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

by Atkinson, F J

  Much shouting shook Maewyn from his thoughts. At the prow, looking for sandbanks, Osgar stood on the gunwale to give himself a loftier view of the water below him. He barked instructions to the steersman, who used a single oar to maneuver the boat.

  Maewyn again looked over the side of the boat towards a distant landmass. ‘We’re closer to shore now,’ he said to Elowen. ‘A huge forest seems to cover the land from what I can see.’

  Two hours later, the boat dropped anchor in a sheltered bay, close to a shingle beach. Oil lamps, placed at intervals around the boat, provided light as darkness came. Later, the crew took their sleeping positions, some preferring to sleep on the open deck under the stars, some opting to join the captives under the canopy.

  Much to Maewyn’s consternation, Osgar had chosen to settle under the canopy, and after picking up a small iron ingot from a cargo barrel, he settled down with his back against the gunwale across from Maewyn, Elowen and Mule. He had watched as Cenna, a traditionalist who always slept in the open air, had taken his sleeping bundle to the aft deck and quickly fallen asleep.

  Osgar stole a furtive look around and turned his attention to Maewyn. He said nothing, but merely glared at him, his features cast in devilish shadow by the flickering oil lamp. He spat on the deck to emphasise his intent, and tossed the iron ingot from hand to hand in a gesture of threat.

  ‘Kick me in the balls would you, you little shit,’ he hissed, unable to contain himself any longer. ’Have you any idea what I’m going to do to you?’ He nodded towards Mule whose stomach had settled since the boat had taken shelter. ‘…do to him as well?’

  Maewyn shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing. He looked down the deck towards where he guessed the captain had taken his bed for the night.

  The glance was not lost on Osgar. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he sneered, ‘I won’t do anything now. No … I’ll wait till the time’s right, then I’ll see to you all.’ Now he looked at Elowen and a crooked-toothed leer cracked his pocked face. ‘Her … I’ll rape till her eyes pop out. She’ll be broken in good by the time she gets to her new master.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ asked Maewyn, unable to hold his tongue any longer. ‘She’s just a girl. Can’t you manage a full-grown woman? Is your cock too small?’

  Osgar was across the deck in a flash. He grabbed Maewyn—clamping a grubby hand over his mouth, while Elowen and Mule looked on, dumbfounded.

  ‘Smart tongue haven’t you; you British turd,’ he hissed. ‘Well listen good. I’ve a sharp fish knife on my belt, and I’ll use it to cut that wriggling, shitty, worm from your mouth before you’re handed over. I’ll be doing ‘em a service, I will. They’ll probably give me gold when I tell ‘em what a mouth you have on you; what a—‘

  ‘Will you shut up down there!’ The cry came from the prow. ‘Let a man get to sleep will you!’

  Osgar froze, his hand still clamped over Maewyn’s mouth. Maewyn, mute now, gave Osgar a wide-eyed stare that was a mixture of fear and fury. Finally, Osgar pushed Maewyn away. ‘Remember what I just said.’ He held up his finger in warning. ‘I’ll take care of the lot of yer before this voyage’s over.’ He nodded in emphasis, his face ugly and threatening as he took his place beside the gunwale and continued to stare at Maewyn.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Hibernian ringfort resembled an emergent ripple on a vast green pond. Two huge earthen banks—the inner one topped with a high wooden palisade—enclosed a circular compound. A huge roundhouse sat in the centre of the compound. Two lesser but still impressive roundhouses flanked the larger structure, and these stood nearer to the high wooden fence.

  The country beyond the ringfort was undulating and green. Many homesteads lay within sight of the giant ringfort, all of them tiny versions of it. Between the forts, huge herds of cattle grazed on common land. Dotted liberally around the landscape were arable fields—fallow now, a month after the September harvest

  Fróech mac Findchado, son of Fincath mac Garrchu, felt deeply satisfied as the massive ringfort slowly grew on the horizon. Elaborately painted, his two-wheel chariot shouted to the surrounding world that he was the king’s son and next in line. Behind him, seventy similar but less garish chariots, each piloted by a recently blooded warrior, sliced through the wet Hibernian fields as they approached King Fincath’s bastion. Further back still, a herd of seventy cows followed the chariots, driven by a group of twenty well-armed and mounted men.

