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

by Atkinson, F J

  A soft rain fell upon them as they moved towards the stockade. Withred had formulated a plan with the others. They knew what to do. He approached the guard—the same man he had spoken to earlier.

  The man was immediately alert to them. Straight away, he looked towards Withred. ‘I’ve been thinking, and I know who you are—‘

  His revelation was curtailed by Withred who quickly and skillfully thrust his dagger under the guard’s breastbone and into his heart.

  Augustus grabbed the guard as he slumped forward. He dragged the body into deeper shadow and lowered it out of sight. ‘Hope he deserved it?’ he grunted.

  Withred crouched and wiped his hands and dagger clean on the guard’s tunic. ‘Definitely did … was a horrible, murdering bastard as I remember.’

  Dominic wasted no time sliding back the iron bolt on the door of the compound. He opened it a hand’s width and peered through the crack. ‘Can’t see anything,’ he said to Murdoc who stood behind. ‘Looks quiet, though. Follow me.’

  Shadowed by the others, he entered just as the clouds shifted, allowing the moon to illuminate a series of bulky shadows within the compound. Two hundred paces along, they could see the outline of a single-masted boat bobbing gently at its mooring. Dominic peered into the gloom. His eyes rested upon the bulky shadows. ‘They look like enclosed wagons,’ he said. ‘Can’t see any more guards, though.’

  Murdoc and Flint joined him, as Withred and Augustus stayed back to watch the gate.

  Flint’s voice was urgent and low. ‘The prisoners are probably secured in the wagons overnight. That’s why there are so few guards. Even if they manage to get out of the wagons, they still have to get past the stockade.’

  ‘Let’s get to it then,’ said Dominic. He paused a moment, his eyes straining to penetrate the gloom. ‘We’ve not seen the last of the guards, though, you can be sure of that.’

  He approached the first wagon, teased the stiff bolt free, and entered. Intakes of terrified breath met him. As Dominic’s eyes adjusted to the dim light he saw the forms of two elderly women. The nearest stared at him, seemingly about to scream.

  Instead, she pleaded with him. ‘Don’t let the dogs in … for pity’s sake don’t set them on us.’

  Dominic crouched low, his finger to his lips as he appraised the woman and her friend. ‘We are here to help you,’ he whispered. ‘You are free to go now if you wish.’

  The woman looked beyond Dominic towards Flint and Murdoc. ‘You’re … you’re letting us go? You’ve not brought the dogs?’

  Puzzled, Dominic said: ‘No … you can go. Why do you keep mentioning dogs?’

  The old woman hugged her shaking friend who had begun to weep fitfully. ‘Shh, shh, my love,’ she said, as she rocked her in her arms. She looked to Dominic. ‘The man off the ship has been taunting us all day. Told us that the fine looking Briton had bought us for his dogs; said they would eat us alive. Said, “What possible use could anyone have for old whores like us?”’

  Murdoc, who stood crouched at the back of the wagon with Flint, gaped incredulously. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, as the gravity of the woman’s disclosure sank in. ‘She must mean Griff. Sweet Jesus Saviour; he feeds the old ones to his dogs.’

  Flint, urgent now, pushed to the front of the wagon. ‘We look for three children, two boys and a girl. Have you seen them?’

  The woman did not hesitate. ‘Yes, they put them in the wagon next to the boat,’ she confirmed. ‘We thought they might be headed overseas.’

  Flint breathed his relief at the news ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘The gate is open, and the men who stand there are friends. You are free to go.’

  Augustus stood just outside the stockade with Withred. Both were alert to any noise or movement from the town. Hoping to reassure himself that Dominic and the others were making progress, Augustus peered through the opening. He saw shadows approaching. Without turning around—his eyes still locked on the shadows—he felt for and grabbed Withred’s shoulder. ‘Two figures approach and I don’t recognise them.’

  Withred, immediately alert, drew his knife and shouldered himself beside Augustus in the doorway. The scurrying figures halted ten paces away.

  ‘We were released by the men,’ said the woman nervously. ‘They said you were friends and would let us through.’

