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

by Atkinson, F J

  ‘I hope these riders are friendly,’ Dominic said, as he observed a group of twelve men moving up the track towards them.

  ‘Depends what mood Guertepir’s in,’ said Flint. ‘He’s grown into a whimsical bastard by all accounts, prone to sudden changes of temper.’

  ‘He should be used to Britons by now,’ said Withred. ‘After all, he himself is second generation. It could be argued he’s British himself.’

  ‘Don’t you be saying that to him,’ Dominic said with mild alarm. ‘He’s proud of his Hibernian linage—his great grandfather, Eochiad, was a renowned king who came here in exile—so don’t you ever suggest to him he’s anything other than Hibernian.’

  And what of Saxons … or Angles in my case?’ What are his feelings towards Germanic people?’ asked Withred.

  ‘He used to kill them for Rome,’ Dominic said, ’so it would be better if you leave the talking to me.’

  The riders reached them. ‘What is your business with the Desi folk?’ asked the lead rider.

  ‘To speak with your chief a while,’ Dominic said. ‘It concerns business over the water. Tell him that Dominic, the Roman scout, has returned to speak with him.’

  The rider, Diarmait, looked them over and concluded that the men before him, just four in number, could be no possible threat.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Follow me, and surrender your weapons at the gate.’ He wheeled his horse around and trotted back down the hill. Dominic looked at Withred, then shrugged and followed Diarmait down the hill.

  Guertepir sat in his hall beside his woman. Thick, steel-grey hair hung to his shoulders, a centre parting ensuring that it fell to either side of his face. Curiously, his wife’s hair matched his own in colour and length, so that from a distance they resembled gender-opposite twins.

  Up close, though, their difference was obvious. Guertepir’s face was blotched with drink; his enlarged, porous nose riddled with rosacea. Thick, self-indulgent lips were lavender in colour, hinting at an inner disease.

  Almaith, his wife, also possessed a red face; in her case resulting from the powdery rouge she applied liberally to cover her pitted, grey skin. Her eyes were bovine and dull.

  ‘Bring them in,’ said Guertepir to Diarmait. ‘Dominic visits you say. Let me see the wild shitbag with my own eyes.’

  Soon, Dominic, Flint, Murdoc and Withred stood before him. Guertepir took a quaff from his ever-present cup of wine, seemingly more interested in it than them. ‘Best thing the Romans did for this isle, leaving us with this,’ he said, as he lifted and admired his cup. ‘Get mine from Gaul. Finest there is.’ He signaled to a nearby retainer to fill four more cups. ‘Drink your fill,’ said Guertepir, waving his fingers at the cups, ‘while I take a look at you.’

  Dominic nodded his thanks, then lifted his cup to Guertepir. ‘Your health, my lord.’

  ‘You’ve not changed much, Dom,’ said Guertepir, a thin smile playing on his lips as he appraised him. ‘Still an ugly scarred bastard.’ He looked at Murdoc and Flint. ‘Bet you wished you had the looks and youth of these two. Arthur’s men are you?’

  Flint spoke. ‘Yes, we both live at Brythonfort with Arthur.’ He looked towards Murdoc. ‘My friend here was dispossessed by the Saxons and ended up at Brythonfort as a refugee.’

  Guertepir grimaced, seemingly pained with the effort of having to listen to Flint’s words. He looked at them and nodded his comprehension, before turning his attention to Withred. Almaith had also noticed him and grabbed Guertepir hand. Guertepir pulled it away.

  Withred’s head was still shaven; his beard now grown to his chest. Craggy and brutal, his face bore the scars of many battles.

  ‘Hell and suffering, what have we here?’ said Guertepir, ‘A man who actually sends fear into my wife … not an easy feat, that, I’ll tell you.’ Seemingly amazed, he looked at Dominic then back to Withred. ‘I never thought any man could outdo Dominic in ugliness. What’s your name, man?’

  ‘I am Withred of the Angle people.’

  ‘Ah, a man from across the Oceanus Germanicus,’ said Guertepir, seemingly unperturbed. ‘You ride with Dominic so I take it you are on the side of the Britons?’

  ‘Indeed my lord,’ bowed Withred.

  Guertepir cackled with laughter and looked at his wife. ‘Who would have thought such a beast would possess such a silver tongue and fine manners. Usually beasts only howl as my sword enters their bowels.’

