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

by Atkinson, F J

  Abloyc gave a reproachful look to Guertepir. ‘There ... I told you he’d be trouble. Should’ve killed him with the rest.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Guertepir as he made to leave. ‘The waters here have magical properties. They may calm his savage nature. You’re coming to watch the show I take it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for anything,’ said Abloyc as he walked with his arm over Guertepir’s shoulders towards the baths.

  Arthur’s artisans had renovated the huge bathhouse to its original opulent specifications. A stone caldarium (the largest of three pools in the complex) brimmed with clear water. Emerging warm from deep underground, its visage had filled both the Hibernians and Votadini with awe and veneration. The guilt-bronze image of Sulis Minerva looked down imposingly upon all who entered the bathhouse. The smell of water and stone infused the air, adding to the unique aura of the temple.

  Abloyc and thirty of his highest-ranking men now ambled between the stone pillars as they awaited the arrival of Guertepir and Almaith.

  ‘Wait till you see his wife,’ said Abloyc to Taranis, the nearest man. ‘The word hog doesn’t go near describing her.’

  ‘A simple mare, too, by all accounts,’ said Taranis.

  ‘Yes, but with a rich Hibernian father who provides Guertepir with most of his gold.’

  ‘So I hear ... but what’s all this about? Why are we here?’

  ‘That, you’re not going to believe,’ tittered Abloyc. ‘One thing I will tell you, though, is that Guertepir’s completely taken with the place. He reckons he can secure his mortality here today ... but quiet, here they come.’

  Surrounded by a retinue of assistants, Guertepir and Almaith, both clad in the squirrel coats gifted to them by Dominic two years earlier, entered the temple.

  ‘You were right—hog comes nowhere near describing her,’ said Abloyc’s man as he beheld Almaith. ‘Even in that fine wrap she looks like something that’s emerged from the bowels of the earth.’

  Guertepir’s druid entered the bathhouse. Dressed in a white habit, his black hair flowing from the cowl that covered his head, his long featured face a vague shadow within the hood, he chanted rhythmically whilst moving in strange, intricate steps as he carried a golden bowl. Muirecán’s dance had taken him near to the pool. Inside his bowl was an amalgam of oak leaves and ox blood. As he moved forward he stirred the mixture with his hand, his invocations rising in volume. Abloyc and Taranis watched, open-mouthed, as the ceremony progressed.

  As if to himself, Taranis asked: ‘What in Freyja’s name is he doing?’

  ‘Serving notice to Sulis Minerva that men of this land are about to enter her realm,’ answered Abloyc. ‘The oak leaves represent the land, the blood the sea.’

  Muirecán by now had begun to encircle the pool. As he did, he grabbed handfuls of the bloody leaves and held them before him. Reciting incantations, he dropped them in to the water. The ceremony continued until his bowl was empty.

  His droning abruptly ceased when he came upon Almaith and Guertepir. They turned to him and he smeared ox blood onto their faces. He held his arms aloft, looked at them with his dark piercing eyes, then shouted his final prayers.

  ‘She awaits your entry and is ready for your sacrifice, king,’ he said as he pointed to the bubbling of water pushing upwards in the centre of the pool. ‘Now she is appeased and will allow you to perform your sacred task.’

  Guertipir nodded slowly and turned to Almaith. ‘Are you ready to walk with me into the pool, my dear?’

  Almaith, dull eyed, gave a faint nod of her head.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you are,’ murmured Guertepir stoically as he beckoned over two of his retinue. ‘Take the cloaks and put them somewhere safe,’ he told them.

  ‘No ... please no,’ said Abloyc with horrid fascination as the men removed the cloaks from Guertepir and Almaith. He expelled a disgusted ‘huh’ as their naked forms were exposed.

  ‘They’re like bloated, saggy twins,’ said Taranis, his tone rivalling Abloyc’s in unbridled revulsion.

