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

by Atkinson, F J

  Withred allowed his words to sink in as he jumped to the ground. Augustus, with Titon at his feet, was sitting against the table. ‘Sounds like you stirred up a wasps’ nest just then,’ he said in reference to the widespread, dynamic exchanges now occurring. ‘You need to fill me in on what you told them.’

  Withred explained the situation to Augustus.

  ‘You think you can sway them, then?’ asked Augustus.

  ‘Some of them at least. I’m not sure about Hereferth—he’s the one with the inked face—and I really want him with us. He and his men will bring a lot of know-how. I fought alongside him once. A viscous man he is, and he has bowmen at his disposal which is unusual. Because of that, I’m sure Dominic would be glad to see him.’

  ‘What about the little chubby bastard?’ asked Augustus. ‘He seemed to challenge you and speaks with this Hereferth now.’

  ‘That’s Smala, another good man and he’s tight with Hereferth. They campaigned together when in Britannia.’

  ‘So why are they back here now? Why did they not settle on British soil?’

  ‘The land they wanted fell into Saxon hands so they returned to their villages in Angeln. Yet, they’re here at this assembly, and that tells me they’ve grown restless again.’

  Augustus nudged Withred. ‘You need to get back on the table, man. They’ve quietened and are waiting for more.’

  ‘Step up with me, dog and all,’ said Withred. You’re about to clinch this for us.’

  Augustus shrugged. ‘Whatever you say. Get ready to translate.’

  The table bent and creaked as Augustus hauled himself upwards. Two heads taller anyway than the loftiest man in the assembly he loomed against the backdrop of milky sky. His appearance, with Titon bristling and standing menacingly beside him, stimulated an awe-laced gasp from the gripped crowd.

  Withred began. ‘What needed to be said has passed. Decisions now need to be made. This man’—he pointed at Augustus—‘is British and will stand in our shieldwall. There’re more like him—stout fellows who will not be cowed by Saxon threats or Saxon death riders seeking to intimidate.’

  ‘Cowed by them, I am cowed by him!’ shouted someone. ‘Why ask for our help, just send him against them, they’ll shit where they stand!’

  Laughter followed and Withred turned to Augustus. ‘Now’s the time, Gus. Tell them why they should come over.’

  Augustus stepped to the front of the table. His voice boomed across the gathering. ‘I am British and dispossessed.’ He let his words become absorbed as Withred translated; nodding as if to say, Yes, even a man like me can be beaten. Careful not to compromise his aura of invincibility, he continued. ‘I fought back though and eventually defeated the Saxons who came at me ... but it was too late ... all of my friends were lying dead ... I had to abandon my village.’ His tone dropped, becoming melancholic. ‘So now I know how it feels to be homeless.’ Silence followed. After a moment, Augustus pointed to the nearby sea. ‘But for you people here, yonder ocean is your enemy. Soon it will flood you out again; take more lives. In Britannia you will not have such worry, and men like me’—he thumped his chest in emphasis—‘big, brutal men like me will stand beside you.’ He looked to Withred. ’This man is too proud to defend his reputation and so seem to be begging for acceptance, so I’ll tell you this: I know him to be true and compassionate; and that is why he turned his back on those who acted as devils; that is why he now uses his skills to protect the weak, as his Goddess and yours—Nerthus—would have him do.’ Augustus waited a moment as Withred translated his last statement, then he pointed at his own chest. ‘And this Briton now asks all of you to stand beside him. Your reward will be good land and a worthy future on my blessed isle.’

  Withred took over now. He looked directly at Hereferth and Smala, who had listened fascinated to Augustus. ‘That’s it boys. All the talking is done; I‘ve no time to dwell much longer in Angeln. Like I said at the beginning of this meeting, I leave in four days with or without you—the time it will take you to muster your people should you decide to come with me.’ He lifted his head and shouted now to the horde. ‘Yes four days ... that’s how long I will wait. Any man here who wishes for glory and land, be back here with your people in four days’ time!’

  The meeting over as far as he was concerned, Withred stepped from the table. Hereferth approached him. ‘I would speak with you in private over this,’ he said. ‘Before I commit myself or my warriors, I will need some assurances.’

