As he rode over the timber pile bridge into the town, Murdoc observed the river. The Romans had named it Tamesa (the flowing one) according to Dominic. He noticed three figures on the shore. Two of them—a man and a woman—carried stout sticks which they jabbed into the mud. Occasionally they would bend to examine their finds. These, they either tossed to one side, or placed in the wicker basket at their feet.
A bare-foot, girl-child, no older than six years, walked behind them, copying them in her child’s way as she scraped ineffectually at the mud with a thinner stick. Her blond hair was long and unkempt; her smock dress, dirty and tattered. She reminded Murdoc of his own daughter, Ceola. His heart melted when beholding her.
Flint rode beside Murdoc and could not help noticing his focus of attention. ‘Sweet little thing,’ he said. ‘She’s probably a Saxon child. It seems they don’t have it all their own way. The poor mite seems half starved.’
Murdoc looked towards the pony tethered to Augustus’ horse. ‘No harm in giving them some oats and dried meat, then. They seem harmless enough.’
Withred, who was riding behind, had heard the exchange. He opened the pannier attached to Augustus’ pack pony and removed a hunk of dried mutton and a small sack of oats.
‘Come,’ he said, as he slung the provisions over his horse’s withers. ‘We’ll give them something to cheer their day, and gather some news about the land hereabouts.’
The woman picked up the girl as the six riders approached; their austere bearing giving her cause for concern. A bearded man with a shaven head coaxed his horse down the muddy banking as he approached them. He was not a man to cross, not a man to get on the wrong side of. She glanced to her husband who stood beside her. She placed her hand on his arm, but was relieved when the bearded man smiled and dismounted before them … relieved further, when he spoke their tongue.
‘We wish you no harm,’ said Withred. He offered her the meat and oats. ‘Please take these, we have ample.’
The woman paused a while, unsure of what to do. Her man nodded to her. She took the bundle. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘The food will fill our bellies tonight.’
The others arrived and dismounted. Augustus waved and smiled at the child. ‘Beautiful she is,’ he said to the woman. Withred translated and the mother beamed.
The Saxon man was spare of build, dressed only in a thin, linen tunic which was beltless and reached to his knees. His feet were bare and his legs coated with orange mud up to mid-shin. ‘Thank you for the food,’ he said. He looked up the slope, towards the nearby wall. ‘The day draws on, and though we haven’t much to offer, you’re welcome to stay with us tonight.’ He offered his hand to Withred. ‘My name is Godwine. Hild is my wife, and Udela our daughter.’
Withred took his hand. The others did the same as the tension eased. Godwine led them from the river and into the town. Augustus sat Udela upon his horse, and chattered to her in Celtic as he led them up the slope. Hild walked beside them, her hand on Udela’s back in support.
When they entered Londinium, the Roman layout of streets was plain for them to see, but years of looting and reclamation had removed the roofs and considerable sections of wall from the structures. The result was a town looking victim to an earthquake.
Goats bleated, and hardy little pigs grubbed amongst the rubble, feeding on scraps and plant growth. A vital source of milk and meat, all animals wore the mark of their owners.
Godwine led them through a maze of streets, defined by low-lying, broken walls which were lichen-grey and stained with red. Soon, they came to the town’s high defensive wall and so to Godwine’s dwelling.
Two vertical, timber piles, ten paces apart, and attached at their top with a beam, stood ten paces from the wall. Two more hoisted, horizontal posts attached the frame to the wall, forming a cube. The roof and two sides of the box were covered with stitched goat’s skin, leaving the front open. A circular stone fire ring sat at the entrance to the simple dwelling. Firewood was stacked beside the hut, some claimed as flotsam from the river, some bartered from a woodsman who came to the town twice weekly with a cart piled high with the stuff.
The design of Godwine’s hovel was popular amongst the inhabitants of Londinium. Built against the city walls, and sitting at intervals around it, were many similar structures. Some served as dwellings, whilst others housed butchers’ shops or smokehouses. Strips of pork and salmon hung from elevated racks within the smokehouses.
