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

by Atkinson, F J

  A spontaneous roar went up from the pushing wall and immediately the men opposite began to move backwards. Peasants at the back skidded and slid on the dried mud of the drill ground as they pushed against the slide in a desperate effort to stop the retreat. Some went down, trampled underfoot.

  ‘STOP! STOP!’ Erec had been expecting the collapse. Now his instructors pulled men from the back of the advancing wall. Another shout from Erec saw the surge abate.

  Pwyll by now had his face pressed firmly against his shield and stood upright only because the crush of men against him had prevented him from going to ground. Arlyn actually had his back to his shield, having lost total control of it. Both still held their swords but their arms were pinned, rendering the weapons useless.

  ‘Stand down, stand down!’ shouted Erec. ‘Men who haven’t held a shield yet, take one now!’

  They broke up and the fresh men took the shields and formed two new opposing walls. The displaced men, panting and white faced, slumped to the ground to take their turn to observe.

  Erec addressed the exhausted group. ‘What you experienced is what will happen in battle if you do not meet force with force. Purposely, I told one wall to push and the other wall to resist. The result was there for all to see. To attempt to merely hold your ground is NOT GOOD ENOUGH! When you meet the Saxon wall the supporting men must push until they can push no more. Fail to do this and you will go backwards and the front men will be crushed against their shields and be of no use.’ Erec smiled for the first time then, as he looked at the sea of worried faces before him. ‘No doubt some of you now have flat noses.’ His lighter tone engendered a ripple of laughter amongst the men, and some rubbed their noses, smiling wryly. Erec brought back a measure of gravitas and continued. ‘Fail to push back with every sinew of your bodies, good men of Britannia, and you will be trampled upon and defeated—left upon the battlefield butchered and forsaken, good only to feed the crows.’

  He turned to the new shieldwalls. ‘This time you will both advance upon my count,’ he said. ‘When you meet, you will stop and push only when I tell you to do so. Then, both shieldwalls will heave forward with every grain of strength. Before this day is out you will all be capable of standing your ground. Above all you will have learned how to wield your swords within the press of surrounding men.’

  Arthur looked at Flint, at Heledd. ‘Mars help us,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s hope they’re as inexperienced as we are.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Will had feared the worst when messengers had left Camulodunum after the meeting of the Saxon lords. Five days later, his fears were confirmed when the first of four huge gatherings of warriors approached from the southern road.

  He knew these were not mere raiding parties—there were too many men for that— rather they were freemen—the fyrd—men enlisted by their Saxon lords. With them rode seasoned warriors equipped for a prolonged campaign. With the first arrivals came a number of covered wagons provisioned with supplies. Wives and children rode the wagons or walked beside them, and soon the open ground before the gates of Camulodunum was thronged with people.

  Two more days passed, during which time Will witnessed the arrival of three more similar gatherings. Such was their count that a tented village grew on the outskirts of town. Now Will’s work began in earnest as he mingled with the newly arrived and took tally of their numbers. He counted eighteen hundred men equipped for war. Within the walls of Camulodunum, another four hundred dwelt.

  Alarmed, Will considered returning at once to Arthur with news of the Saxon addition of more than two thousand men to the estimated four thousand who waited at Guertepir’s ringfort. But he had to be sure the swarm indeed intended to leave Camulodunum and travel westwards to join the Hibernian king.

  As well as the Saxon encampment, there was still the matter of Cunedda’s and Diarmait’s two hundred strong envoy. As a precaution, Hrodgar had prevented the men from entering the town some twelve days earlier. Since then, they had filled their time drinking and sparring, the clang of swords and the bray of their laughter a common sound both day and night.

  Will soon realised that the presence of these men—some of them Britons like himself—provided an opportunity to gather intelligence which could be invaluable to Arthur. With this in mind, he decided to undertake the risky endeavor of infiltrating the British and Hibernian camp.

  During the previous days, Will had occasionally chanced the short journey to a nearby wood. Here, he had set simple twine snares near a sandy mound riddled with rabbit holes. Every day had produced at least one rabbit and these he had either eaten or traded on.

  With his two latest kills, he now approached the British camp. Shucked into the hoods of their tunics as a soft rain fell around them, two Votadini sat against the crumbling town walls as they warmed themselves beside a lively campfire.