  Fróech skillfully played his pony’s rein to slow it to a trot, thus allowing his brother, Colman, to ride alongside him. Like Fróech, Colman wore the symbol of the snake upon his forehead. Fróech glanced at the sack that lay between his shins in the chariot. ‘Do you think father will be content with our harvest?’ he asked Colman, as if unsure.

  Colman affected a look of bewilderment, his eyes feigning deep consideration as he cogitated over Fróech’s question. He reached between his feet, and lifted and raised a similar sack. ‘Content he will be, I think,’ said Colman, as if unsure himself. ‘Maybe two sacks of produce will win his favour.’

  ‘And if not two, then maybe the other thirty sacks that lie in the other chariots behind us!’ erupted Fróech with wild fervour, unable to play the naïveté any longer.

  Colman reached into his sack and took out a severed head, grasping it by its braided red hair. ‘A harvest of heads for father!’ he yelled, triumphant now. ‘And recognition of our prowess on the battlefield.’

  Behind them, a whooping cry went up as other heads were held aloft.

  Encircled by a deep ditch, the first embankment of the ringfort loomed above them now—its considerable height and width signifying the importance of the people who dwelt within its confines. Beyond it was yet another embankment—a sign of even greater prestige—and through its high, wooden gate, Fróech rode with his warriors in a frenzied and victorious return; the macabre spoils of their victory displayed for all to see.

  Fincath mac Garrchu grinned and placed his hands on the table as he heard the cheer from outside. He sat at his place of prominence in the roundhouse, where long tables formed a huge square with enough seating to accommodate two hundred feasters. An enormous weight of food, ale, and wine filled the tables. Women and children sat at the tables, along with men who were too old for conflict. Many gaps remained, ready for the victors when they arrived. Adolescent boys and girls—all of them slaves—carried huge chargers of meat to the tables.

  One of Fróech’s scouts had arrived the day before and informed Fincath of his sons’ forthcoming arrival. Everything was now ready for them. A hum of expectant conversation infused the room as slave boys brought in spears. Shaft first, they shoved them into the earthen floor at the centre of the square. Here they wavered, spear-tips uppermost.

  A huge man carried a large, heavy-looking wicker basket towards the spears. After placing it on the ground next to the spears, he looked to Fincath, who nodded. He stooped and opened the basket, then lifted out the snake.

  Grunting with the effort of lifting the heavy reptile, the handler placed it around his neck. Placid and albino, it curled loosely around his neck and shoulders. Turning on the spot, the man displayed it to the crowd. All were silent and hushed.

  Ten years had passed since Griff, eager to cement a good trade relationship with Fincath, had travelled to Hibernia and presented the snake to him. Griff’s trade links to Numidia had enabled him to contact a man he knew there and barter five slaves for the animal. Griff frequently boasted to anyone who cared to listen, that it was the best business he had ever done. Astounded at the visage of the python, Fincath had soon adopted it as the emblem of his clan. Deification had followed, and they had named it Glycon, after Griff had told him of the snake God of the early Greeks, which bore the same name.

  Fincath, who also wore the indelible mark of the snake on his forehead, walked over to the handler and reptile. Taking hold of the snake’s neck, he drew its head towards his. The snake rapidly flicked its tongue as it observed Fincath; its pink eyes i
mpassive and inscrutable.

  Fincath brought the snake’s head towards his mouth, making sure his hands clamped shut its jaws. Bringing his lips to the scaly rim of the snake’s mouth, he kissed it long and hard. As he did, the crowd began to clap rhythmically, whilst chanting Fincath’s name.

  The roundhouse stood as a dark hulk silhouetted against the star-speckled night. Yellow fanlight spilled out from rents in its thatched roof and rustic door. Outside, as they approached, Fróech and Colman smiled to hear the throb of the chanting.

  Fróech pointed to his own forehead and the snake that adorned it. ‘Sounds like father is showing Glycon to the masses again,’ he said.