As he walked into the town, Flint’s feelings were ambivalent towards the Saxon family. He considered their reason for being on his isle. Were they not invaders? If so, they were just as much to blame for his father’s death and his brothers’ abduction as the men who had attacked their village. Yet, as he looked at the three scavengers and witnessed their hardship—observed their poverty—he could not help but feel for them. Maybe they had no choice. Perhaps Godwine had come to Britannia to give his family a better life, although how anything could be worse than scavenging for treasure on the muddy banks of the river he could not imagine. Perhaps even the little girl was British. She may have been born in Britannia.
But it did not take long in the company of Godwine and his brave little family, before Flint saw them merely as human beings; no different from his own family—just people trying to survive in a savage and uncertain world.
Murdoc saw a few strips of dried salmon resting on a rough table within Godwine’s dwelling. ‘We barter meat for our findings,’ explained Godwine as he noticed Murdoc’s interest in the salmon. ‘Anything left, a man takes from us. We get useful items from him: pots, flints, irons.’
Why not catch the fish yourself?’ asked Murdoc. ‘That way it would cost you nothing.’
‘We have no nets,’ explained Godwine. ‘It would cost us a year’s findings to obtain one.’
With Udela on his knee, Augustus sat beside Hild, who sorted through the day’s finds from the basket. Much of it appeared worthless to him: a strip of curled dry sandal leather; rusted pieces of iron, probably from a sunken merchant boat, and other indistinguishable items. What a difference a simple fishing net would make to their lives, yet it seemed so unobtainable to them.
Hild smiled when she saw the dismay on Augustus’ face as he appraised the pile of seemingly worthless debris. She reached into the goatskin pouch that attached to a cord at her waist.
With Withred translating, she said: ‘Everything’s got a value here, even old bits of leather.’ She took a silver coin from her purse. ‘But this, I found this morning, and it was too valuable to throw into the basket. This will ensure we eat for many days.’
Augustus’ bearded face split into a grin and he held Udela in the air, tickling her belly with his bald head. ‘This skinny little rabbit’s going to turn into a fat little piglet,’ he laughed as the girl emitted a helpless belly chuckle above him.
Dominic, who stood by his pack pony nearby, could not help but smile. ‘No need to barter your coin while we’re here, Hild,’ he said as he fished through the pony’s pannier. ‘Tonight we all eat from our provisions. You will eat like a wildman from the forest, cooked by me … a wildman from the forest.’
‘Hild is grateful, but says we’ve done more than enough to help them already,’ translated Withred. ‘I’ve told her nonsense. We provide the fare tonight.’
Dusk came and they ate a hearty supper and chattered long into the dark night.
In the morning they bade their farewell to Godwine, Hild and Udela. Although with them for less than a day, they felt a deep fondness towards them; admiring their indomitable spirits, their incessant cheerfulness and strong unity. All shook Godwine’s hand; all hugged Hild and Udela before leaving. They continued on their quest, their hearts lifted by a chance meeting with good people.
Withred rode ahead with Dominic through Londinium’s eastern gate. ‘We need to be ever more cautious from here on,’ he advised. ‘I used this route many times when riding with Osric. It’s the main way from Londinium to Camulodunum. We’ll see Saxon
war bands soon, and we need to have our story ready when we do.’
But Withred‘s worries proved groundless that day. The road was in good repair by the standards of other less-used routes; the people they encountered mainly merchants and stockmen. Often, herds of tough little sheep, driven always by Saxon folk, blocked their passage.
The second day out from Londinium dawned cool and grey and the group took to the road at first light. The land now seemed completely devoid of Britons, a fact not lost on Dominic.
‘The last time I passed here, it was as a scout for Rome,’ he informed Augustus who rode beside him. ‘I was a boy of seventeen then and learning my trade with an old Roman named Livius.’ He smiled fondly when remembering the old scout. ‘What he didn’t know about wood-lore and tracking was not worth knowing. All over this isle, as far north as the great dividing wall, some say even beyond that, he had travelled. All over the empire as well. I learned some Latin from him, he learned some British from me. But one language we rarely heard in those days was Saxon. Every one of these farms and homesteads were owned by Britons.’
