It was during one of the raids that he had attempted his one and only escape. As was usual after rounding up the ponies, he had walked to the edge of the village with the intention of taking up his customary position: sitting huddled with his back to the savagery until the men called for him. This day, he had been unable to listen to the screams any longer, and had run weeping into a nearby thicket where he had hidden for the rest of the day. Here, he had crouched until nightfall, unsure of whether to remain or run.
He had heard the dreaded sound of alarm as darkness fell. Nevertheless, he had managed to remain hidden throughout the night, and in the morning he had bolted and run across the abandoned fields of the village, having no plan apart from putting as much distance between himself and his tormentors. His efforts had been to no avail and he had been spotted just as he was about to enter the forest. They had quickly captured him and returned him to the furious Egbert.
Withred had stopped Egbert from killing Tomas that day, reasoning that they still needed a slave, as they had spared no one after running completely amok in the village. For days after this, Tomas had felt the pain from Egbert’s beating, and from that day had slept hobbled beside the ponies.
Withred turned his disdainful stare at Egbert as he neared. ‘Looks like you’ve had your nose in the trough again,’ he said. ‘How come you’ve finished so soon? Couldn’t you find any more children or crones to slaughter?’ Like Egbert, Withred was a high-ranking Gedriht so had no fear of him. Indeed, he took an inordinate pleasure in taunting him. He also hated Egbert because he knew he took hideous delight in his grisly work.
‘Beside the treasure again, I see,’ said Egbert, ignoring Withred’s assessment of his character. ‘No stomach for the fight … that’s your problem.’
Withred smile was sardonic. ‘Fight … what fight? Women and children and poorly armed men; is that the best you can manage? No … I’ll leave the fighting to you and your weasels.’
‘Ah, but not all the women and children lie dead,’ retorted Egbert. ‘Some were spared for the slave markets, so if it’s a challenge you’re after then why not enter the forest. I hear there’s creatures in there that would certainly give you the fight you crave for. Bears, for one—released by their baiters when they grow too big to play.’ He snorted his derision, kicked at the pile of trinkets, then walked towards the secure hut. Unperturbed by Withred’s words, he looked back at him. ‘Why not come and watch a master at work!’ he shouted. ‘You can hold them down for me if you want!’
Simon wept as he lay on the edge of the rise. After witnessing the slaughter, he was now ashamed of his own uselessness and cowardice. He yearned for the courage to walk down to the burning village and offer his old body for slaughter. For now, though, his head whirled as he tried to make sense of what had just gone before him. His entire life now lay in ruins. Everyone he knew was probably lying dead and defiled. There was no use for him now in this world. What was he to do? Where could he go? The nearest village was two days walk away, but who was to say it still stood.
His self-pity abruptly ceased when the raiders started herding females towards the hut. He immediately knew the purpose of their clemency towards them, and this awareness slowly became his spur to act. He picked up his metal delving tool and approached the hut.
Martha cowered by the back wall and pressed her hands over her ears to reduce the sound of brutal rape occurring outside. Minutes earlier, she had recoiled as a fat man had entered the hut and selected the child, Antonia, who he had dragged screaming outside. Twelve other women and children were crammed in with Martha—all of them in shock. A murmuring of grief and fear filled the hut as the women cast looks of dread towards the door. Martha despaired as she considered the hopelessness of her plight. The men were about to do unspeakable things to her. She yearned for a blade to end her life quickly. There was no reason to live now. She would share the fate of Antonia, then like her father and sister who had been butchered before her very eyes she would be slaughtered. Of that she had no doubt.
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 shushing 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 shrubbery,’ he whispered hurriedly. ‘Crawl inside it as deep as you can and wait for me.’ He sensed Martha’s hesitancy, so pushed her away from the hut. ‘Run like the wind, go now!’ Martha lost no time fleeing the hut, leaving Simon to usher out the remaining women. As soon as he pulled the last woman free, he ran as fast as his years would allow towards an overgrown ditch. He fell into it and lay hidden among its encroaching plant growth. As he inched along, he was dismayed to hear wild screaming as the raiders quickly recaptured the women. Although crestfallen over their brief spell of liberty, his determination to continue and help Martha escape now became his priority. He crawled to the end of the ditch just as she reached the gorse.
