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

by Atkinson, F J

  Guertepir’s shieldwall, seeing the withdrawal of the chariots, had started to disintegrate. At first, just a few men peeled away, but soon swathes of them covered the slopes of Badon Hill. Seeing this, Guertepir’s archers and cavalry ascended the hill a distance to provide cover for the retreat.

  On the ridge, the cheering erupted to a new intensity and this time Arthur was happy to let his men celebrate for a while. But as the survivors from the British shieldwall trudged to the summit, Gherwan’s euphoria faded. Many British lay dead below him; more than half of Arthur’s force, by his guess, had perished that day.

  He took Arthur and Flint to one side, away from the sounds of celebration. ‘It’s good that we won the day, but this is the end for us,’ he said.

  Arthur was crestfallen. ‘I fear what you are about to tell me, but how many do we number now?’

  ‘Eight hundred men or thereabouts for the shields, three hundred cavalry and over one hundred archers.’

  ‘And the enemy force?’

  ‘At a guess, still two thousand shields, even after today’s heavy losses. Cavalry about the same as us—three hundred. Chariots … eighty or so.’

  ‘But now we have the ballistae,’ said Flint. ‘Surely they count for something.’

  ‘Yes, but we can’t beat them with ballistae alone; the men are finished, there’s no fight left in them’—he pointed towards the ridge where shieldsmen lay prone and spent—‘can you really see them forming a thin wall tomorrow and lasting longer than a mere moment?’

  ‘But surely we can keep their wall at bay with the ballista,’ pressed Flint.

  ‘If we had an unlimited supply of bolts, maybe so, but Guertepir’s not stupid—he’ll sacrifice his men until the ballistae fall silent.’

  ‘But we can’t give in.’ Arthur’s voice was barely above a whisper, such was the level of his disappointment. ’Not after all that’s happened today; we just can’t give in.’

  Gherwan looked at Arthur, looked at Flint. He shrugged. ‘No … I don’t suppose we can,’ he said.

  Augustus lounged beside the campfire with Pwyll and six other men—Pwyll being the only survivor from the group who had joked with Augustus the previous night. All possessed the hollow-eyed look of men who had witnessed unspeakable horror.

  Pwyll slapped his palm gently against his ear as if trying to expel a demon from the organ. ‘I still hear the battle as if it rages just over the hill,’ he said, ‘I can’t get the damned noise out of my head.’

  As the other men muttered their concurrence, Augustus, who had recently arrived from Arthur’s war council, made to get up. ‘You and me both,’ he said. He placed his hand on Pwyll’s shoulder as he grunted to his feet and started to walk to the rear of the hill. ‘But it will go away eventually, Pwyll, trust me.’

  He strolled to a grassy shadow that overlooked the tumble of fields leading away from Aquae Sulis. He climbed onto the hummock. Below him lay darkness and the service roads used by Arthur’s forces; and somewhere beyond the fields his beloved Modlen camped under the dark sky. Tomorrow would be his last day as a living man—he knew that now. Arthur and the rest had decided to fight on, but there was no hope. The men around the fire had nothing left to give. They were typical of all the men he had spoken to, and he had spoken to most of them. His thoughts dwelt upon Modlen and the dear children they had recieved as their own. What would happen to them? How would they cope without him? Would they even survive the storm about to blow their way? A flicker in the distance caught his eye. Torchlight? The eyes of a fox? A trick of the darkness? He did not know. Then the point of light was joined by another … and another. Augustus tensed, something was amiss. Soon, pinpricks of orange studded the night like emergent nebulae in a distant galaxy. He turned and left the hillside. Arthur needed to be told.

  Along the good Roman road, Modlen and Nila had travelled thirty miles in their covered wagon. After reaching the halfway point between Aquae Sulis and Brythonfort, and one hour before dusk, they decided it sensible to make camp for the night.

  Titon, sniffing and exploring, had romped alongside the wagon all day. On two occasions the mastiff had set rabbits to flight, but his efforts to catch them had come to nothing. Now the dog lay prone and panting, tired after a long day of adventure.

  ‘I’ll tie him to the wheels,’ said Modlen as she poked a stick into the night fire. ‘Don’t want him running off into the blackness; Gus’ll never forgive me; he’s grown so fond of the animal.’