  ‘Two coneys, caught but today; I can almost smell them roasting on your fine fire,’ said Will, approaching them with the affected air of a man who is comfortable and familiar with his surroundings.

  One of the group, a pallid youth whose greasy hair poked from his hood, eyed Will with disdain. ‘What have we here; another trader and this one’s British.’ He spat into the fire.

  Another, beside him, rubbed warmth into his hands and held them close to the dancing flames. In spite of himself, the man had started to salivate. He nodded towards the rabbits. ‘What you want for ‘em?’

  ‘Nothing but your fire to cook them on,’ said Will. ‘It’ll save me the job of trying to start one in this rain. For that you get to share them with me.’ Coldhands and Sallow, thought Will as he appraised the two Britons. Coldhands and Sallow should be your names.

  Sallow gave a dry little laugh. ‘So you want nothing but the heat from our fire. Maybe we should take gold from you as well for the privilege.’

  But Will, confident the men would relish fresh meat, had already crouched beside Coldhands and started to skin the rabbits. The two Votadini fell into a contemplative silence as they watched Will at work. He glanced at them as he threw the skins to one side and begun to gut and butcher the meat. ‘Never seen the town as crowded,’ he said. ‘Rumour has it something big’s about to happen.’

  ‘So what’s a Briton like you doin’ in a Saxon town,’ asked Coldhands, refusing to be drawn.

  Will by now had pushed the meat onto skewers. He threw them into the embers of the fire. ‘There ... they’ll soon be done.’ He turned his attention to the two Votadini. ‘What? ... Me?’ He faked the impression that Coldhand’s question had hardly registered with him. ‘Oh, I trade with the low-lifes; supply them with meat. Ignore what a set of bastards they are and you get paid well here.’ He decided to go for it. ‘What about you two ... you’re Britons from the north by your accents. I did a bit of scouting for the Romans you see ... been above the wall a few times.’ He pointed at them, a knowing smile on his face. ‘Let me guess’—he wagged his finger at them as if struggling to recall a name—‘Votanti ... yes that’s it. Votanti people you are. I never forget—‘

  ‘Votadini,’ interrupted Sallow.

  ‘Eh … yes ... Votadini,’ said Will as he turned the rabbit meat over in the fire. ‘Votadini—of course. Plagued to death by Picts as I recall. That’s why I was up in your territory. Ran the Picts ragged we did, me and the Romans. Did your folk a service.’ He regarded the two Britons again and asked casually: ‘So why’re you here rubbing shoulders with these Saxon turds?’

  Sallow looked to Coldhands, who shrugged back at him. Taking the gesture as an endorsement and unable to resist a little boast, Sallow said: ‘We’re here to escort our lord, Cunedda. Hand-picked we are—the best of our tribe.’

  Will whistled appreciatively. He gave Sallow a wink and a smile. ‘If I’d known that, I might have thought twice about approaching you earlier.’ He threw a piece of cooked meat to Sallow and one to Coldhands. The men ate silently for a while until Will asked, ‘So when do you expect to move out of Camulodunum?’

&
nbsp; Coldhands appeared gloomy and a little anxious as he chewed on the tender rabbit meat. ‘Should’ve been today, but the last lot of Saxons arrived too late so I expect it’ll be at first light tomorrow.’

  ‘A long trip, too,’ said Will, taking a chance. ‘A good twelve days for the mounted, fifteen for the foot soldiers.’

  ‘We’re on horseback, so we’ll be the first to see Aquae Sulis,’ blurted Sallow.

  Coldhands frowned at Sallow and seemed ready to lambast him, but Will decided to get in first. ‘Oh ... don’t worry about me; he’s not said anything I didn’t already know; there are enough loose tongues in this town to pave the streets of Londinium. As long as whatever you’re up to doesn’t affect my trade here I couldn’t care less.’ He stood up and wiped his greasy hands on his buckskin pants. The youth had told him all he needed to know. Aquae Sulis was the rallying point and probably the alliance’s first target. He threw his rabbit bone into the fire, ready to make his excuses and go.

  His concern grew when Coldhands got to his feet.

