She jumped as the delving tool severed the mud and rush wall of the hut by her right shoulder. An old, bronzed and gnarled hand pushed through the gap and pulled away a section of the wall. She almost shouted with joy as Simon’s familiar and much loved head appeared through the gap, his finger to his lips in a hushing gesture. Again, he pulled at the wall, and a huge section came away. Martha was quickly through.
Simon pointed to a distant gorse bank. ‘Make for the gorse,’ he whispered hurriedly, ‘crawl inside it as deep as you can and wait for me.’ He sensed Martha’s hesitancy so he pushed her towards her goal. ‘Run like the wind, go now!’ Martha lost no time fleeing the hut, leaving him to usher out the remaining women.
As soon as he pulled the last of the women from the hut, he ran as fast as his years would allow towards an overgrown ditch, where he crawled, hidden, along its considerable length. As he moved slowly along, he was dismayed to hear screaming as the raiders quickly recaptured the women. Although crestfallen at this realisation, his determination to continue and help Martha escape now became his focus, and he got to the end of the ditch just in time to see her enter the gorse. He ducked quickly out of sight as he heard the sound of the approaching chase.
The coarse shouts of the raiders in the village had stood out in sharp contrast to the morning birdsong as Martha had run in a stumbling gait towards the gorse bank. Thankful that no shouts of alarm yet sounded, she nevertheless knew that the cry would inevitably come. In dread of this, she had continued until reaching a confusion of brambles. She had pushed through this last barrier, oblivious to the scratches and rents inflicted upon her, and jumped into a shallow hollow beside the gorse, grateful for the cover it afforded her.
The gorse now loomed expansively in front of her, and she noticed a formed tunnel at its base. She realised at once that this was the hideaway used by the boys from the village for adventure. Simon’s plea for urgency still rang in her head, but her attention wavered when the cry of alarm came from the village. Her fears were confirmed when she risked a hasty look over the edge of the ditch. The other women had been quickly recaptured after hesitating too long, and Simon was nowhere in sight. The fat raider, who had earlier grabbed her friend, was marshalling the men to conduct a sweeping search. As she watched, two of the men began to run across the open ground towards her.
Knowing it was her only option; she turned and entered the knee-high tunnel to hide. She saw that it continued for some distance before her, and that many side passages led from it. She took a random turn, and another, then another, and became aware she was in an extensive labyrinth. The effort of the escape was beginning to take its toll as her breath escaped her in heaving gasps, so she allowed herself a brief rest, propped on one elbow in the gloom of the maze.
Her breath froze as she heard the guttural sound of men’s voices outside the gorse bank. They were involved in a heated discussion, which made Martha think they were unsure what to do next. Seizing upon their hesitancy, she started to move down the tunnel, deeper into the gorse outcrop—her intention now to hide within its intricate interior. The thought evaporated when a rustling and cursing coming from the opening to the gorse maze indicated that at least one of the men had entered and was moving towards her.
He turned and shouted at his companion who waited outside the tunnel. The expletive nature of his outburst told her he was having trouble moving his bulk through the gorse. She recoiled as she caught a glimpse of his foot as he twisted and turned. Her heart now pounded wildly as she fought to stop her breath from escaping in panicky gasps. She realised it would only be a matter of time before he systematically sought her out, and as he started to crawl down the passage towards her she prepared herself for capture.
Her galloping heart jumped to her throat as a hand clamped over her mouth. Managing to turn her head sideways, she looked into Simon’s old, familiar face. His pale, blue eyes were wide open, and looked almost comical, such was their urgency.
As before, he brought his finger to his lips and hissed a slow, steady, ‘shhh.’ When satisfied her self control was stable, he unclamped his hand and beckoned her to follow him.
Martha could see he had squeezed through a thin gap in the wall of gorse behind her. He went back through it but left his arm trailing to assist her through the tight squeeze. After grasping his forearm, he pulled her through the constriction into a shoulder-high circular chamber. The sounds of the search continued behind them, urging Simon to act quickly
Crouching in the speckled shade, Simon’s voice was low and urgent. ‘This was the lads’ secret den. It serves us well, but we only have seconds. Follow me closely when we get out. It’s going to be tricky, but there is a path near our exit, steep and tangled. It leads down to the valley bottom. Stay close to me and be careful.’
After pushing through several tight but yielding sections of the gorse wall, they emerged into the daylight. They stood on the edge of a steep drop; a deep narrow valley directly below them; the gorse bank rising steeply above them. Simon carefully climbed over the precipice to find footing on a narrow ledge five feet below.
He turned and beckoned Martha to join him. Peering over the edge, they looked down to the distant valley bottom and their only chance of escape.
Martha could see no possible way down, and felt that Simon had misjudged their situation. The gorse from which they had just emerged completely cut off the edge of the crag from the rest of the forest, and the only way to move appeared to be back through the gorse.
Simon beckoned Martha to follow him, and they carefully made their way along a rocky corridor between the edge of the gorse and the sheer drop into the valley bottom. They halted at a point where the gorse turned to meet the edge of the cliff, thus barring their way. Simon stopped and lifted the prickly barrier enough for Martha to squeeze underneath. When she had done this, she lifted the gorse for Simon to squeeze through and join her on the other side.