  ‘Gus would forgive you anything,’ teased Nila. ‘He adores your very bones, anyone can see it.’ She knelt and stroked Titon. ‘This fellow needs a drink. I’ll get him some from the stream over there; he’s not having our fresh water, that’s for sure.’

  Raedwald watched the women from a distance. Their shadows danced around the glow of their fire and, most importantly, they had tied up the dog. He intended to kill the slim woman first—the one embraced by Dominic that morning. Such a deed would crucify the bastard. Then when he, Raedwald, rejoined the Saxon infantry he would get to Dominic himself and more importantly to Withred the turncoat—the man who had killed his father.

  He flinched as the slim woman left the fire. She was walking towards the stream—walking towards him!

  Arthur stood three paces from Ffodor, seemingly unable to take in his visage. Vulture-like and stern, with his beaky eyes and bushy eyebrows, Ffodor stood in the livery of a Roman general.

  He shot a look towards Flint. ‘Found out it wasn’t your man who shagged my daughter after all’—he gave a sideways nod to his man, Rogan—‘it was my champion all along … he or the dozen others who made the beast with two backs with the flighty mare.’

  Arthur nodded sagely. ‘I told you my man was not responsible. If you had listened to me, many of those dead on the fields tonight would be returning to their farms and villages instead of lining the bellies of crows.’

  Ffodor gave a self-recriminatory sigh. ‘I know, you have no need to tell me. I am a stubborn man … blinkered even. But I thank the lord I have men such as Rogan, who put the security of our lands above their own safety. He was aware he endangered his head when he came to me with his revelation, but for once a dogged old man was able to see sense.’

  Arthur peered into the darkness behind Ffodor. There, a great host had begun to strike camp. ‘And so here you are, better late than never.’

  ‘Yes, and I have brought you another sixteen hundred men for the shields and four hundred Rome-trained knights.’

  ‘And chariots; I saw chariots,’ came in Flint.

  ‘Ah, yes … chariots; fifty of them.’

  Arthur pointed along the ridge where many fires burned. ‘My men are too tired to even come and investigate your arrival. I expected them to stand with the shields tomorrow but not much more. A night’s rest and the sight of fresh men may yet get them to push with vigour in the morning.’

  Gherwan arrived. ‘I’ve walked amongst the new arrivals and all are in good shape.’ He gave Ffodor a brief bow of his head. ‘You keep your levy well trained, my lord. With them, we equal the enemy in numbers now; furthermore, the men of Travena are hungry for combat.’ He turned to Arthur. ‘Tomorrow we should assemble on the ridge and show Guertepir what we’ve got.’

  THE BATTLE — DAY FOUR

  Guertepir had thundered at Wigstan. Now, the Saxon chief, whose spiked blond hair had fallen into a greasy heap to sit flat upon his head, tried desperately to defend himself against the Hibernian’s tirade.

  ‘What did you expect!’ he shouted. ‘Did I not say fill the shieldwall with Saxon, Votadini and Hibernians on the second day; but—no—you expected a quick victory.’ His tone became mocking. ‘“We must be prudent,” you said, “you brave Saxons will be enough to defeat them,” you said, “keep men back to meet the British reinforcements when they arrive.” Except they didn’t come … eh Guertepir? Arthur duped you to attack him uphill, that’s apparent now. And look what happened—the British lived to fight another day, and what a tr
emendous fight!’—he counted out on his fingers—‘Cenhelm gone, Hrodgar gone, Osbeorn gone—‘

  ‘And overnight half of your cowardly force gone!’ roared Guertepir. ‘Look outside! Half of the wagons departed from the fields—no doubt driven by Saxons who changed chainmail for smocks. We now have scant advantage over them because of your cowardly fyrd.’

  ‘Can you blame them after their chiefs were slain and Arthur began firing half-trees up their arses!’ defended the Jute ‘Believe me, man; it’s much easier for them to return to their old lives … to milk goats and cut barley … anything rather than walk up that damned hill again.’

  Diarmait, who stood with Cunedda (the two men having become close friends since their trip to Camulodunum) intervened. ‘On thing’s for sure,’ he said. ‘Allies who fight amongst themselves always end up on the losing side. Bear in mind, even with the desertions, we still hold an advantage in numbers over them, and now we know of the ballistae we can be better prepared.’