  Years ago, like his father and brother, he had endured much discomfort, when a man skilled in the craft, had drawn an intricate charcoal drawing of the snake upon his forehead, then pressed sharp, bone needles into his skin. The result was an eternal image for all to see; an image that only the highborn—Fincath, Colman and Fróech—could display.

  ‘A lively night awaits us, I’ll swear,’ said Colman, as he lifted and snapped the reigns of his pony, sending it into a canter.

  The conversation turned from a chant to a wild cheer as Fróech and Colman walked in, each carrying a maimed head. These they rammed onto the spears, before turning with arms outstretched to take the adulation of the people surrounding them.

  Fincath proudly embraced his sons, as the handler put the serpent back in its basket. Both brothers had inherited his stocky, strong build, and shock of blazing red hair. Their woolen tunics and breeches bore the grime and blood of the campaign, and these stark reminders of their slaughter they wore now with pride.

  The cheers gained a new intensity as other warriors entered the roundhouse, each carrying a head. Like Fróech and Colman before them, they shoved the heads onto the spears, and soon all spears displayed a head. In total thirty-three heads were produced.

  Fincath took to his feet and held his arms aloft as a new wave of wild cheering erupted. He gloried in the noise with eyes shut and his face held to the roof of the roundhouse. After several minutes, he lowered his head and looked to the warriors, then to the cheering mass, his eyes moist.

  He signalled for silence and pointed to the heads; his voice starting as a menacing growl that grew in intensity. ‘This is what happens when thieves ride into our tuath and take what is ours. This is what happens when stinking Uí Dúnlainge rats tread the lands of the Ui Garchon. All of us Laigin people, but unable to live peacefully together it seems.’

  A murmuring of assent and shouts of ‘yes!’ rumbled around the room as Fincath ramped up the intensity of his address. ‘Next time it will be their women’s heads that adorn the spears! Next time, their children will be taken to task, so that the Uí Dúnlainge seed is cut off forever!’

  He walked his sons to the table as the cheering renewed to a new passion. Placing his arms around them, he proudly faced the room and shouted joyfully: ‘Never has this dynasty had two more formidable warriors to protect it. But that cannot be said of Quinn the thief.’ He pointed to the spears. ‘To see his sons you need look no further than the centre of this room.’

  The room hushed as Colman walked to the spears. Two of them, he pulled from the ground and held aloft. ‘These are two of Quinn’s sons!’ he shouted, ‘and if any of his other spawn tries to avenge him, they too will end up with bloody heads upon spear-shaft bodies!’

  Wild laughter boomed around the room as a smiling Colman disdainfully threw the head-topped spears to the ground. He walked back to his place at the table beside his father.

  ‘Feast now and rejoice,’ commanded Fincath to the room. He pointed to a door set into the floor near to the spears. ‘I can promise you that even more entertainment awaits us after we have stuffed our bellies with beef and ale.’

  A ripple of knowing laughter went round the room. Fincath embraced Colman and Fróech, as the other warriors took their places at the table. A buzz of excited conversation broke out anew as other families greeted their warrior sons.

  Fincath poured his sons a goblet of wine each. ‘Only the best wine from Gaul for you two fine lads,’ he praised. ‘Griff sent it to keep me on his side. Sent it with the last batch of slaves. Throws the wine in as a gift to strengthen my trading bond with him.’

  ‘And good wine it is,’ said Fróech, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after taking a thirsty gulp from the goblet. ‘And speaking of slaves, when can we expect the next shipment?’

  ‘Ah, the British wench,’ smiled Fincath knowingly. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you mentioned our latest treasure.’ He looked at Colman and winked. ‘The red haired Laighin girls don’t stir your brother’s loins it seems. Sees himself with a straw-head does Fróech.’

  Colman smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t I know it, father. He never shut up about it when we were in the field.’

  Fróech shook his head as if to say his brother was exaggerating. ‘Don’t believe him, father. I told him she would be worth forty cows and you might decide to trade her on to Quinn Uí Dúnlainge.’