  Almaith, who seemed to prefer to communicate only with gestures, merely smiled and licked her lips—seemingly attracted now to Withred.

  ‘Well, I’ve taken a look at you and I like what I see … so to speak,’ said Guertepir. He looked directly at Dominic, his tone darkening. ‘Now perhaps you can tell me what you are doing riding through my lands. The Romans are long gone and I no longer kill Saxons for them.’ He looked at Withred. ‘That’s as long as they don’t get too near.’

  ‘We seek only information and a boat to Hibernia,’ Dominic said.

  ‘Only information, only a boat,’ said Guertepir. ‘You make it sound as if you’re asking merely for another cup of wine.’ He regarded Dominic a while. ‘Continue then,’ he said with some impatience, his interest now evoked. ‘Tell me why I should help you?’

  Beginning with the abduction of Elowen, Maewyn and Mule, he told Guertepir of their futile pursuit to Norwic and their discovery that a cattle lord in Hibernia had bought the children. ‘Knowing as we do, that you still have contact and knowledge of what goes on in Hibernia, we thought you would be the man to help us move further on this matter,’ concluded Dominic.

  ‘Move further,’ said Guertepir. He took a gulp of wine then looked at Dominic, his expression one of contempt. ‘I have a mind to move you to my dungeons for having the impertinence to march into my hall and demand my help.’

  ‘A request my lord, not a demand,’ Dominic said, aware that he could not afford to upset Guertepir.

  Guertepir took another quaff of wine and signaled for his retainer to refill the cups of Dominic and his men. He frowned … sighed … frowned again. Finally, he said, ‘mac Garrchu bastards.’

  Dominic looked perplexed and asked, ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Fincath mac Garrchu,’ said Guertepir irritably. ‘He probably has your children—the posturing bastard loves his slaves. He’s an enemy of our clan, the Desi, and because of that you’re in luck; I will give you my council on this matter.’

  Dominic sighed, inwardly relieved. ‘I thank you for that, Guertepir,’ he said.

  ‘No need to thank me, you’ll die over there … know that. As for providing you with a boat, that is another matter; do you think I can just conjure a boat from the sky?’

  ‘First we would appreciate your advice on how to find this Fincath,’ Dominic said, aware that he must not rush the man. ‘Any talk of a boat can come later if needs be.’

  The hall was draughty and Dominic noticed Almaith rub the chill out of her arms. The opportunity was not lost on him. ‘But forgive me; we would be ill-mannered guests, indeed, if we did not bring gifts for our hosts.’ He looked to Flint. ‘If you would allow my friend to leave the hall for a moment, perhaps we can address this lapse of ingratitude.’

  Guertepir readily nodded his assent, eager to see his gift from Arthur.

  Flint returned with two bundles of fur. He unfurled them upon the rustic table before Guertepir. Almaith gasped at the shimmering red cloaks that lay before her. Stitched from scores of squirrel skins, the cloaks were voluminous and opulent. Clasps of gold, engraved with intricate Celtic knots, ensured the cloaks would sit securely over the shoulders of the wearer.

  ‘Oh my, they’re so beautiful,’ said Almaith, her hand going to her mouth, her tears near.

  Inscrutable as ever, Guertepir ran his hands through the silky fur. ‘You’ve moved my wife to words … even to tears, and I commend you for that. These are fine garments and I give you my thanks for them.’

  ‘They are the result of many kills and much needlework,’ Dominic
said. ‘Months in the making, they were destined for the backs of Arthur and his woman. We thought they would look just as good on the backs of Guertepir and his lovely wife.’

  Flattered by Dominic’s words, Guertepir continued to stroke the cloak. Eventually, he turned his attention to Dominic. ‘And so we come to the subject of Fincath mac Garrchu,’ he said. ‘His fort is only one day’s travel from the main port. Even a dullard could find his way there, but if you decide to approach him directly you’ll need a good story.’

  He paused and looked at the four men in turn, his eyes finally returning to Dominic as he pondered their chances. He knew Dominic; knew that any scheme put together by him would be thorough.

  With this in mind, he said: ‘I suppose you’ve already worked out what you’re going to do, so I’ll tell you about Hibernia.’

  For the next two hours, Guertepir told them everything they would need to know about Hibernia—of how to approach Fincath, and what to avoid saying if, indeed, Fincath felt inclined to let them hold breath.