  ‘Not so fast,’ said the Votadinite. ‘You appear from shit-knows-where, give us free food, and as soon as my stupid friend reveals our purpose you make to leave.’ He eyed Will suspiciously. ‘Maybe it would be better if we checked you out. You say you are familiar with this town; if that’s the case you can take me now to someone who can vouch for you.’

  Will realised he had massively misjudged the situation; more precisely he had misjudged the man who stood threateningly before him. Should he run or face him out. A quick glance at Sallow—whose glare matched that of Coldhands—made up his mind. He laughed, as if astounded by Coldhands’ mistrust. ‘Of course I’ll take you to someone who can speak for me, though what you think I am is beyond my—’

  Leaving his words hanging, he dashed away. Knowing it was his only option, he skidded and zig-zagged through the milling crowds, scattering camp fires as he went.

  ‘STOP THAT MAN, HE’S A SPY!’ Coldhands’ shout rang out behind Will as he darted through a narrow gap between two covered wagons. He half fell, half climbed, over a water barrel that blocked his way. Panting and disorientated, he picked himself up and tried to establish his bearings. Figures, shown up as shadows darting before a nearby bonfire, indicated the cry of alarm had been effective. He turned to the edge of the open ground and viewed its concealing darkness. Somewhere out there was his horse. He ran towards the gloom, but had covered only half the distance when Sallow hit him from behind. Catching him was one thing but Sallow soon realised that holding him was another—the man felt as if he were made of twisted steel. Before he knew it, he found himself on his back with Will at his neck.

  The ax hit Will before he had the chance to slide his knife across Sallow’s throat. Two inches of cold iron penetrated his chest, knocking him backwards. His assailant snatched the blade from his flesh and raised it above him. Will gasped and readied himself for death.

  ‘No! Do not finish him! We need to take him to Cunedda!’ The voice belonged to Coldhands, who had just arrived with a small crowd.

  ‘Don’t know why you’re bothering, he won’t live, anyway,’ said the ax man as he watched the bubbles of dark blood emerging from Will’s wound. ‘I pierced his lung and Woden-knows what else.’

  ‘Still, we need to get him to Cunedda,’ said Coldhands. ‘He’s probably Arthur’s man.’

  Cunedda swept his arm across the table, clearing from it the accumulated debris of twelve days. ‘Lay him down; I’ll deal with him now.’ He looked at the dying man, then turned his attention to Coldhands. ‘Pumped you for information, you say?’

  ‘Yes, before he ran off ... tried to escape when I challenged him.’

  Cunedda studied Will. Something was familiar about him. ‘I’d guess he’s a ranger by the way he’s dressed. What did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing, my lord ... Er ... leastways, I didn’t.’

  Cunedda gave the other a stern glance. ‘You didn’t. Who did then? And what was he told?’

  ‘My friend told him we were headed for Aquae Sulis, that’s when he ran off.’

  ‘Did anyone else hear this?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  Fuming inwardly, Cunedda’s stare was withering. ‘Your friend could have compromised this mission, where is he now?’

  ‘Back beside our fire, my lord.’

  Cunedda gave a ‘humph!’ then guided Coldhands to the door by his elbow. ‘Get out and tell your friend I want to see him tomorrow before we leave for the west.’ He pushed Coldhands through the door and turned to Diarmait and Raedwald.

  Since the decisive meeting in the alehouse, Cunedda, Diarmait and Raedwald had lived together in the hut whilst awaiting the muster. The coming night was the last Cunedda would ever have to endure with Raedwald and both he and Diarmait could not wait for the morning. Because the Saxon youth was unpopular even with his own people, he had billeted with them since arriving in Camulodunum. But, oh, how his vacuous boasting and wondrous tales had grated upon them. Mercifully, their frequent need to liaise with the Saxon chiefs had taken them away from the hut and away from Raedwald.

  As he turned from the door, Cunedda noticed Raedwald at the table. He fixed him with an amazed stare. ‘What ... what are you doing?’

