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

by Atkinson, F J

  Penetrated, Govan crumpled then. As his pain poured from him, Martha held him whilst Murdoc looked on grimly.

  Several aching moments were to pass before his grief abated and he was again able to speak. Through swollen and pained eyes, he looked at Martha. ‘Why did they not kill me?’ he asked. ‘Why am I left in this awful world?’

  ‘They struck you with something blunt, the side of an ax maybe, and left you for dead as you clambered out of the ditch,’ said Murdoc. ‘Luckily, for you, they were in a hurry. They don’t usually let anyone who resists them live. Too close to Brythonfort for their comfort, you see … they had to be away.’

  Govan regarded Murdoc. The man was dark, his eyes green and penetrating; eyes that reflected an inner goodness; eyes that were also tinged with their own loss. He too had experienced tragedy, Govan could tell that.

  An awful truth then dawned on Govan. ‘My brother’s wife, Nila, she’s here … visiting Flint.’ He looked desperately at Murdoc and Martha. ‘A husband and two sons—she’s lost a husband and two sons.’ His hand went to his head. He felt a bandage and closed his eyes as his tears came again.

  Brythonfort stood on a huge, multi bank earthwork, made by the Brython people a millennium earlier. A thick dry-stone wall ran in a lofty, unbroken loop around the stronghold, and was enhanced every two hundred paces by squat wooden watchtowers. A spacious timber hall stood at the highest point of the earthworks. Between the hall and the curtain wall was an assortment of domestic huts, stables, armories and workshops—these dotted at intervals over the wide grassy slopes.

  Most of the peasant inhabitants of Brythonfort had arrived seeking sanctuary from invasion, and some were permanent residents within the protection of the walls. Others farmed land around the fort, providing some food for its population. In exchange, they received a good level of protection from the garrison. A weekly market held outside the gates ensured a steady flow of people and goods to the fort.

  The hall contained a number of round tables, and it was at one of these that a huge, raw-boned man sat. Arthur’s tousled, auburn hair fell to his jaw line, and his brown eyes had a hard cast to them as he spoke quietly to Bran’s son, Flint. The knight Gherwan sat at his right hand.

  Commissioned by Arthur, the table had been fashioned by the artisan, Robert, and his team of workers. It was round because Arthur believed that all men were equal, and thus no one could sit at the head, or the foot, of any table in the hall.

  The son of a wealthy landowner, Arthur had enjoyed the leisure as a youth to become skilled in the use of sword and saddle. It had been the steady flow of the raiders from across the Mare Germanicus, which had finally led Arthur to offer his services to Rome, so before taking the stewardship of Brythonfort, he had ridden for twenty years with the Romans, first as a tracker and scout, then as a knight, as his formidable performance in battle was recognised. He had come to accept the stability and protection that Rome had given to Britannia, having seen how his folk had lived in peace under their later rule. He had fought many battles beside them, and always his opponents had been the Anglo Saxon and Jute invaders. In gratitude to his deeds, Rome had bequeathed the mound of Brythonfort and the surrounding lands to him on his discharge from the legions. Along with many of the discharged knights who had rode alongside him, he had immediately set to work to fortify the bastion, further strengthening the imposing buttress. The recent departure of the Romans from Britannia had further increased the importance of the safe haven of Brythonfort.

  A force of over two hundred well-armed men now kept the surrounding lands empty of invaders, allowing the farmers to produce grain and meat for themselves and for the tables of Brythonfort.

  Arthur nodded his greetings as a small assembly of worthy people made their way to him. ‘Gentlemen … and ladies,’ began Arthur, as he smiled at Martha and Nila who were late arrivals to the assembly. ‘As you know, grave events have befallen the lands around us: a village laid to ruin, and its inhabitants either callously slaughtered or taken captive. There’s little we can do for now to stop our land in the east being stolen by the Saxon hordes, but I feel duty bound to protect the people within the shadow of Brythonfort.

  ‘In this, I have recently failed, and feel that redress is due to the survivors of the village. Flint has implored me to get his brothers back, along with Elowen his cousin. None of the other children came through the raid. The only two adult survivors sit at this table; Nila who was fortunate to be here visiting her son when the attack occurred, and Govan, her brother in law, who took injury and will now tell his tale to us.’