  Guertepir and Almaith walked down the stone steps of the caldarium until they were chest deep in the warm mineral waters. There they stood, arms floating at shoulder height as they waited. Almaith’s huge saggy breast had risen to the surface and bobbed as if weightless in the ripples of the pool. Guertepir shouted to his druid. ‘Have the men bring them in!‘

  ‘Now it gets really interesting,’ said Abloyc to Taranis. ‘This is where Guertepir and his hag enter the realms of immortality.’

  From a shadowy recess at the far end of the bathhouse, Erec and Morgana emerged. Dressed from neck to ankle in white linen gowns, their hands bound behind and their ankles fettered, they progressed in a stumbling shuffle towards the edge of the pool. Behind them strode four of Guertepir’s guards and a woman of Almaith’s chamber. The woman carried Erec’s infant son, Girard. She spoke soothingly to the boy and stroked his hair in an effort to placate him as he blinked wide-eyed at the overwhelming spectacle before him.

  Almaith gasped as she appraised Erec’s powerful physique, discernable even through the fabric of his linen shroud. Guertepir, too, seemed pleased as he beheld Morgana’s svelte lines beneath her own garment.

  As Erec took in the scene, things became clear to him. They were to enter the water beside the poxed Hibernian king and his rancid wife. But for what purpose he could not imagine. Muirecán approached him and began to wail an intricate incantation into his face, then turned his attention to Morgana. The chant rose in intensity until it became a shrill scream, at which point Muirecán fell to silence. Tension infused the room as he let the hush linger a moment.

  At a nod from Guertepir, who had now begun to fondle himself under the water, Muirecán grasped Morgana’s linen shroud and tore it from neck to waist. Morgana gasped and brought up her hands to cover herself as Muirecán stooped and finished the task of splitting her shroud.

  Erec, the whites of his eyes now dominant such was his blistering fury, attempted to bite at Muirecán, but the attack fell short thanks to the restraint of Guertepir’s guards who dragged him backwards and away.

  ‘WHAT are you DOING!’ Spit flew from Erec’s mouth as he twisted his head to look towards Guertepir.

  But Guertepir did not respond. Instead, he nodded towards Muirecán. The druid cast a glance towards the guards who held Erec by his arms. They strengthened their grip upon him. Muirecán approached Erec and split open his gown from neck to floor.

  An ecstatic ‘ahh’ emerged from Almaith as she studied Erec’s naked form. Like Guertepir, she had begun to pleasure herself under the water, but as her juices threatened to erupt she ceased her stroking.

  Livid, Erec gasped, growled and twisted in the grip of his enforcers.

  ‘This will not do, you must stop your STRUGGLING!’ Erec became still and rested his baleful glare upon Muirecán who had addressed him. ‘You will enter the water now ... both of you’—he nodded towards Guertepir and Almaith—‘and do as they desire.’

  Erec stole a glance towards Morgana who had none of his feistiness. Instead, she wept in the grasp of her captors and attempted to shrug herself into some semblance of modesty. She looked at the woman who held Girard. ‘Why have you brought my boy in here,’ she sobbed. ‘He has done no harm ... he is just a baby. Please take him from this place ... he does not need to see this.’

  Guertepir bellowed from the water, his shout directed at Erec. ‘I see that your wife possesses all the sense in your family. While you struggle and spit your venom, your boy is at risk. Now is the time to accept your fate and enter the water. Refuse or resist further and the boy will be sacrificed to Sulis Minerva before your eyes.’

  Abloyc walked over to the woman who held Girard and took him from her. The infant wriggled in his grasp, averting his head. He had begun to chatter his distress—the sound heart-rending and reedy in the echoey atmosphere of the bathhouse.

  Erec, sobbing now, pleaded with Guertepir. ‘Let him be; sweet Jesus, how can you possibly
even contemplate hurting a single hair of his head. Send him from here ... we will enter the water. Just send him from here.’

  ‘Ah, sense at last,’ said Guertepir. ‘But the boy stays. His presence will be a reminder should your liveliness return.’

  Erec rested his desolate gaze upon Morgana. ‘We have no choice, my love. We must go in.’ Morgana, her face twisted with fear and grief, gave him a despairing nod of acceptance. He turned his head sideways towards his restrainers. ‘Do it then,’ he said. ‘Walk me into the waters.’