  ‘Of course I’ll speak to you,’ said Withred as many more men pressed him for private discussion. ‘I’ll speak to you all, even if it takes me all day.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Twenty-five days had passed since Arthur had held his war council. Gherwan and Murdoc had returned with news of Ffodor’s rejection of aid. Dominic had been dispatched to Aquae Sulis along with thirty of Arthur’s cavalry. Will was still out in the field.

  Arthur walked with his woman, Heledd, beside the towering walls of Brythonfort.

  ‘We number just one thousand men and two hundred knights,’ he said. ‘If they come at us now we’re finished or at the very least besieged.’

  ‘Our men watch Akeman Street for that’s the Saxons’ usual rout to these parts, and Dominic is up at Aquae Sulis keeping his eye on the crossroads,’ reassured Heledd. ‘And fast horses are ready to get any news to us within a day.’

  ‘But still no sign of Withred and Gus,’ said Arthur as he turned towards the hefty gates of Brythonfort.

  Heledd slipped her hands around Arthur’s arm and forced him to turn to her. ‘Withred said thirty days; it’s only been twenty-five, give him time my love.’

  Arthur looked into Heledd’s intense eyes and stroked her blonde hair. Tied as a braided band around her head, her forelocks kept the rest of her long hair from her face. Arthur imagined the sport that Guertepir or any run-of-the-mill Saxon warlord would have with her. After just a couple of months at their debauched hands, her skin, pure and unwrinkled now, would become blotched and grey; her body, plump and supple, would quickly become bone-thin and stooped. He knew this because he had seen such sights before when abused girls and women had found their way to Brythonfort. He shook the image from his head and tried to be positive. ‘Yes, I know ... give them time, I really should. Listen’—he held his hand to his ear as grating shouts came from beyond the wall—‘Erec’s getting the men into shape as we speak.’

  As she passed through the gates and entered Brythonfort with Arthur, Heledd peered up the hill. ‘Sounds like Flint’s been busy. How many men have you counted?

  ‘Over nine hundred. Most of them raw, though.’ A loud crash came from the drill ground. ‘Hear that. They’re practicing with the shields.’ They passed a workshop where five men laboured at anvils. Unable to talk above the clang of metal upon metal they continued up the slope towards Erec and the recruits. As the clatter from the smithy faded, Arthur was able to speak again. ‘The smiths deserve much credit. Day and night they’ve been forging short stabbing swords for the shieldwall—scores of them up to now. We fight as Romans and that should give us advantage.’

  As they neared the exercise, the clashing and shouting intensified. Watching events, sat Flint upon his white mare.

  Arthur met him, patted the neck of his horse, and talked in its ear. ‘There girl, what’ve you been up to with that useless lump on your back.’ As the mare nodded and snorted its recognition, Arthur, smiling, looked up at Flint. ‘Heledd reckons you’ve been busy. I told her you ride from here every day and find a quiet stream and fall asleep.’

  ‘Don’t believe a word of it,’ said Heledd, giving Arthur a reproachful slap on the shoulder. ‘He told me you’d enlisted over nine hundred men.’

  ‘That’s right Heledd, I have been busy, regardless of what the high lord told you.’

  Arthur rubbed his shoulder in mock hurt as if Augustus himself had just slapped him. ‘Seriously Flint, how’re they shaping up?’

  ‘Well ... considering thi
s is the first morning of their training, and seeing that most of them are farmers who never held shield or a sword, pretty awful really.’

  Flint’s irony promoted a grunt of a laugh from Arthur. All then fell silent as they viewed Erec at work.

  He had formed some of the recruits into two opposing shieldwalls, some fifty men wide and four men deep. The front men each held a shield and a short wooden sword. Watching the drill from the flanks and awaiting their turn, stood a further five hundred men.