  Govan looked around the table; looked at the hard looking men who sat, pensively, awaiting his account. Nervously, he began. He told his harrowing tale, much of it only recently remembered after his concussion. His discourse with Irvin, the Briton working for the Saxons, evoked much interest and caused a stirring in the room.

  Dominic, the tracker and fearsome combatant, held up his hand to speak. ‘By your leave Govan, but I feel that if we are to find the children, the only clue to their whereabouts will come from what the Briton said from behind the palisade. Think carefully. Did he mention the place they had come from?’

  Frustratingly, Govan ran his hand through his hair as he looked at the tabletop and tried to remember what had passed between himself and Irvin. Frowning, he strained to recall the finer details of the conversation.

  Eventually he looked up as his recollection improved. ‘Yes, some of it’s come back to me,’ said Govan, now nodding his enthusiasm. ‘The man who shouted over the fence, said something like, “Unless you let us in, we will spare no one, apart from those we take back to the North,” … or was it Northwin … I’m not sure exactly what he—‘

  ‘Norwic,’ interposed Withred. ‘He must have meant Norwic.’

  Govan looked at the gaunt, longhaired man who spoke with a strange accent. Yet another man who looked as if he could smash the table to firewood with his fists. Where had Arthur got these people from? He shrugged. ‘Yes … that may well be what he said, but I couldn’t swear to it.’

  ‘I suspected Norwic before you began to speak,’ said Withred. ‘What you have just said confirms it as far as I’m concerned.’

  Gherwan had been listening intently to the conversation, his hands together as if in prayer, his forefingers touching his pursed lips. ‘Why Norwic, Withred?’ he asked. ‘What made you think of that place? Indeed, where is it?’

  ‘It’s on the eastern seaboard, north of Camulodunum, near the old Roman town of Venta. I went there once in my old life. The settlement is recent. Several villages, now grown into one larger community. The land thereabouts has fresh water, plenty of timber and good soil. Furthermore, a deep river gives access to the sea. The wharfs were awash with herring when I visited. It’s an ideal place to live. I billeted there for a while. We fought the local tribe who were resistant to foreign presence at the time. A truce prevails now with this tribe … the Iceni if I remember correctly. I’m afraid some of them are now in cahoots with the raiders. Hungry for gold, no doubt.’

  Arthur assessed the information. ‘It seems that the Briton on the raid who spoke to Govan was one of them. Access to the sea, you say? Easy to ship slaves out then?’

  Withred nodded. ‘Yes, it had already started when I was there; on a small scale then. But as the market for slaves grew the trade increased. Many were shipped to Hibernia, where British slaves are highly prized. As soon as Govan mentioned the word north, it confirmed what I already felt. Norwic is the place to look.’

  ‘And look we will,’ said Arthur. ‘I have a plan which I’ve already discussed with Flint and Gherwan in anticipation of the news we’ve just received. We feel there can be only one way to go about this.’

  He paused as he considered the roles of the people he had invited to the assembly. All of them were recent arrivals at Brythonfort. A year gone, they had ridden into his bastion with some of his scouts. Apart from Withred, all of them were survivors from Saxon incursions. They
had fought valiantly and completely wiped out a force of fifty invaders while protecting a village deep in the eastern forest. The battle had been the talking point at Brythonfort for months afterwards. Known as the battle at the ox carts, the conflict had also cost the lives of almost every man of fighting age in the village. Faced with further invasion, the survivors then had no option but to leave and seek the sanctuary of Brythonfort. The men who now sat at the table had come through the battle, and although the resources at Brythonfort were not limitless, Arthur had been more than willing to accept men of their caliber.

  However, Arthur had struggled at first to accept Withred. As a member of the Angle tribe, Withred had once ridden with the invaders, but had grown increasingly disturbed at the conduct he witnessed on the raids. Captured by Dominic’s group and spared after offering to help them, he had not let them down.