  Never once did he mention a boat, always maneuvering away from the subject of travel. Eventually, tired and ready for more wine before he took to his bed, Guertepir dismissed them, granting them quarters for the night in an outlying hut away from the ringfort.

  ‘Lucky we got him on a good day,’ Dominic said with some irony, as they walked towards their quarters. ‘Now we have the information we need.’

  ‘But no boat yet,’ said Withred. ‘Without a boat the information is useless.’

  ‘Tomorrow we meet with him again,’ Dominic said, ‘… and tomorrow we need to leave and get this thing done. We can only hope he grants us the means to get across the sea.’

  The next day, Guertepir’s man, Diarmait, roused them. ‘My master would have you meet him at the shore below the fort,’ he said. ‘Follow me. It’s a steep but short climb down to where he waits.’

  Murdoc walked beside Dominic as they tailed the long-striding Diarmait down the hill. ‘Sounds promising,’ he said. ‘If we are to meet him by the sea, maybe he has a boat for us.’

  ‘And maybe he plans to throw us to the fishes, knowing the tetchy bastard as I do. We’ll know soon, whatever. There he is, see, beside the wharf.’

  Guertepir stood, legs apart, hands on hips, waiting for them. Resplendent in his new cloak, he seemed untroubled by the thin November breeze that blew in from the sea. Tied to a capstan beside him bobbed a smallish, one sailed skiff, the word PELAGUS painted on its prow.

  Before they could speak, he pointed to the vessel. ‘This boat comes with a condition,’ he said. ‘It also comes with a pilot.’

  He looked towards a small shack along the wharf. He beckoned a man from it. The man—wiry, tough looking, and weathered—walked towards them.

  ‘Meet Druce,’ said Guertepir. ‘I own the boat, he sails it for me and earns his living by supplying my tables with cod.’ Dominic’s party reciprocated Druce’s nod of greeting. ‘He’s also sailed across to Hibernia for me on several occasions. No need then for you to worry about currents or direction, Druce will get you across the sea in one day if the wind is favorable.’

  ‘And the condition you mentioned?’ Dominic said, warily. ‘You said the boat comes with a condition.’

  ‘Ah yes … the condition,’ said Guertepir. ‘Fincath’s sons killed one of my wife’s cousins last year—a dispute over cattle ownership as usual. The man was dear to her and she seeks retribution for his death. Last night, after you left to take your rest, it occurred to my wife that the opportunity for revenge had neatly presented itself with your arrival. She requests, therefore, that you bring back the head of one of the sons of Fincath mac Garrchu.’

  Guertepir said the last sentence as if he were requesting that Dominic merely bring them back a piece of driftwood. The nuance of Guertepir’s tone was not lost on Dominic.

  Dominic’s own tone, though, was one of incredulity. ‘That’s all you want? Just a head, eh? You want us to bring back a man’s head, and that’s the price for using your boat?’ He looked towards the bemused Withred, Murdoc and Flint. Withred shook his head in dismissal.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Guertepir, in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Take it or leave it.’ As he looked at their reaction to his statement, something suddenly occurred to him. ‘Oh … don’t worry about the killing,’ he said in an attempt to reassure them. ‘Whichever head you bring back will belong to a man who has done many wicked deeds himself—a man who has killed and beheaded many others for next to naught wrongdoing.’

  Dominic, who was having none of it, had decided the conversation could have no possible conclusion. ‘I do not kill a man unless I know he has done evil,’ he said. ‘We will find another boat. Thanks for the information you gave us last night. I wish you good day.’

  As he turned to leave, followed by Withred, Murdoc and Flint, Guertepir looked up the hill and signaled to Diarmait who waited there. Followed by a group of thirty armed foot soldiers, Diarmait walked quickly back down the hill towards them.

  Instinctively, Withred reached for his sword, cursing as he realised he had been forced to surrender it the day before.

  ‘You disappoint me, Dominic,’ said Guertepir, as the body of armed men arrived to surround them. ‘I thought you would exact justice for me where justice is due. Now you have forced my hand.’

  Dominic realised the futility of the situation, as did the others. Any action by them would be pointless and inevitably end with their deaths. He thought of the children again, and realised that their only chance of getting to Hibernia could be slipping through their fingers. He made a quick decision. He would give his assurance to Guertepir, and worry about the requested severed head later.