Dominic fell into contemplative silence, while Augustus, as ever captivated by Dominic’s reminiscences, waited patiently for him to continue. ‘Rome protected us you see. As long as we accepted their rule, they sheltered us. Five years later, they were gone, and twenty-five years later we’ve come to this: the entire south-east invaded and settled; Britons either slaughtered or driven westwards.’
Flint who had joined them at the front, had overheard much of Dominic’s musings. ‘Then thank God you met us in the forest when you did,’ he said grimly. ‘Your fight at the ox carts was a considerable feat, but was one battle. In the west we have the power of Arthur behind us, and we won’t be trodden on like the poor souls who once farmed these lands.’
‘That’s for sure,’ contemplated Augustus, ‘yet it worries me they raid so close to Brythonfort. A huge clash will come soon I fear. One way or the other, this must be sorted out.’ He tensed as he noticed a movement up the track. The others had seen it too. A group of riders moved down the road towards them—their bearing in the saddle and the tack of their ponies suggestive of having spent many weeks in the field.
Withred readied himself for their encounter as the war band came to a halt before them. ‘Hope you’ve captured plenty of pretty slave wenches for us,’ he shouted, as their leader—a grizzled, middle-aged man with spiked, greased hair—stopped before him.
The man, Wigstan, was Jute. Hung-over, having spent his night drinking twelve flagons of ale and whoring in Camulodunum, he was eager to get back to his settlement in Cantiaci. Nevertheless, the disparate group of people before him had aroused his interest.
Through rheumy eyes, he studied the man who had spoken to him. The man’s accent told Wigstan he was native to the Baltic. An Angle he was, and fearsome looking to boot, with his dark beard and shaven head. He looked at the rest of the company. Again, hard-looking men met his gaze. All had seen action. Of that, he was sure.
‘What’s your business on the road, Angle?’ demanded Wigstan.
‘Didn’t you just hear me?’ said Withred. ‘Slaves are my business. We travel to Norwic to buy them. It’s men like us who make it worth your while suffering the hardship of campaigning.’
‘You need to hurry then,’ said Wigstan. ‘We left Norwic four days ago, but our slaves were already spoken for. They get harder to find, and the gold they fetch reflects their scarcity. So you’ll have to dig deep into your purse … not an activity popular with Angles, I hear.’ Wigstan waited until the ripple of laughter died down from his men. ‘The easy pickings have gone, you see. The further west we go, the more likely we are to meet resistance.’ He looked at Dominic who stood beside Withred. ‘What say you, craggy one? Is it a girl or a boy you desire?’
Again, sniggering came from the men. Withred replied for Dominic. ‘Your wit is lost on him, I’m afraid. He’s British, you see. One of the growing number of high-born natives who seek slaves for themselves.’
‘And your role in this?’ asked Wigstan, a hint of suspicion now in his eyes. ‘I’ve never seen you in Norwic before. Where’ve you been hiding?’
‘On the continent, my friend,’ said Withred immediately. ‘My trade has always been there. Then I heard that money could be made here; buying and selling slaves.’ He nodded back towards Dominic. ‘Money to be made also by acting as a go-between for rich Britons.’
Wigstan looked the group over again, his mouth a thin line as he considered Withred’s explanation. ‘They don’t spend much money on attire, do they, these rich Britons of yours. They look a bit raggedy-arsed to me.’
‘They’re dressed for the trail,’ explained Withred, casting a look at his companions. ‘Their finery would not last a day on these roads or in the awful weather you have to endure on this isle.’
Wigstan’s look suggested he was still not entirely convinced. He looked over the Britons again, his head now banging from his excesses of the previous night. Finally, tired of the encounter and eager to be on his way, he guided his pony to one side to let them through. His followers did the same. ‘Why the bald head?’ he asked, as Withred passed.