  Erec had placed himself between the two walls. He held his arms at shoulder height as if pushing back the men and barked out his instructions. ‘This is your first clash so I want you to advance slowly. Keep tight to the man beside you; I don’t want to see any gaps in the wall, and remember: this is to get you familiar with meeting your enemy face to face. I want no heroics here today; you are no use to me or Arthur if you take injury.’ He nodded to a nearby groom who held his horse. The man brought the animal to him and he mounted. He rode slowly from between the gap. ‘Not yet!’ he shouted, as some of the men, trembling with anticipation, moved forward from the wall. The men went back in line. ‘Bear in mind this is but a drill and you are going to practice it relentlessly until you can perform it in your sleep.’ He was silent a moment as he observed the men. Keen-eyed, a swirling fog of breath rose above them as they awaited his instruction. Some were as young as fifteen, some as old as sixty. All knew they had to pay their dues to Brythonfort.

  ‘Slowly! ... walk towards each other!’ Erec’s shout rang out crisply, and the opposing shieldwalls began to close the gap between them. Almost at once, the walls became jagged and broken. Several of the shield-bearing men stumbled to the ground and the men behind attempted to walk over them. ‘Stop where you are. Stop NOW!’ Erec played the reins of his horse steering the beast nearer to the rumpus.

  Feeling rather foolish, Pwyll picked himself and his shield up from the ground. Panting with the effort of the drill, he got back in line and awaited Erec’s further orders. He stole a quick glance at Arlyn, glad the fellow stood beside him. Like Pwyll, Arlyn was a simple, unassuming man. He had quickly taken to Pwyll upon arriving at Brythonfort, which in itself was rare, because men usually mocked Pwyll and his slow demeanor.

  ‘Shoulder to shoulder remember,’ said Arlyn as he pressed close. Pwyll nodded and lifted his shield. His left arm went through its leather loops; his right hand held a wooden sword.

  When Flint had arrived at Aquae Sulis a week earlier looking for men, he had gone to the quarry and approached Pwyll directly. Pwyll had made up his mind to go to Brythonfort for training as soon as Augustus’ name had been mentioned. His hero would be in the shieldwall eventually and that was good enough for him, because since Augustus had saved him from humiliation in the wine shop his life had become much easier. That such an immense man looked out for him had spurred even his most dogged tormentors to leave him alone. Augustus’ expulsion of Hal and Menw from Aquae Sulis was the talk of the city and Pwyll had since enjoyed his cups of wine in peace.

  Pwyll’s first sight of Brythonfort, looming as a stranded whale on the distant horizon, made him gasp as if he had risen to the surface of the water. The enormity of the bastion was almost too much for him to take in. He had never seen anything that came anywhere near in size to the massive buttress and its surrounding stone wall. He had exchanged an open-mouthed stare with Arlyn, who by then had befriended him. But that was merely the start of the wonder they were to experience on their first morning. When inside Brythonfort and still stunned by the magnitude of the structure, Arthur, whom neither had seen until that day, came to them and the others.

  Pwyll hardly heard Arthur’s stirring speech, such was the utter exuberance he experienced in the man’s presence. Quite simply, Arthur radiated an aura Pwyll could actually feel as if it were a tangible entity. Standing nearly as tall as Augustus, Arthur was raw boned and fair of face. With eyes burning with conviction, he had walked amongst the men and actually touched Pwyll on the shoulder as he delivered his passionate address. The touch came as a lightning strike to Pwyll, who immediately realised that he, Pwyll, would run naked into the pits of hell if Arthur but asked him to.

  The introduction of Erec, his instructor, did little to diminish Pwyll’s awe. Another man who exuded power and authority, Erec had at first seemed harsh and uncompromising as he chivvied the raw recruits into some semblance of order. Two days were then to pass before Erec allowed anyone to touch either shield or wooden sword. These objects had remained stacked, enticing and mysterious, on the edge of the drill ground, as Erec had pummeled the rudiments of military discipline into the recruits.

  Now Pwyll hefted his shield and grasped his sword as he readied himself to move forward in the wall again. Six of Erec’s assistants strode through the gap between the shieldwalls checking them for trueness. One of them stood before Pwyll, and pushed and pulled at his shield. ‘Good man,’ he encouraged, as Pwyll held firm. ‘Meet any force with an equal amount and more.’ He and the other instructors went along the line throwing themselves at the shields in a test of their solidity. When satisfied the walls were steady and ready to advance again, they ran from the gap.