  ‘Dahh!’ Frustrated, Guertepir swiped the wine from his mouth with a cloth and tossed the rag on the table before him. ‘The dawn’s almost here and I’ve no wish to hear any more Saxon, or Jute, or whatever-you-are, Wigstan, excuses!’ He turned from them, his patience exhausted. ‘Meet me on the walls in the morning,’ he muttered over his shoulder as he walked away. ‘For now, an old man needs his sleep.’

  ‘Sleep … he goes for a sleep, I do not believe it,’ said Cunedda some moments later as he gave Diarmait a disbelieving glance. Diarmait’s look to Cunedda—we should speak now about our matter—was not lost upon the Votadini chief. He was silent awhile before emitting a reluctant, inevitable sigh. He made his decision and guided Diarmait from the room. ‘Very well, my friend,’ he said, ‘we will talk further.’

  ‘Cunedda … the sun’s risen and you really need to see this.’ Abloyc, who had camped beside the northern wall of Aquae Sulis overnight, bristled with urgency. ‘It seems Arthur has indeed got help.’

  Cunedda, alarmed, rose from the table where he had been sitting with Diarmait. ‘Get Wigstan to meet us at the gates,’ he told Abloyc. ‘And try to drag the men from their women and get them to form a wall.’

  The assembly strode from the gates of Aquae Sulis. On the summit of Badon Hill, men stood along its entire ridge, their shields displaying the osprey crest of Ffodor, their apparel and weaponry that of Rome.

  Abloyc frowned and tugged at his blond chin-beard. ‘I don’t understand this,’ he mused, ‘I thought the Romans had left these isles.’

  ‘And so they have,’ said Cunedda. ‘Like Arthur, these men belong to the Dumnonii. They are Britons. The Roman apparel can only mean one thing: Ffodor. Like Arthur, he trains his men to fight as Romans.’

  Abloyc was concerned. ‘This changes things,’ he said. ‘Before their arrival we had a tough day before us, now our position is positively shaky. We’ve no idea how many more men lurk behind that hill … and look, they have chariots.’

  Interspersed between the men on the crest, Ffodor’s chariots had been driven to the fore. Diarmait and Wigstan shared the concerned expressions of Cunedda and Abloyc as they craned to see up the hill.

  Irritated, Wigstan turned towards the city gates. ‘Guertepir … where in hell’s name is the man? Surely he’s out of his bed by now. Does he think this is just—‘

  An ashen Kelwin, the guardian of Guertepir’s purse and the man who had advised him to raid cattle from the western peninsular, rushed from the gates. His demeanor abruptly put Wigstan to silence. ‘It’s Guertepir,’ he said, stricken. ‘He’s drowned in the pool. Almaith and his druid are beside him and dead in the water. It appears they tested out their new found immortality and failed.’

  Two hours passed as Arthur, Ffodor and Gherwan stood upon the ridge of Badon Hill. One thousand paces below them, two shieldwalls, consisting of mainly Hibernians and Votadini had assembled. Each was two hundred men wide and four men deep. Central to them, Hibernian chariots waited. Enemy cavalry had taken to each flank.

  ‘They seek to impress us with their strength,’ said Ffodor. ‘The fear of Mars must be upon them.’

  ‘If they hope to intimidate our men, they’re wasting their time,’ said Arthur. ‘Those that remain will not be daunted.’

  Ffodor gripped Arthur’s arm and pointed his long fingered hand towards the distant assembly. His vulture’s eyes had noticed a movement before the enemy line. ‘See … they have sent out an envoy. A number of them ride to the fore waving the flag of truce.’

  Arthur gave a puzzled shake of his head. ‘They wish to talk?’ After considering his options for some moments he turned to Gherwan. ‘Get Withred and Flint … and while you’re at it, Dominic and twenty of his archers.’

  ‘You purpose to meet with them, then,’ asked Ffodor as Gherwan departed.

  ‘Yes, why not, what have we to lose? Who knows, they might intend to stand firm below … get us to go to them. I wouldn’t blame them. Would you come up this hill against us?’

  ‘That, I would not. One thing’s for sure, though; they’ve pricked my curiosity.’ Soon, Gherwan arrived with the men ‘Come,’ said Ffodor, ‘let’s hear them out.’

  Diarmait and Cunedda had decided to tackle the problem of Guertepir—the Hibernian king’s excesses and strange behaviour having led them to question his sanity.