  ‘They’re old women,’ said Withred to Augustus. ‘They must have been in one of the wagons.’ He studied the two dark figures a while longer. The woman who had spoken seemed the braver of the two. She huddled her cowering companion close. ‘Step closer so we may see you,’ instructed Withred, his voice low. ‘We will not harm you.’

  Hesitant and nervous, the women did as Withred bade.

  Augustus was concerned as he looked at the women; his glance to Withred conveying his unease.

  Withred assessed the women’s chances of survival and realised with certainty they would not make it to safety. He knew this because Dominic’s group could not take them. Quite simply, they would not endure the rigours of the journey back to Brythonfort.

  But he realised he must send them on their way and at the very least allow them to take their chances. ‘Come through,’ he said. ‘Skirt the edge of the town and take the road from it towards the forest. Try to find someone to take you in, then lie low until the chase ends. Go now while it’s still dark. May Nerthus protect you both.’

  The women passed them by, their eyes brimming with fear and thanks. They stumbled across the grassy knoll before them, heading for the edge of town.

  Dominic, Murdoc and Flint ghosted past the other wagons, their quick perusals beyond the open doors confirming they were empty. Only one remained unsearched: the wagon by the boat.

  ‘The door’s locked this time,’ Dominic said. ‘It could mean it contains something of value … probably children.’

  A shadow fell upon him as he made to approach the door. Backlit by an oil lamp, a figure stood on the vessel’s prow—his long shadow cast outwards. Dominic crouched and waited.

  The sailor urinated in the water; his tunic hitched up and held under his chin. Oblivious of the three Britons who watched him, he farted loudly as his trickle abated.

  A cry came from the bow of the boat. ‘Eth, you pissing pony! Put your dick away and check the prisoners!’

  The sailor, Ethelmar, retorted with a laugh. ‘I might as well leave it out for the next batch. You know how I like to test the goods before we hand them over.’

  Dominic and the others quietly moved towards the deep shade behind the wagon.

  Flint whispered to Dominic. ‘Another who deserves death by the sound of it.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ breathed Dominic.

  As they waited, they heard the rattle of keys as the sailor staggered towards the wagon door. The significance of the noise dawned upon Dominic. He considered the options. He needed the key and now was his only chance to obtain it. It was no use waiting for the guard to leave. He would find only a locked door if he did that.

  Ethelmar cursed as he struggled to guide his key in the lock—the gallon of ale that sloshed in his belly impeding his coordination. ‘Bastard … get in you bastard …you—‘

  His impatient mutterings stopped as Dominic cut off his air supply. He pulled the struggling sailor around the back of the wagon and out of sight, then fell to his backside, dragging Ethelmar with him. Placing his free hand on Ethelmar’s forehead, he twisted the skull with force, whilst his other arm wrenched the sailor’s neck counter-wise.

  Murdoc flinched at the sharp crack, which heralded the breaking of Ethelmar’s neck and the ending of his life.

  Dominic pushed the corpse away and stood. The sailor still grasped the keys to the wagon. Dominic stooped to retrieve them.

  Panting from his struggle, he took Flint by the arm. ‘Come with me, Flint. Murdoc … you stay hidden and watch the boat in case they send others to check the wagon. We need to get this done quickly and get them out.’

  Dominic smoothly engaged the key and released the lock.
Flint followed, eager to get his family away from the boat and out of town. He slipped through the door and into the gloom of the wagon. Like the old women earlier, the children shrank instinctively away from the door as they entered.

  ‘Quickly, Elowen, Wyn, Aiden; it’s me, Flint. Get yourselves —‘

  He stopped abruptly. Something was not quite right. Unable to see their features in the dark, he could nevertheless see their shadowy forms. All were roughly the same height. They were a similar age, Flint guessed.

  He approached the middle child—a girl—and gently pulled her towards the faint light near the doorway. His heart sank as he observed a pale and terrified dark-haired child who averted her eyes from him. He turned to Dominic, his face ashen and sick looking. His tone was desperate. ‘It’s not her, Dom. This child is not my niece.’ He looked towards the other two figures at the back of the wagon. ‘And those boys are not my brothers.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The boat’s rectangular sail billowed and snapped in the stiff breeze. The vessel was clinker built with overlapping planks held with rivets. Its midsection was wide to accommodate its cargo. Double ended, with symmetrical bow and stern, it was able to reverse at speed without the need to turn around, making it maneuverable in tricky seaports. Five banks of oars, fore and aft, were unoccupied; their use unnecessary in the fresh conditions.