  The man was proven and reliable. Arthur now knew this and accepted him. Above all, he was formidable. Arthur suppressed a smile as he recalled Dominic’s eloquence on the matter of Withred’s capabilities. Dominic had said: ‘I’d rather have Withred stood inside my cave pissing out, than stood outside my cave pissing in.’

  His eyes briefly rested on Dominic now. The bald, craggy woodsman had removed his wolf head hat—a trophy from a long ago wolf attack. Craggy and flawed to behold (two lines of scar tissue, one extending from the top of his forehead across his right eye and down to the corner of his mouth, the other a diagonal cut across his left cheek—the product of a tavern brawl long ago) Dominic was a gem, pure and simple. An iron-hard Briton who had trained and tracked with the Romans, then chosen to live a solitary life in the forest. Ten years later, he had met up with a desperate group of British fugitives who had entered the forest as they attempted to hide and survive. Dominic had saved them all.

  Murdoc was one of the fugitives. He had lost everything, apart from his infant daughter, Ceola. Arthur now considered Murdoc’s inclusion in the proposed plan. His friendship with Dominic went a long way back, way before their chance encounter in the forest, and together they were an effective force. It would be foolish to split them up, so Murdoc would go to Norwic as well.

  Arthur again smiled as his eyes fell on Augustus. Along with two of his brothers, he was the only village fighting man to have survived the battle at the ox carts. Augustus was a giant in both personality and stature. Arthur, no dwarf himself, stood at least two heads lower than Augustus. A burly, bearded butcher, Augustus possessed eyes that always seemed to sparkle with an inner amusement, and a bald head that was encircled by a bush of curly hair. Better not to underestimate him though, thought Arthur. The man was powerful, and word had it that he was fierce and uncompromising when faced with adversity.

  Arthur addressed the group again. ‘Now that we know the likely whereabouts of the slave market we can discuss what to do next.’ He turned to Flint. ‘Maybe you would like to talk a little about this.’

  Chosen to train in Arthur’s military because of his physical prowess, Flint was a young man of twenty-three. This day, his eyes were red rimmed, his face stark, as he looked at the assembly. He began. ‘All of you have been chosen because of your capabilities which will be put to use on the forthcoming journey. We have the means here at Brythonfort to defend ourselves, and those around us …usually.’ He paused and looked to Govan and Nila. ‘Although my mother and uncle may now have good reason to argue with me on that point.’

  Nila spoke for the first time. ‘I have lost a husband, and you a father, as well as having two sons taken. Your uncle Govan has had his dear Elowen taken as well, so maybe we should doubt the effectiveness of the protection of Brythonfort.’ There was silence in the room for a short while before Nila continued. ‘Yes, it would be easy to feel let down, but for those outside the walls, your patrols cannot be everywhere at all times. No doubt, the raiders watched the area and struck when they knew it was safe.’

  ‘They probably did,’ said Flint. ‘So all we can do now is try to get our loved ones back, and that must be done with a small party of men. No job this for a large group.’

  ‘Indeed no. An army would find plenty to fight in the east, but would have little chance of finding the children,’ added Gherwan. ‘Beside, it would weaken our garrison here if we left with a huge force for a journey that could take God-knows how long.’

  ‘This is where we hope you can help us Dominic,’ said Flint looking at him. ‘Your skill at reading the ground, as well as your local knowledge made you an easy choice when we were working out how to go about this.’

  Dominic, who had been listening intently to the discussion, looked up from the ebony inlay he had been studying on the table. ‘I’ll do it for you with pleasure; it will be good to travel again.’ He looked to Arthur. ‘I take it that when you say covert you mean we’ll be travelling anonymously?’

  ‘Yes, we thought you might pose as a group of slave traders. Our intention was to send you to Camulodunum where we suspected the slaves had been taken. Now we know it’s Norwic, that will be your goal. There, you can infiltrate and find out who has passed through the town.

  ‘But what about Withred?’ asked Dominic. ‘He is well known amongst them—a man of legendary deeds.’