  The guards pushed him forward onto the stone steps. Beside him was Morgana and he managed to speak to her as the warm waters crept above their knees. ‘This will be over soon for both of us,’ he said. ‘I love you and our boy more than life itself. Keep that thought in your head, Morgana. Promise me you will.’

  She wept as she was shoved towards Guertepir.‘I promise,’ she said.

  When close to Almaith, Erec convulsed with disgust. Daubed liberally, her rouge was smeared and greasy. Carmine grease paint, ineptly applied to her slack lips, strayed outwards to mix with the stuff on her face. She reached out and touched Erec’s sword-scarred shoulders. The knight recoiled.

  ‘Push him to me.’ They were the first words Almaith had uttered since entering the water and promoted an immediate response from the guards who held Erec. Soon he was face to face with Almaith, her squashy breasts pressed against him.

  Mercifully, Erec had his back to Guertepir, and so was unable to see his actions towards his wife. Repulsed, Morgana had turned her face away as Guertepir pulled her knees upwards and around him.

  ‘No ... you do not need to do this.’ Her plea to him was pathetic and distraught. ‘Drown me if you will. Surely that will appease the goddess.‘

  Guertepir, panting in his ardor, ran his hand down Morgana’s side. ‘No, it will not appease her,’ he said. ‘My druid’—he squinted towards Muirecán who had renewed his chanting at the side of the caldarium—‘insists that the deity desires to witness—to feel even—fornication and the spilling of seed and juices into her blessed womb. Then you shall have your wish—then I will drown you—you British whore-wife.’

  Abloyc had moved to the edge of the pool as he held Girard. To Erec’s relief, the boy had pushed his face into Abloyc’s chest, refusing to look at anything within the bathhouse. Erec implored Abloyc. ‘Anything—we’ve told you we’ll do anything—just don’t touch him.’

  ‘Then get on with it man,’ smirked Abloyc. ‘Do the right thing and rise to the occasion. Your water nymph is getting impatient.’

  Abloyc’s remark caused an eruption of laughter from his men, but no mirth from Almaith. She had worked on Erec’s loins to no avail and had now resorted to sliding down his knee in an effort to satisfy herself.

  Erec, his head pushed back as much as he could, grimaced at the hag’s close proximity as she panted and drooled into his face. But when Morgana’s scream came from behind he could take no more. A crimson rage fell upon him then, and such was the strength of his muscle spasm, he was able to pull free from the men who held him. Barging Almaith away, he turned to see Guertepir grunting over Morgana as he violated her. The Hibernian’s hand lay flat across her forehead as he pushed her sweet face under the waters of the pool.

  Erec screamed at Guertepir as the guards made to grab him again. ‘NO! Why drown her. What more do you need from her!’ With elbows tied behind, Erec had few options other than push through the water and away from the men. Almaith’s clammy hand fell upon his neck.

  ‘No you don’t. A wife for a wife,’ growled Erec. He butted Almaith, the blow sending her sprawling backwards. He lunged at her exposed neck, his intent now to tear at her puffy flesh with his teeth. The guards stopped him. Three more had entered the water and two now helped a stunned Almaith from the pool. The third wielded a dagger.

  Dead and defiled, Morgana floated before Guertepir.

  Distraught and spent as his guards once more gripped his arms, Erec wept. ‘No ... ah no. You had no need to kill her.’

  His thoughts went to Girard. He turned to him. What had his boy witnessed? He saw that the lad still pressed his small face into Abloyc’s tunic.

  Erec heaved with sobs as he turned to plead with Guertepir. ‘I know you’re going to kill me now, but spare my boy ... he has not harmed anyone … please spare my boy.’

  ‘You’ve cost me too much gold for that you British rat,’ spat Guertepir as he pushed Morgana’s body away from him. ‘As soon as my wife tells her father what happened in here today he will half my allowance. And yes, you’re right—I am going to kill you.’ He nodded to the man with the dagger who went to Erec and slid the blade across his neck. As Erec went limp, his guards released him, allowing his body to sink in a swirling fog of crimson to the stone floor of the pool.