The coarse shouts of raiders sounded in sharp contrast to the morning birdsong as Martha ran in a stumbling gait towards the gorse bank. In dread of discovery, she continued until reaching a confusion of brambles. She pushed through the growth and managed to jump into a sunken ditch.
Abundant gorse reared behind her. She noticed a formed tunnel at its base and realised it was the hideaway used by the boys from the village. Simon’s plea for urgency—‘Run like the wind, go now!’—still rang in her head but her attention wavered when the expected cry of alarm was sounded. A risky look over the edge of the ditch confirmed her fears. The other women had been recaptured after hesitating, 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, three of them began to run across the open ground towards her.
Knowing she had no other choice, she turned and entered the knee-high tunnel to hide in the gorse. Once inside she could see the passageway continuing for some distance ahead, and noticed that many side passages led from it. She took a random turn and realised she was in an extensive network of prickly tunnels. By now the effort of the escape was beginning to take its toll so she allowed herself a brief rest.
Her breath froze as she heard the rasp of voices outside the gorse bank. Men were involved in a heated discussion, unsure of what to do. Seizing upon their hesitancy, Martha started to move down the passage, deeper into the outcrop—her intention now to hide within its intricate interior. Her hopes took a downward turn when a rustling and cursing from the vicinity of the opening evidenced that a raider had entered the tunnel. Stuck and cramped, the man delivered an expletive-ridden invective towards his companions outside.
Martha recoiled as she caught a glimpse of his foot as he twisted and turned. With breath leaving her in panicky gasps, her heart pounded wildly. He could not fail but come upon her; and as he found space and started to shimmy along the tunnel, she prepared herself for capture.
Her galloping heart jumped to her throat as a hand clamped 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 that Martha had regained a measure of self-control, 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 returned through it, leaving his arm trailing to assist her through the squeeze. After grasping his forearm, he pulled her into a shoulder-high circular chamber. The sounds of the search continued behind them, urging Simon to act quickly. Crouching in the speckled shade, his voice was low and urgent. ‘This was the lads’ secret den. It serves us well but we only have seconds. Follow me closely when w
e get out. It’s going to be tricky but I know where there’s a path we can take. It leads down to the valley bottom. Remember … stay close and be careful.’
After pushing through several tight but yielding sections of the gorse wall, they emerged into bright 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 edged 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 things. The gorse from which they had 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 it.
Simon beckoned Martha to follow him. 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 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. She reciprocated by lifting the gorse for Simon. Before them now, yet another tower of gorse loomed.
Simon’s instructions to Martha were rapid and edged with concern. ‘Stay very close to me. The path can be very steep and broken. There are few handholds. Even so, we have to move sharply if we’ve any chance of getting away.’
The sound of agitated voices came from where they had stood moments before, reinforcing Simon’s demand for urgency, and warning them that Saxons had emerged from the main body of gorse.
Simon threw an anxious glance at Martha then led her by the hand towards the next barrier. On reaching it, he squeezed under as before, but this time climbed down into a deep ditch that ran at a right angle to the cliff face. 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 rains might have washed the path away but it still holds. Be careful and stay very close to me.’
The clay path was slimy and their progress along it proved to be slow and laboured. Only inches wide in places, it twisted down the side of the incline. As they started to move, and in mortal fear of falling, they grabbed wildly at the sparse vegetation that grew from the sheer wall of clay beside them.
A shouting from above had them stop dead. They looked up to see the invaders peering over the edge of the bluff. The men had spotted them and now 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 clay incline below him.
Simon looked at Martha’s worried face and smiled knowingly. ‘No need to fret, he won’t make it. He’s gone the wrong way so he’s buggered now.’
Martha looked at Simon, and for the first time fostered the hope that they might escape. Her trust and admiration for the old man’s single-mindedness had increased to a new level.