Withred stroked the top of his head, his expression one of mock pain as he looked at Wigstan. ‘Too many nights spent in flop houses. The nits were driving me mad, so it had to come off.’
‘I’d avoid Camulodunum then,’ warned Wigstan, as he shifted in his saddle and scratched at his crotch. ‘You’ll be shaving the hair from you cock and balls as well if you sleep with the whores in that town.’ Again, there was laughter from his men as Withred and his group rode through and reached the empty road beyond.
The Jutes turned in their saddles, unmoving as they watched the Britons depart. Withred cast a glance back at them. Ride away you bastards, he thought as he set his horse to a trot. Lose interest in us and ride away. He allowed his breath to leave him in a slow, quiet sigh as he heard the Jutes finally turn and move on.
Murdoc joined him. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You were cool back there. They seemed satisfied by what you said, but Christ Jesus! The tension! What’s the plan now?’
‘Not to enter Camulodunum, that’s for sure. Dusk will see us at the gates of the town, but tonight we camp away from the place. It’s far too dangerous to go in there.’
The day passed without further peril. As darkness came, they camped a mile distant from Camulodunum.
The town was a nucleus for many returning and out-setting war parties, and had been Rome’s most important town after Londinium for much of their reign. Preferring to stay away from the ruinous towns, the first Saxons had avoided Camulodunum, but its strategic importance and convenient location near to the eastern shore had led eventually to its occupation.
The town, though very old, now had a frontier feel about it, and many different garbs were evident in the streets. Warriors, fresh from plunder and pillage, strutted round in gaudy ostentation, in contrast to Saxon farmers and traders dressed in rough woven clothing. The good housekeeping and sanitation, typical of Roman occupation, had broken down completely, and now dogs and pigs scavenged throughout the filthy streets. In places where the ground was clear of buildings, landless families had established impromptu smallholdings.
Many establishments did a brisk trade in whores and ale throughout the night, and the town’s dull red radiance was visible from several miles distant.
Murdoc lay propped on one elbow beside a low fire as he observed the distant glow. ‘Seems like a vipers nest that place,’ he remarked. ‘No doubt Egbert dipped his snout in the trough when he was there.’
Dominic shoved a stick in the fire, using it as a poker as he pushed a settled layer of smoldering branches upwards, thus creating a tunnel that allowed a fresh combustion of flames. He frowned when hearing the name of their former tormentor—a truly evil man who had finally been disposed of when captured by Flint and Gherwan after trying to flee with Murdoc’s daughter, Ceola.
‘No doubt he
did,’ said Dominic, ‘and there are many more where he came from.’ He looked at Murdoc, who seemed troubled by his recollection of Egbert. ‘But none to hurt Ceola or Martha; not now they’re safe in Brythonfort.’
Flint sat beside them. ‘But still, as you say, many more where Egbert came from. My brothers and niece are proof of that.’
Murdoc appraised Flint. ‘I would’ve lost everything, and ended my own life if you hadn’t found and rescued Ceola that day. I’ll repay you for that; believe it Flint, even if it means travelling until I drop.’
Flint stared into the fire, his youthful features dancing in shadow. For the first time since starting the journey, he was deflated and unsure. ‘Thanks Mur, but we’ve still three days travel before we get to Norwic, and we still don’t know if that’s where they were taken.’ He attempted a smile as he looked to Dominic and Murdoc. They regarded him now with mild concern. ‘But Withred seems convinced they’ll be there,’ he continued with more hope in his voice, ‘and that’s good enough for me. Tomorrow may bring news and hope.’
Next day, their progress was steady along the much-used road between Camulodunum and Norwic. Even with heavy use, the eastern road was still in good order. Built wide enough by the Romans to accommodate adjacent, horse-drawn wagons, the road could easily handle the sporadic traffic that used it now.
More armed groups passed by, but they were ignored by them. Yet, whenever they approached, ever aware that someone could recognise him—even with his changed appearance—Withred would raise the cowl on his tunic and cast his face in shadow.
Two more days went by uneventfully, until on the third afternoon after leaving Camulodunum, Norwic came into view.
Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 27