent woods, Withred went to his aunt’s grave and gave offerings to the Goddess Nerthus.
Afterwards, he spoke with Garrick, the headman of the village. He told him of the trouble in Britannia and how land was available for those willing to cross the Oceanus Germanicus and fight for Arthur. After this, he asked Garrick what he knew of his aunt’s death.
‘I can only tell you how we found her,’ sighed Garrick, clearly troubled by the memory. Wishing to spare Withred the details of the level of atrocity meted upon her, Garrick merely told how Mildrithe had been raped before her death.
But Withred insisted Garrick tell him the full story of the savagery. Garrick broke down during his subsequent account and when he finished Withred hugged and thanked him.
Shaken and pale as death, he turned to Augustus. ‘Tonight we stay here, Gus. I’ll sleep beside my aunt in the grove. Tomorrow we parley with the chiefs, and if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get them to follow us to Britannia.’
Next day, Withred Augustus and Garrick rode back to Cynebald’s village. In total, thirty-three chiefs had assembled on the gently sloping expanse of shingle which stretched down to the White Sea.
‘Better than I thought,’ said Withred. ‘The talk of new land has stirred their interest, no doubt.’
Augustus looked up to the sky where the sun was visible as a smudge of platinum behind an opaque sheet of cloud. ‘Aye, it’s not yet midday and there’s already a good few here.’
Withred stood in his saddle and peered at the throng. ‘And most of them I know, which should help. Come Gus, let’s get down to them.’
Many on the beach were mere village headmen who had the endorsement of their people. Others were seasoned campaigners who had plied their trade in Britannia.
Some greeted Withred whilst others avoided him. The interplay was not lost upon Augustus.“‘Like all tales, it is different depending upon who tells it,’” he said as an aside, quoting a remark made about Withred’s desertion. ‘Cynebald said it the other night; you translated it to me. It appears he was right; some here have already made up their minds about you.’
‘That we’ll learn soon,’ said Withred. ‘The ones who shun me are probably undecided or they wouldn’t even have come. See … Cynebald and Sigbald approach. It seems I’m about to go up in the world.’
People parted as the brothers, carrying a wooden table, stumbled through the shingle. They dropped the table before Withred. The Angle climbed upon it and the crowd gathered around him.
‘You must already know why I’ve called this assembly,’ he began without preamble. ‘Quite simply, I intend to return to Britannia four days from now because I’m needed there. Before I go, though, I hope some of you will see the good sense of following me.’
A voice came. ‘Good sense! To go to Britannia and fight another man’s battle. Where is the sense in that?’ The statement evoked a ripple of agreement. Hereferth, a weathered warrior—a man whose face bore a swirling design of ink—stood confidently below the table awaiting a reply to his question.
‘The men you defeat will vacate land above the wall of Hadrian,’ returned Withred, ‘and it’s a drier place than Angeln. A diverse country of forest, pasture and seashore awaits you there.’
‘And Picts,’ said Hereferth. ‘You forget Withred, I once rode beyond the wall.’ He pointed to his inked face. ‘See ... I even got one of the Picts to put this upon me—that’s one of the three things they’re good at. The others two are skirmishing and making a nuisance of themselves.’
‘And I’m sure you can deal with them, just as the Votadini have dealt with them for many years,’ retorted Withred. Not allowing Hereferth any time to respond, he cast his gaze over the crowd and continued. ‘By my count over thirty settlements are represented here today. If each of you can persuade at least sixty followers to journey to Britannia, then that’s two thousand men for Arthur. Two thousand extra spears could make all the difference.’
‘Spears,’ someone shouted. ‘I take it you want men for shieldwalls. My people only throw their weight against plough or rudder. Why do you think they are still in Angeln? They are a peaceful folk.’
‘Aye, a peaceful folk they are,’ concurred Withred. ‘Our warriors—men like me—left here to seek their fortunes years ago, that’s true enough, but it’s the future of our people we must consider now. This land has become crowded, and storms take people to the grave every year. In Britannia, there is abundant space and each family will be given good land.’
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‘But that will involve fighting Saxons if the gossip is to be believed,’ said Hereferth. ‘Some regard them as our brethren. How am I to persuade my people to go against them?’
‘The gossip bears truth, but the breed of Saxon you’ll be up against is no more your brethren than the wolf. These are men of greed and savagery—killers of children and wreckers of property.’
‘And you think no man here has stooped to such lows,’ said Hereferth. An uneasy murmur went through the crowd at this. ‘I see here men who campaigned in Britannia. Men like me who did things they are not proud of.’
‘Be that as it may, but we cannot allow ourselves to dwell upon past actions. None of us falls easily to sleep these days, including me, but war is a savage beast that touches both victor and defeated and stays with men until they die; war will not go away.’
‘Your war, not ours! And what of the people you once rode with. I hear you abandoned them in the forests of Britannia.’ Smala, a stout chieftain from southern Angeln, took a defiant step to the front of the crowd, his face demanding an answer.
Withred’s voice cut through the ensuing expectant silence. ‘I do not deny what happened, yet I am not ashamed. In fact, it is the one good deed I did in Britannia. I abandoned not them but their appetite for wanton destruction. And, yes, I admit I thrust my spear into Egbert’s black heart, but in doing so I performed a service for all the good men of this world. I will fight to my demise—all who know me cannot doubt that—but I will not ride with men who kill the weak, the old, or the defenseless!’ A silence fell as Withred’s passionate invective hit home. He looked at them, their faces a sea of expectancy now. He knew he had them; knew he could play his last decisive card. He continued. ‘But listen to me now; those of you who haven’t heard the news already—the spirit of Egbert tragically lives on and rides with the people you would be fighting against. Raedwald is Egbert’s spawn and he killed and raped Mildrithe, my aunt—a woman who many of you knew, and a woman who treated you with love and care. That is the type of Saxon you’ll ride against. These are not the farmers and fishermen of Saxony. The Saxon raiders in Britannia are not our brethren; they are chancers who are driven by their burning lust for gold.’
Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 68