Yet another huge bank of gorse seemed to block their way, but this time Simon urged, ‘Stay very close to me now, the path can be very steep and broken, there are few hand holds.’
As if to emphasise his urgency, the sound of agitated voices came from where they had stood moments before, warning them that their pursuers had themselves emerged from the main body of the gorse and were only a short distance from them.
Simon looked urgently at Martha, and led her by the hand towards the next barrier of gorse that blocked their path. On reaching it, he squeezed under like before, but this time climbed down into a deep ditch that ran at a right angle to the cliff edge. Martha followed him, clutching the back of his belt, as he carefully felt his way to the edge of the drop. She was relieved to see that a narrow path existed and ran down the steep walls of the cliff down to the distant valley bottom.
Simon’s relief was palpable. ‘I thought past rain might have washed the path away, but it still holds. Be careful and stay close to me.’
The clay path was slimy and their progress along it was slow and laboured. Only inches wide in some places, it twisted down the side of the incline. As they started to move, and in mortal fear of falling, Martha and Simon grabbed wildly at the sparse vegetation that grew from the sheer wall of clay beside them.
A shouting from above had them stop dead in their tracks. They looked up to see the invaders peering over the edge of the bluff. The men had spotted them and stood on the other side of the first gorse obstruction, unsure of how to make further progress.
A heated discussion ensued between them, and at least one member of the group, who pointed back the way they had come, seemed intent on either giving up the chase or finding another way to the valley bottom. His two companions were having none of it, and after much gesticulation, the largest of the three clambered over the edge of the drop and attempted to gain purchase with his feet upon the slippery clay.
Simon looked at Martha’s worried face and smiled knowingly. ‘Don’t fret,’ he reassured her, ‘he won’t make it. My main worry was him following o
ur route. He’s gone the wrong way so he’s buggered now.’
Martha looked at Simon and for the first time felt they might escape. Her trust and admiration for the old man’s single mindedness had grown as events had unfolded.
Meanwhile the Saxon kicked the toes of his leather boots hard into the unyielding layer of clay, and slowly made progress down to a narrow ledge, ten feet below his companions. He looked towards them, and Martha recoiled as she recognised him as one of the men who had looked lustfully into the hut during her capture. This time his eyes shone with a triumphant ridicule as he sensed that he was about to capture a woman who he had relished and anticipated earlier in the day. He shouted at Martha, mockingly grabbing his groin and beckoning her towards him. However, this was to prove to be his undoing as his feet slipped from the ledge. He began to slide slowly down the incline towards the point where it ended and became a vertical drop of fifty rock-strewn feet.
He shouted to the men above him. One of them, in response, lay flat on the edge of the cliff, offering his arm at full stretch in an effort to reach him. The effort proved futile as his reach fell short, and the stricken man continued his slide down the slope.
Martha and Simon looked on as the man scrambled frantically to gain purchase in the greasy clay. He looked pleadingly at the nearest person, Martha, who stared impassively at him as he fell screaming over the cliff to plummet in a flesh-shredding, bone-breaking fall to the valley floor.
The two remaining men shrank instinctively from the edge of the cliff after witnessing this. The one who had been arguing earlier for a return to the village, waved his arm in frustration towards Martha and Simon, and turned from the cliff face to retrace his steps back through the gorse. His companion stepped to the edge of the drop and looked down into the depths at the other man’s broken and lifeless body. He shouted at Martha and Simon, and as a last act of defiance threw a rock at them before turning to follow the other man.
The rock missed by some distance and Simon turned to Martha and nodded in the direction of the dead man. ‘We’ve only a slightly better chance of getting down unscathed than he had. This year’s rain has worn the path to almost nothing in places. We’ve to be very careful or we’ll end up like him.’
Martha was trembling with the effort of trying to stand on the four-inch ledge of clay. She looked at Simon. ‘Then let’s get it over with. I need to rest soon, and I don’t care if I do it in this life or the next.’
Simon looked pained as he covered her shaking hand with his. ‘I too lost everything back there, and I fear they’ll strike ever deeper into our lands, but for now we’ve survived, and may yet get the chance to warn others.’
‘Then let’s get down off this cliff while we still have the strength,’ said Martha wearily.
Three hours later, they stood in the gloomy, narrow valley bottom. Here, the stream ran listlessly after the recent drought. Nearby, they found the body of the raider who had fallen earlier. The bloody, twisted carcass had come to rest near the streams edge. A terrible rage flared up inside Martha at the sight of the dead man, and Simon had to restrain her from committing further injury upon his broken body.
When she calmed, Simon led her away and coaxed her to sit down beside a tree. His voice was gentle as he said, ‘We should save our hatred and retribution for the live ones. This one can be of use to us. I’ll strip him of his cloak, and spear, and boots.’ He proceeded, and when he had finished, he threw the cloak to Martha. ‘Put this over you. Night’s not far off and we must keep moving until we’re out of sight of the crags.’