  Tubs of butter, bundles of fur, sacks of wheat, and ingots of iron, nestled in the boat’s midsection. A tent-shaped, goatskin cover, raised by a wooden beam high above the deck, protected the cargo from the elements. Under the cover, three young people sat with their backs against the side of the boat as it tossed and fell in the swell.

  Elowen had her arm around Mule as he retched once again, unable now to bring up anything other than bile.

  ‘Throwing his guts up again is he?’ laughed Osgar the Saxon in his broken British as he walked under the canopy on his way to the prow. ‘He’d better toughen up before he gets to his new master or he’ll feel the whip against his cheek. They have no patience with malingerers over there, believe me.’

  Maewyn’s eyes flashed. ‘It’s not his fault he’s being sick,’ he defended. ‘It can happen to anyone. Even men on this boat—men who are used to the sea—have been sick. I’ve heard them heaving up over the side.’

  Osgar stopped abruptly in his tracks to study the group in more detail. The dimwit could puke until his belly burst as far as he was concerned; he wouldn’t last more than a few days in Hibernia anyway. Big he may be, but weak and stupid with it. The girl was young and pretty though, and he still intended to find out what she was like under her grubby dress, even though the captain had insisted that nobody could try her out. Who would know, and what did he care if the cattle lord in Hibernia had already paid gold for her, thinking she was pure. He’d be well on his way back to Norwic before the Hibernian turd would find out she wasn’t. No, stow the captain, he Osgar would have the girl when the time was right. As for the youth, he had too much to say; was far too ready to give him lip. But that he could sort out now.

  He shot over to Maewyn and grabbed him by his shirt. He positively snarled at the boy. ‘Now then you little rat dropping, giving me slaver again, eh?’ He hoisted Maewyn to the edge of the gunwale. ‘Maybe a dip in the cold water will teach you to keep your slit shut.’

  Maewyn kicked out, his foot landing solidly between Osgar’s legs. The sailor’s hands shot to his groin as he doubled in agony.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ The booming cry came from Cenna, the captain. His expression was at first stern when he ducked under the awning to investigate the ruckus, but soon a grin creased his florid features. He laughed at Osgar. ‘By Frio’s tits, look at you, man, beaten by a lad. What a woman you are!’

  Osgar straightened as the stabbing pain in his loins and abdomen abated. He drew his fish-gutting knife, furious now at his belittlement by Maewyn and Cenna. He made to lunge for Maewyn.

  ‘No you don’t!’ roared Cenna, as he strode over to Osgar and knocked him to the ground with a beefy swipe of his hand. ‘The cargo’s not to be touched. How many times must I tell you? It’s alright for you; you can skulk off and sign for another boat when we get back from this trip, but I’ll have to answer to Griff if there’s any complaint from Hibernia.’

  Still furious, Osgar grunted to his feet. ‘The shit needs to be taught a lesson at the very least,’ he fumed. ‘There’s no harm in taming him a little for his new masters.’

  ‘No, you get back to work,’ snapped Cenna. ‘Taming this lad isn’t your concern; his new masters are more than capable of doing that from what I hear. Get now to your job. We approach the Britannia Gaul strait and need to keep our eyes peeled for sand banks.’

  Osgar’s glance at Maewyn was withering as he angrily complied and stormed away.

  Cenna now turned his attention to Mule. ‘You need some food inside you boy, something to bring up.’ He placed his hand inside a nearby barrel and took out an apple. He tossed it to Mule, who caught it, before handing it quickly to Elowen. He brought his hands back up to his mouth as he dry-retched again.

  Cenna looked at him pityingly ‘You think these seas are bad. Wait till we turn into the strait. And after that the Hibernia sea.’ He stooped and placed his hand on Mule’s brow. He looked at him closely, as if examining faulty cargo. ‘You may get some relief tonight when we anchor near the shore, boy. Perhaps the winds will be lighter there.’