  ‘Ah, we come to Withred,’ said Arthur, exchanging a knowing glance with Flint. ‘His inclusion is important because he is the only one at Brythonfort who speaks the Germanic tongue; my grasp of Latin would be of no use on the eastern shore.’ He studied Withred, seemingly embarrassed at what he was about to say next. ‘Er, yes … the problem of his renown has occurred to us.’ Arthur hesitated again, and Withred barely suppressed a smile at the display. Arthur cleared his throat. ‘Therefore we hope it would not be too big an assault on his vanity if we asked him to cut his hair, and maybe grow a beard.’

  Augustus exploded with laughter, unable to contain himself. ‘At last I will have a twin,’ he chortled, ‘…a bald headed, bearded, heathen, twin. What chance will they have against two of us!’

  Withred’s hand shot to his long dark hair. He smiled, and then laughed, as he noticed that his show of vanity had not been lost on the others. As Augustus’ infectious laughter infused the room, causing much amusement, Withred smiled wryly.

  ‘By cut my hair I take it you mean I join Dominic and get a sharp knife close to my scalp.’ He raised his voice so it was audible above Augustus’ outburst of baritone mirth. ‘Yes … of course I’ll change my look … and no doubt some of you will be happy about it.’

  ‘A small sacrifice, I think,’ said Flint, ‘if we can get the captives back.’ He looked towards Murdoc as the laughter abated, then at Augustus. ‘I would be glad to have you two as well.’

  Murdoc frowned, seemingly confused. ‘I for one will be glad to help. But will it not look odd—four Britons and an Angle travelling together?’

  Flint started to answer, but Withred got in first. ‘Not in Norwic. It’s quite common there for Britons to mix with folk from the continent. As I mentioned before, some Britons are now actively involved in trading people.’

  Arthurs face flickered with disdain. ‘What have we come to? That makes them worse than the foreigners. Learning to live with them is one thing, but selling our own people into bondage? No … they will pay for their involvement in such a trade, but that will come later.’

  ‘There’s no place for me then?’ asked Govan, his disappointment plain for all to see. ‘To sit here and do nothing will send me mad.’

  ‘Two days ago you were close to death, uncle,’ said Flint. ‘You are much improved but still not strong enough for the rigours of the journey. It would be no use to Elowen if you died on the trail and left her orphaned.’

  Nila took Govan’s hand and stroked it in consolation. ‘We will wait for them together, Govan. You for your daughter, and me for my sons. It will help if we keep each other strong.’

  A respectful moment passed before Augustus spoke. ‘Slave buyers we are then. I take it we are to set out as soon as possible?’

  ‘Ye
s, you’ve no time to lose,’ said Arthur. ‘You need to get going tomorrow. Dominic knows the country beyond here better than anyone, and I’m sure he’ll know the best roads to take.’

  Tomas walked in the garden copse with Simon and Rozen. ‘There,’ said Tomas as he pointed to a low-lying herb on the ground. ‘The blue flowers gave it away … Thyme, if I’m not mistaken.’ Rozen nodded; her smile giving encouragement but asking for more. ‘Its oil can be used on bandages to stop wounds going bad,’ added Tomas, frowning now as he tried to remember. ‘Introduced by the Romans along with many other herbs … its leaves can also be boiled in water to treat belly ache.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Rozen, ‘and well-remembered. Another one you can tick off your list. Don’t forget that it is also useful for killing parasites—crabs and lice, in particular, do not like it.’

  Tomas scratched his neck at the mention of parasites, then surreptitiously checked the inside of his britches to be sure that nothing sinister dwelt down there.

  Now fifteen, Tomas had been under the yoke of the malevolent Saxon, Egbert, when enslaved after the sacking of his village. The man had brutalized him, but Tomas had managed to escape and meet up with Dominic.

  Since arriving at Brythonfort a year earlier, he had worked with both Dominic and Rozen and gradually he was gathering an all-round capability as a woodsman and healer. When he was not ambling in the nearby woods, tracking and learning the signs with Dominic, he was studying herb lore with Rozen.

  Rozen, a widow, had an extensive knowledge of the subject, handed down to her by her own mother. She enjoyed teaching Tomas the arts of healing and loved to spoil him, having no children herself. And so, she treated Tomas as a son, calling him Merlin—a nickname given to him by Arthur’s scout, Will, who had compared his guile at the battle at the ox carts with that of the small hunting hawk.