She threw the cloak to one side, her face twisted in disgust. ‘I’d rather freeze to death than wear that shit,’ she shuddered. ‘Throw it into the stream. Get rid of it.’
Simon picked up the cloak, and sighed. ‘It’s just a cloak Martha, but I’ll keep anyway … we’ve to use what we can find now.’
Laying the heavy, plaid cloak on the ground, he placed the boots inside it. He wrapped the cloak around the objects, and secured the resulting coil with the leather belt, leaving a loop big enough to sling over his shoulder. He looked at Martha. ‘Come on,’ he said as he helped her to her feet, ‘just a little further then we can rest.’
Martha stood up and nodded, and followed Simon as he carefully picked his way through the tangle of bramble and nettle, and headed for the dark interior of the forest.
Osric, the leader of the eastern campaign, joined the raiders the day after the raid on the village. He was a tall and imposing man who wore his long, red hair braided and festooned with dyed strips of leather. A white scar that ran diagonally from the top of his ear to the corner of his mouth dissected his gaunt face; a face that bore pocked-marked testimony to a bout of smallpox in his adolescence. He had spent the previous month at his base in Camulodunum, where he had planned invasion strategy with his higher-ranking men. He had also whored and drunk ale in huge quantities. Feeling it was time he personally observed what progress had occurred, he decided to visit Withred and the recently promoted if unpredictable Egbert.
Withred had briefed him of the previous day’s misfortunes, and Osric had kicked the men into wakefulness after their drunken slumber. He had then proceeded to berate them, and had accused Egbert of sloppiness; threatening him with demotion should any other misdemeanors befall them.
He later addressed the group of men; his earlier fury now subsided; his four bodyguards standing imposingly behind him. Behind them stood a bedraggled and dejected line of women and children, bound together with neck halters and destined for the slave markets. The smouldering village, festooned with discarded corpses, completed the grim backdrop.
Osric’s pale face was set grim and determined as he strutted in front of the men giving his briefing. ‘I‘ve decided it’s time to find more territory. We’ve exhausted all the villages in this part of the land, and our own people have moved in where we’ve emptied the land of the Britons. The campaigning season is still with us, but I intend to return to the coast with the captured Britons. Also, I’ll gather information from the field and decide on next year’s strategy.’
He looked at Egbert. ‘You’ll again lead the men, and travel through the forest to see what lies on the other side. Some say there are villages and towns there, and this you’ll find out and chart the route to any places we can raid. By going directly through the forest, we’ll steal a march on those who avoid it. Your route will be difficult, but the southern roads are a rutted and muddy nightmare, and those who travel on them have found the journey slow and troublesome, and ripe for ambush.
‘There’s also rumoured to be a marching route through the forest, and if you find this, the journey will be far easier. Gathering slaves is our job now—they’re worth a fortune. I’ve been told the woman you let escape was a beauty and worth her weight in solid gold.’ Again, he fixed Egbert with a hard stare, and pointed towards a group of laden ponies grazing some distance away. ‘I’ve also brought weapons. After finding more villages—as I’m sure you will—a number of you will set up a weapons store to provide future raiders with whatever they need to break heads. When you’ve done this, you’ll return to me.’
At this, a buzz of conversation broke out amongst the men, and Tomas, who was sitting at the rear of the group, sensed that Osric’s command was unwelcome.
Egbert came to the front of the group, his shaggy black beard matted from days of wallowing in filth. ‘But it’s been a hard spell for us, why not finish the season in this area, then start this trek you talk of—this march through the brambles—next year, or at the beginning of the new campaign when there’ll be ample fodder for the ponies. Surely the men deserve a rest.’
A murmur of approval grew in support of Egbert’s challenge: the most enthusiastic endorsements coming from men who Osric knew to be supporters of Egbert.
Osric gave Egbert a hard stare. ‘I’ll not take a full company of men through the forest next year chasing their fucking tails. We need to know that good land lies beyond that wilderness. Yo
u’ve made too many mistakes lately, so to make amends you’ll lead the men on this mission. Withred will make sure you’re up to the job.’
He gave the group a cold stare and surveyed them for further dissention. Seeing none, he barked out his orders. ‘Now I’ll hear no more arguments, get ready to leave.’ He looked at Withred, who nodded towards Tomas. ‘Ah yes,’ said Osric, reminded now. ‘Egbert … the slave will help you prepare, and he can serve you on your journey … and listen to me—no harm must come to him. His value increased when he learned our tongue, and I may yet choose to sell him.’
Egbert let out a chesty laugh. ‘It seems you’re determined to make me lose fat, but if this is what you want, then let it be so … I’ll get ready to leave.’ He turned and walked through the group of men towards the ponies, his eyes cold and furious.
CHAPTER THREE
Murdoc was becoming increasingly concerned about Ceola. She slept in a feverish torment as he pushed his way through the relentless bramble at the forest edge. He sensed she was growing weaker and realised she needed rest and food. His tongue was dry and fattened from thirst, having given the last of the water to Ceola. The sun still burned, but he knew the daylight would not last much longer. He wearily considered his options. He had to find drinkable water or they would both die. Then he would build a rough shelter for the night.
The Red And Savage Tongue (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 3