  Erec again took over. ‘At my command, move forward, this time slower and in a straight line. You men at the back, do not push unless I tell you to do so. For now just follow the shields.’ Silence and tension ensued. ‘Move now,’ shouted Erec.

  Pwyll shuffled forward, the clacking of wooden shield against wooden shield the prominent noise as the space between the two walls closed. In spite of Erec’s instruction, Pwyll had to fight the urge to rush ahead at the opposing shieldwall.

  ‘That’s better, keep it slow and get ready to engage! Easy, easy, come together; DO NOT LOSE YOUR FORM! Come together NOW!’

  A gasp left Pwyll as an earsplitting crash heralded the meeting of shields. Regardless of Erec’s earlier edict, the men behind pressed forward in a powerful surge. A whoosh of outrushing air was expelled from the lungs of the shield carriers on both sides. Across from Pwyll, and nose to nose with him, stood his shield-carrying counterpart—a middle-aged farmer who until that day had never spoken in anger to any man, let alone glare at one as if he were some Saxon dog out to rape his wife.

  ‘MEN AT THE BACK STOP YOUR PUSHING!’ Erec slid from his horse and walked to the edge of the press. As his assistants paced behind the walls, pulling away those who had not heeded him, Erec tested the pressure upon the shields nearest. He stepped back so all could hear him. ‘This gives you a flavor of how close you men at the front will be to your opponent. You will smell the ale on his breath, and as he spits out his foul curses you will see his last meal smeared on every rotten tooth in his mouth. But it will be far worse than this. They will attempt to push you back. Men will slash at your ankles ... stab at your eyes ... try to breach the wall. You will feel crushed as your own men behind lend weight to you and attempt to push the Saxon wall backwards. And while all this is happening you will be expected to cut at them with your swords.’

  Erec walked behind the walls so that men at the back could hear him clearly. ‘You men may not hold a shield at the moment but that is not to say your role is unimportant. On the contrary, you are part of a whole. Firstly, as soon as the shieldwalls meet, you must shove with all your might. Keep shoving and be ready to move forward to the front of the line. The reason for this is twofold. Firstly, you must be prepared to take a shield and give the shield bearers respite because—believe me—life at the front is intense. Shield bearers you will then drop to the rear and lend your weight to the shieldwall. The second reason for getting to the front will be to replace dead men.’

  As Erec let his last statement hang, Pwyll gave a sideways glance and saw his own shocked expression mirrored by Arlyn. The shield-bearing farmer opposite had also stopped glaring at him. Now his eyes swam with fear and disquiet. Erec took up the thread of his instruction again. ‘Yes ... this is war and some of you will die.’

  Erec continued to saunte
r behind the walls, imparting the reality of combat to the men. Arthur, who by now viewed the exercise from the elevation of his own horse, looked grave. ‘They all know there are casualties in war but that’s the first time many will have heard it said in such stark terms.’

  Flint spoke. ‘Now we must wait and see if any desert. Until now, the newness of everything—the wonder of seeing Brythonfort and yourself, high lord—has enthralled most of them, probably to the exclusion of thoughts of their own mortality.’

  ‘Three in ten, Flint,’ said Arthur. ‘That would be the usual number of desertions at training. Gods know how many of them will run from the actual battlefield.’

  By now, Erec had completed his slow instructive walk around the back of the two shieldwalls. Pungent in the still air, the smell of tension had become cloying. He remounted his horse. ‘Next we will feel what it’s like to have many men come against your wall.’ He gave a nod to his assistants and the six men ran behind one of the groups. ‘Men on the right!’ shouted Erec. ‘At the count of three I want you to push against your opposing wall. Men on the left, you must resist the push. Hear me on this. I said RESIST! That means pushing back enough to hold position and nothing more.’ He waited a moment, gave signal by eye contact with his trainers, then began. ‘On three, get ready. ONE ... TWO ... THREE!’