  ‘That was before the thieving bastard decided to steal our cattle,’ said Fincath. ‘Forty cows is her worth, that you’ve guessed right, but I’m told that you brought seventy cows back from your raid—thirty that were stolen from us plus another forty in recompense.’ He patted Fróech arm and smiled. ‘So you see, I already have my forty cows, and will still have the British girl when she arrives. Besides, I have no wish to trade with Uí Dúnlainge any time soon. Indeed, it looks like a prolonged war is about to start between us. So the girl will be kept.’

  Fróech nodded, satisfied with his father’s words, but before he could respond to them, a mountainous platter of beef was placed before him.

  Fincath, who had expected the delivery, immediately jumped to his feet and banged his richly embellished silver tankard upon the tabletop. ‘The time has arrived, good friends,’ he shouted. ‘The sons of this tuath have attained a legendary triumph and now the hero’s portion will be consumed by the man who led the victory.’ He paused as a slave refilled his tankard with wine.

  He gulped it down in one draught, some of it spilling onto his graying, ginger beard as he did so. With an ‘ahh’ of appreciation, he held up his empty tankard and shouted to the assembly. ‘Empty your goblets! We drink to the feasting hero!’

  A roar resounded as Fróech plunged his hand towards the platter and removed a fistful of beef. This he stuffed into his mouth. Grinning as he chewed through it, he took the applause and cheers of the room.

  He sat down next to his father after he had completed the act. The room droned with conversation and merriment as the feast went into full swing. Fróech slowly picked his way through the meat platter until only half of its bulk remained. Then, as an act of grace, he walked around the hall, offering the meat to everyone at the feast.

  Three hours of raucous revelry passed, as poets put Fróech’s victory deeds to verse. A druid also walked the hall. Dressed only in woolen trousers, the druid, Conchad, had stilts strapped to his legs, so that he walked twice the height of a man and was visible to all.

  His torso was naked, and his head beardless and completely shaven. This expanse of skin was Conchad’s canvas. Painted in intricate swirls, his body, head and neck were a riot of crimson and blue design. Hidden completely under a covering of ochre and woad pigmentation, none of his natural skin colour was visible, and throughout the feast, Conchad indulged in soothsaying and predicted fabulous future victories for Fincath mac Garrchu.

  Fróech, after a time spent circulating the room, reminiscing and laughing with his fellow warriors, took his place again by his father’s side. He took a quaff of wine and asked, ‘What of other slaves? Do you have a replacement for the lad who was murdered?’

  ‘As always, I was specific in informing Griff of my needs,’ said Fincath. ‘A fair British wench; a stout lad for the fields, and a feisty youth to guard the cattle, were my instructions to him. However, until the boat arrives, we d
on’t know if he found the people I asked for. He already has my gold, though. He always insists on prior payment, and has never let me down before, so I’ve no reason to doubt that he’ll not deliver as usual.’

  ‘About the lad, Lorcan, who was killed before the raid,’ said Colman. ‘I’m told we hold his murderer in the cellar?’

  ‘Indeed, we do,’ confirmed Fincath. He pointed to the cellar doors set in the earthen floor in the centre of the room. ‘In there skulks Kael—the rat who killed young Lorcan. Found after the raid when his pony trod a hole in the peat fields as he attempted to flee. Found knocked senseless … Lorcan dead nearby. Time now I think to exact the justice his parents desire.’ Fincath looked tellingly to Fróech and Colman, ‘Usual justice … you know the routine.’

  They nodded and left the table, then walked to the doors set into the floor. The conversation in the room faltered, and then died to an expectant silence.

  At a signal from Fincath, a white, long horn cow entered the roundhouse, led by a herdsman. Fróech and Colman awaited it at the centre of the room.

  Colman walked over to the tables where a coil of rope had been set aside. Fróech removed an iron bar that secured the heavy, wooden cellar doors. After opening the doors, he walked down the steps into the cellar. Moments later, he reappeared, dragging a hunched and blinking, disoriented man into the dim room. His appearance met with catcalls and hostile shouts from the drunken crowd. Colman and Fróech were themselves forced to duck to avoid the shower of meat bones and other debris that many of the crowd threw at the prisoner.

  ‘Your name is Kael and you murdered a boy!’ shouted Fincath. His proclamation brought silence to the room. ‘Because of your actions, you must endure the trial of neck.’