  As the boat tacked shoreward later that day, Maewyn held Elowen’s hand and considered their predicament. From Norwic, the other captives had gone inland to destinations unknown, but the three of them had been lucky enough to stay together. Two brothers and a cousin in a Saxon boat on a boundless sea, and never had he seen such a sight.

  He remembered how they had gasped in awe, despite their fear, when seeing the sea. The marsh near his village was the biggest expanse of water he had seen until then, but it was nothing compared to this. It was almost too much for him to take in—a vastness of water stretching on forever by the look of it. Where they were going, he had no idea. Hibernia was a word he had heard repeatedly, and he guessed it was their destination, but where it was he didn’t know. Over the sea, for sure, but how far was anybody’s guess.

  The sound of labouring men, as they shouted and cursed their way through their tasks, filtered through to them under the shelter of the canopy. It made Maewyn think about the bad man on the boat. Most of the sailors treated them with indifference, and the captain seemed merely industrious and stern, but Maewyn was seriously troubled about the wretch they called Osgar. They had not seen the last of him, that he knew. The other crewmembers left them alone, but not him; the man always had something to say to them–bad things, mocking things—to Mule in particular. And the way he looked at Elowen, how he licked his salty lips as he stared at her, worried Maewyn. She was only a girl, and Maewyn knew he must do all he could to protect her from Osgar.

  The boat suddenly pitched and swayed as it changed course, causing Mule to retch again.

  ‘I think we may be heading inland to stop for the night,’ said Maewyn, as he knelt beside the gunwale and peered at the choppy seascape from under the canopy. He squinted at the horizon as the boat tossed and rolled, and thought he saw a distant blur of green just as the boat crested a big wave. He sat down again beside Elowen, his hair wet from the spindrift. ‘It’ll be our second night by the shore since we boarded,’ he said. ‘Looks like they don’t sail through the night.’

  Elowen nodded and took hold of Mule’s hand as he retched again. ‘Pity none of us can swim,’ she said. ‘If we were close enough, maybe we could get to the shore and escape.’

  ‘That’s why they leave us untied,’ said Maewyn. ‘Where can we go? We can’t walk on water.’

  ‘The Christians say Jesus could.’ said Elowen, her child’s mind going off at a tangent. ‘They say he could do all sorts of things. Make the dead breathe again. Make water into wine.’

  ‘They’re all fools,’ sa
id Maewyn dismissively. ‘That’s why everyone laughs at them … why everyone throws pig shit at them.’

  Mule shifted, not knowing where to put himself, such was his discomfort. ‘I want da,’ he sobbed. ‘They shouldn’t have killed him. He was only trying to help us. He’d know how to stop me puking.’

  Elowen put her arm around him. ‘Uncle Bran was a brave man,’ she comforted. ‘They’ll make up songs about him and he’ll be remembered forever. Brave Bran, the father of Maewyn and Aiden, they’ll sing.’

  Maewyn shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the gunwale, his face close to a grimace as he thought of his father. He had tried not to think of him; he had enough to put up with; enough responsibility on his shoulders now his da was gone. He had to look after his brother and cousin. If he didn’t, who would? The men, especially the nasty one, would hurt them.

  Try now as he may, he couldn’t push away the image of his da … of his heroic death. How, when the riders had come upon them, his da had been labouring to save Elowen and uncle Govan from drowning in the ditch. He had barely enough time to scramble out of the water before the riders attacked him. He’d been so fearless to face them alone. Maewyn remembered how his sword had been a fiery blur around his head as he wielded it—its burnished blade reflecting the fire from the burning village.

  He had cut down two of the approaching riders, and these had fallen in the ditch, staining its churned waters red. But there had been too many of them. Even his da, who he believed could do anything, who he believed could face any foe, had not been able to stand long against them.

  Maewyn squeezed his eyes shut and softly banged the back of his head against the gunwale as he revisited the image of his da’s death. Brave to the end, his da had soon been overwhelmed—knocked to the ground by a spear thrown by a dismounted man. Other riders had then fallen upon him and finished him with many more spear thrusts. He, Maewyn, had run at them then, growling like an animal, but they had laughed at him and quickly dropped him to the ground and bound him. His brother and cousin had suffered the same treatment, and so their fate was set, and here they were—sitting on a boat, with strange people, heading for a strange land.