  After learning of his atrocity at the bathhouse, both men had become deeply concerned. Going to war was one thing; blood sacrifice and an attempt at deification another. Cunedda was not sure he could trust Guertepir to keep his side of the bargain. Diarmait, for his part, was uncertain if he even wanted to serve under the king anymore.

  Furthermore, the Saxons had taken heavy losses, and along with desertions now numbered less than six hundred men. Of the chiefs, only Wigstan had survived, but the Jute’s dejection had considerably deepened since Hrodgar and Cenhelm had fallen in battle. As for Diarmait and Cunedda, any thoughts of a campaign into the west with such a sorry Saxon crew had become unthinkable.

  ‘I want freedom to patrol your seaboard and you want a quiet life in Dyfed,’ Cunedda had said to Diarmait after the third day of battle. ‘What we are even doing here now is beyond me.’

  ‘We’re here because of a mad man’s greed and Saxon ambition,’ replied Diarmait, ‘but there may be another way to deal with this.’

  Cunedda, who had no need for Diarmait to spell it out, nevertheless foresaw a problem. ’Not with Guertepir alive there isn’t … or for that matter his wife and druid.’

  Frowning, Diarmait had rubbed his hand across the stubble of his chin as he studied the flames of the nearby, warming fire. He considered the implications of Cunedda’s statement, before giving him a look of deep gravitas. ‘If we kill them, it needs to appear to be an accident,’ he said. ‘The retribution from his wife’s father in Hibernia and the more loyal of his people in Dyfed will plunge my land into chaos if foul play is suspected.’

  ‘And the Saxons, what do we do about them?’

  ‘Let them go home. Wigstan is already a beaten man … his followers more so.’

  They left and dealt with Muirecán first. The druid was sleeping an uneasy slumber in the cellars below the temple of Sulis Minerva. Cunedda held him down whilst Diarmait pushed a woolen blanket over his face. Against such strength, Muirecán’s resistance was short lived and futile.

  Almaith slept alone in a separate chamber from Guertepir ‘I’m doing you a service, believe me,’ Diarmait had whispered to her as he raised the blanket. Almaith, like Muirecán, died quickly, leaving only Guertepir to deal with.

  The Hibernian king was awake, his shadow looming before the window. He sat peering outwards. As Cunedda waited, Diarmait considered the blanket, shook his head in dismissal, then let it fall to the ground. From his tunic, he took a leather throng and crept towards Guertepir. Swiftly, he slipped the ligature around Guertepir’s neck and pulled upwards. But Guertepir had had no intentions of delivering his death on a plate for Diarmait. Wild eyed, he thrashed, k
icked and gargled, surprising his captain with the depth of his strength and energy. Diarmait fell to the floor with him and Cunedda grabbed Guertepir’s legs, restricting his flailing. He turned his head away as Guertepir defecated. A final, gurgling choke, as if spitting out one last defiant curse, came from Guertepir as his struggle finally abated. He was dead.

  They pulled his corpse from the room and into the dark night. Above them patrolling the wall, three guards spoke briefly as they crossed.

  ‘Hide him in the shadows,’ whispered Cunedda. ‘We must wait till the guards are away from us.’

  The pair caught their breaths and dragged Guertepir (for lifting him was out of the question, such was his bulk) towards the gloom below the wall. When the footfalls from above faded, they considered it safe to move and hauled him through the shadows until reaching the stone ingress of the bathhouse. After pulling the corpse inside, they laid it in a puddle of deep shadow beneath the image of Sulis Minerva, then left to fetch Muirecán.

  Thin of frame and much lighter than Guertepir, the druid was lifted to Cunedda’s shoulder. Stooped, the Votadini chief trudged with him into the dark streets, while Diarmait crept ahead, alert for any who might be abroad. Muirecán’s portage passed without incident. At the temple, they placed him beside Guertepir, then left for Almaith.

  Heavier than Muirecán, they took her lolling form by the shoulders and ankles and weaved back through the narrow streets, chancing their luck as they stumbled towards the bathhouse.

  Once there, they walked into the thermal pool with Almaith. ‘Seems that Sulis approves our action,’ commented Cunedda as he released Almaith’s body. Her wan face rolled upwards in the water; her grey locks a swirling mass around her head.