Meanwhile, the Saxon kicked the toes of his leather boots hard into the unyielding layer of clay as he slowly progressed down to a narrow ledge ten feet below his companions. He looked towards Martha, and she recoiled as she recognised him as one of the men who had looked lustfully into the hut during her capture. Now his eyes shone with triumphant ridicule as he sensed he was about to capture a woman whom he had relished and anticipated earlier in the day. He shouted at Martha, mockingly pawing at his groin and beckoning her towards him. But this was his undoing, and his feet slipped from the ledge. Slowly, he slid down the incline to the point where it ended and became a vertical drop of fifty rock-strewn feet.
He shouted to the men above him. In response, one lay flat on the edge of the cliff, offering his arm at full reach. The act was futile, his reach falling well short, leaving the stricken man to continue his slide.
Martha and Simon looked on as the Saxon 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 fall to the valley floor.
The others shrank from the edge of the cliff after witnessing this. One of them—the man who had been arguing earlier for a return to the village—waved his arm in frustration towards Martha and Simon, then turned away and began to retrace his steps back through the gorse. His companion stepped to the edge of the drop and looked down at his companion’s broken and lifeless body.
Simon turned to Martha and nodded in the direction of the dead man. ‘We’ve only a slightly better chance of getting down than him. This year’s rain has worn the path to almost nothing in places. Be careful or we’ll end up dead like him.’
Martha was trembling with the effort of trying to stand on the four-inch ledge of clay. She looked at Simon, her face despondent. ‘Death might not be a bad idea. What have we got to live for, anyway?’
Simon looked pained as he took her trembling hand. ‘I lost everything as well,’ he said, ‘but we can’t just lie down and die, girl. The very least we can do is warn others.’
‘Then let’s get down off this cliff while we still have the strength,’ said Martha wearily.
One hour later, they stood in the gloom of the valley bottom. Here, the stream ran listlessly after a recent drought. Nearby, they found the body of the raider. His bloody, twisted carcass had come to rest near the stream’s edge. Upon seeing him, a terrible rage gripped Martha. Simon pulled her away before she could commit further injury upon his broken body.
When she calmed, Simon led her away and coaxed her to sit away from the man. ‘We should save our hatred and retribution for the living,’ he said as he knelt before the body. ‘This one can still be of use. I’ll strip him of his cloak and spear and boots.’ He threw the cloak to Martha. ‘Put that over you. Night’s near and its getting cold.’
She shuddered and threw the cloak to one side, her face twisted in disgust. ‘No—never—I’d rather freeze to death than wear that. Throw it into the stream. Get it away from me. I’m not wearing it; get rid of it Simon!’
Simon sighed and picked up the cloak. ‘Sorry, but I’m going to keep it anyway; we have to use what we can find now.’
Laying the heavy plaid fabric 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 pulled her to her feet, ‘just a little further then we can rest.’
Martha stood and then followed Simon as he carefully picked his way through the tangle of bramble and nettle heading for the inner forest.
Osric, the leader of the eastern campaign, had joined the war band the day after the raid. Tall and imposing, he 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 much ale. Eventually, he had decided to visit Withred and the recently promoted if unpredictable Egbert.
Withred had briefed him of the previous day’s misfortunes. Osric had then 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 expulsion from the island should any ot
her misdemeanours befall them.
Now he addressed the group of men; his earlier fury somewhat spent; his four bodyguards standing imposingly behind him. Behind them, bound together with neck halters and destined for the slave markets, stood a bedraggled and dejected line of surviving women and children. The smouldering village, swathed 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 around here and our own people have moved into the new land. The campaigning season is still with us but I’m heading back to town with the captured. I’ll gather information from the returning riders and decide what to do next year.’
He looked at Egbert with some disdain. ‘Against my better judgement, you can lead the men again. I need you to travel through the forest and see what’s on the other side. Some say there are villages and towns there. You’re to find out if that’s the case. If so, I want you to chart the route to any places we can raid. By cutting straight through the rough land we’ll steal a march on any party which takes the usual roads. They’re a nightmare. Those who travel on them have found the journey slow and ripe for ambush. Also, it’s said there’s an old Roman marching route through the forest. If you find it the journey will be much 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.’ He fixed Egbert with a hard stare, before pointing 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—I want you to set up a weapons store in the forest. When you’ve done that, you’ll return to me.’
Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 3