  Raedwald, who wielded his knife, hovered over Will, hissing venom into his ear. He turned to Cunedda. ‘Doing what I’m good at—getting a spy to spill his guts.’ He moved the blade towards Will’s chest wound. ‘See … this will get him to —‘

  Cunedda and Diarmait exchanged a look. Eyes aflame, Cunedda darted to Raedwald, whose mouth had shut with a snap. He pushed him away. ‘What you’re good at! What you’re good at is expelling drivel!’ His patience had finally snapped with Raedwald. ‘What your good at I have still to witness, and I’ll be watching you closely on the battlefield to see if you can match your empty words with worthy deeds.’ He pointed at Will, who lay oblivious and close to death. ‘Put a knife to him and he’ll die you idiot. Can you not see he is beyond torture.’

  As Cunedda raged, Diarmait went to Will. ‘You’re right, his end is near. If you need to talk to him, better you do it now.’

  Cunedda pushed Raedwald to the wall. ‘Stay there and don’t move,’ he warned. He joined Diarmait at the table and pulled up a chair so his head was level with Will’s. Pragmatic as ever, he said: ‘You’re going to your God, fellow, and there’s naught you or I can do about it.’

  Will’s head swam as he fought to retain his lucidity. The man’s voice, his braided hair, the piercings on his face—all were familiar to him. Perhaps he had met him when riding above the wall scouting for Rome. He tried to speak, but the words would not come. He felt at peace and devoid of pain as his blood seeped on to the table.

  ‘You visited my land; I’ve seen you before; I remember now,’ continued Cunedda. He turned to Diarmait. ‘The Votadini worked closely with Rome, kept the Picts from them, and in return they gave us a measure of protection. This man was a scout for Rome.’

  ‘He’s seen a life, then,’ said Diarmait. ‘Bet he never thought his death would come in a Saxon town with a fellow Briton and a hoary Hibernian at his bed.’

  Will wheezed as his lung spat blood through the hole in his chest. The men above him talked quietly and seemed content to let him be. He thought of Britannia—of its achingly beautiful diversity. He had seen all of the land, from the southern coast to the wall of Antoine many miles north. Woods and marsh, pasture and mountain; the image was painted upon the canvas of his memory. But it was the rippling fields of barley, golden under a September sun and swelling like an inland sea, which became clear to him now. Villages, their huts thatched and nestling in the folds of the land, lay beside the barley fields. Children, enjoying the late summer sun, ran through the crops—their chatter and treble audible and lovely. And then only darkness as death came to him.

  Upon hearing his final sigh, Raedwald approached the table—his look of dismay born from the realisation that the Briton had died without furthe
r torment.

  Cunedda turned when sensing Raedwald beside him. Such was the venom in the Votadini chief’s glare that Raedwald took a step backwards. Cunedda’s voice was cold. ‘You ... get someone to take this man’s body to the woods and bury it.’

  But Raedwald was ruffled. ‘Bury him?’ Why not just feed him to the pigs. The scum would have scuttled back to Arthur and warned him.’

  With an exasperated, ‘huh!’ Diarmait got to his feet and grabbed Raedwald by his shoulder. He guided him towards the door. ‘Just do as Cunedda says. We’ve heard enough of the world-according-to-Raedwald for one lifetime.’ He shoved him through the door and shut it.

  Cunedda had covered Will’s face. ‘He was a worthy man’—he cast a glance towards the door—‘unlike that Saxon runt.’ He appraised Will again. ‘This man plied an honest trade—one that got him killed in the end. In the same position, I would probably have done as he did.’

  Diarmait nodded. ‘Yes, he at least deserves to go into the ground now. I will personally see that his body is not despoiled before it happens.’

  The month of March arrived the next morning. The four Saxon chiefs: Hrodgar, Wigstan, Cenhelm and Osbeorn, their horses caparisoned for war, rode from the gates of Camulodunum in their full splendor. Between them, they had gathered over two thousand men, half of whom owned horses or ponies. The enlisted men—the fyrd—made up the other half, and were mostly on foot. These would trail three days behind the main party as they walked with their families beside the wagons.

  Whoops and shouts had begun to puncture the drone of lively conversation coming from the hordes gathered before the town gates.

  Diarmait and Cunedda met the Saxon chiefs when they emerged. ‘As planned, we take the road to Londinium, then the road westwards to Aquae Sulis,’ said Hrodgar.

  ‘And riders have been dispatched?’ asked Cunedda.

  Not familiar with being questioned over his leadership, Hrodgar was brusque. ‘Of course. Three days ago; do you think I would leave anything to chance?’