  Although furious with Guertepir, outwardly he was calmness itself as he responded. ‘All right, stay your hand; we will do as you ask. We hardly have a choice, do we.’

  ‘None … other than to die here and now,’ said Guertepir.

  ‘And you would risk war with Arthur for the sake of a severed head?’ Dominic said.

  ‘Better that, than war with my wife.’ Guertepir was only half joking. He looked to his man, Diarmait, then to Murdoc. ‘Take him back to the fort, he stays here.’

  Expecting a reaction, ten of Guertepir’s men quickly surrounded Dominic, Withred and Flint.

  Guertepir turned to them, his tone one of mock reassurance. ‘Don’t worry; he’ll be looked after until you return with your precious children … and the head. Then he will be free to return with you to Arthur.’

  Glaring now, Dominic wrested his arms away from the man who restrained him. His full attention was on Guertepir. ‘Harm him and the might of Arthur will be brought down upon you. Believe me when I tell you this. I thought you an honorable man, Guertepir, awkward and skittish, yes, but honorable nonetheless.’

  ‘And so I am,’ said Guertepir, trying to sound reasonable. ‘The trouble is you underestimate the importance we Hibernians place upon repaying like for like, blood for blood, heads for heads. I will honour our bargain as soon as you return with the head.’ He paused, smiling slightly as he appraised the glowering Dominic. ‘Oh … and one more thing,’ he added. ‘Not any old head will do. The head will have an indelible mark on the brow: the mark of the snake. Only Fincath and his sons wear the sign. It marks them as high born. No other head will do.’

  He looked up the track to Murdoc and his accompaniment of guards as they walked towards the ringfort. ‘Bring me the wrong head,’ he said pointing towards Murdoc, ‘and I will give you his handsome head in return.’

  The clank of armour sounded as the guards again restrained Dominic. ‘Do that and you will answer to me,’ Dominic warned. ‘You will regret the day—‘

  ‘I’ve no time for this,’ said Guertepir, impatient now. ‘That’s the second time you’ve threatened me. Do it a third time and I’ll have you and your companions thrown into the sea.’ He turned to address Druce who stood nearby looking less than comfortable. ‘You told me earlier that a favorable t
ide is with us?’

  ‘As we speak, my lord,’ said Druce.

  ‘And you are ready to sail now? Have you provisions on board?’

  ‘All is stowed, my Lord.’

  ‘Their weapons too?’

  ‘Everything, my Lord.’

  Guertepir held out his hands, shoulder high, palms up, as a conciliatory gesture to Dominic. ‘See … I give you back your weapons. I send you to Hibernia armed to the teeth. Not such a bad man am I?’

  ‘It would be hard to behead a man with the ledge of my hand,’ Dominic said, ‘so maybe your action has method behind it.’

  Guertepir had had enough of talk. ‘Put them on the boat,’ he said to the guards surrounding them. ‘Watch from the promontory and make sure the craft has passed from sight before you return to me. Leave two men to continue the watch until nightfall.’

  Pushed towards the boat, the three men followed Druce. Once aboard, Druce skillfully adjusted the boom to catch the wind, and soon the skiff was skipping across the waves.

  Druce sat at the rear of the Pelagus, his hand on the steering oar as he watched the horizon. ‘I am but a sailor,’ he said to Flint who was the nearest to him, ‘… a Briton like yourself. I do as Guertepir bids. I have no choice in the matter, otherwise my family starves and so do I. Neither do I have interest or knowledge of your business in Hibernia, other than your intention to visit Fincath mac Garrchu.’

  Flint regarded Druce. He seemed honest enough. He certainly knew how to make the boat respond to his every command. ‘Yes, I know,’ said Flint. ‘Guertepir has a blade held at your throat as well. I already knew you were obeying a man who can make you hungry if he so wishes.’ Flint leaned forward and Druce took his proffered hand. ‘We hold no grudge towards you,’ said Flint. ‘Just get us to Hibernia safely so we can get this done with.’

  ‘And more importantly, get us back safely,’ said Withred who had gingerly crawled along the boat to sit beside Flint. ‘I have no love of the sea and don’t wish to drink from it.’

  Druce laughed. ‘Don’t worry, if this wind keeps snapping at the sail we’ll reach Hibernia by nightfall. Once there you can drink ale my friend, and leave the brine to the fishes.’