  Grunting with the effort of wading through the pool, Guertepir made his way to the stone steps. Impatiently, he beckoned to two of his retainers. ‘Come!’ he shouted to them. ‘In the water and help me out. Don’t just stand there with your thumbs up your arses!’

  Moments later, Guertepir stood naked on the mosaic floor of the bathhouse as his servants patted him dry. He lifted his arms above his head, exposing his sides to the drying cloths, then turned his attention back to the caldarium. Discoloured by Erec’s blood, the opaque water obscured the two bodies which lay on the bottom of the pool.

  Not far from Guertepir stood Almaith, her nose broken and bloodied from Erec’s assault. Two of her women dabbed at her wound as another placed the squirrel cloak over her shoulders.

  ‘Didn’t go quite as I intended,’ commented Guertepir as he appraised his wife.

  Abloyc, who had approached with Girard, suppressed a smile. ‘No ... your lady didn’t seem to get the satisfaction she desired.’

  Guertepir grunted his displeasure. ‘Now I’ll have to find some young Adonis to satisfy her.’ He looked at Girard now. Face hidden, the boy whimpered and shook. Guertepir stroked the infant’s blond curls as if fostering a heart-felt fondness towards him.

  The nuance was not lost upon Abloyc. ‘You seem taken with Erec’s sprat,’ he said. ‘Am I to take it the court of Guertepir has a new young addition?’

  Guertepir’s head shot back, his smile sardonic. ‘Are you mad,’ he proffered. ‘You know how it works Abloyc. We kill our enemies and we kill their children. This lad is the image of his father and will be as him one day. How would I sleep in my bed in years to come with Erec’s double walking my halls?’

  Abloyc’s relief was palpable. ‘For a moment I thought you’d gone soft,’ he said. ‘I shall see to the matter at once.’

  Guertepir stayed Abloyc’s hand as he made to remove his knife. ‘No ... not with a blade.’ He turned to the far wall of the bathhouse where the guilt, bronzed head of the goddess Sulis Minerva gazed down with passive eyes upon the assembly. Guertepir pointed to the icon. ‘She must observe the sacrifice close up,’ he said. ‘Take his ankles and cast his head against the stone beneath her.’

  Abloyc shrugged. ‘As you command.’ He turned and strode towards the wall with Girard.

  The face of Sulis Minerva was inscrutable, but Guertepir had misjudged her. The Romans and Britons had known the Goddess to be life giving and nourishing, and they would interpret her stare to be one of maternal grief as she watched Abloyc’s dreadful deed. With certainty, they would know that she now despaired at the very nature of man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Days earlier, Arthur’s smile was as broad as the horizon as he stood on the wall-walk of Brythonfort with Heledd. Below him, Augustus, Withred, Dominic and Murdoc had just entered the gates of Brythonfort with the men of Angeln.

  ‘Good news ... thank Fortuna ... good news at last,’ said Arthur as he gripped Heledd’s hand. ‘Yet, I hardly dare count their numbers.’ As he overlooked the gates, the Anglii continued to file into Brythonfort below him.

  He gave Heledd a swift assessment. ‘Mainly footmen for the shields but mounted warriors as well.�
�� They watched engrossed and one hour passed before the procession finally petered out. ‘Two thousand,’ said Arthur, as the last man went through the gates. ‘Better than I expected but still woefully short of what we need.’

  ‘They go to the hall,’ said Heledd. ‘There, we can hear of news from the outside.’ She squeezed Arthur’s hand reassuringly and peered into his troubled eyes. ‘Who knows, we may be pleasantly surprised.’

  Arthur, his earlier euphoria now blunted by the grim realization of the task before them, reciprocated the squeeze. ‘And now I must tell them of the fall of Aquae Sulis and the probable death of one of my best men,’ he said as he turned and walked from the wall.

  Arthur embraced Withred and Augustus as they came to him in the hall. ‘A magnificent outcome from an arduous task,’ he enthused, ‘and one I will not forget.’ Titon padded into the hall. ‘From Angeln, too?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a long story and one that can wait,’ said Withred, ‘but he’s not from Angeln.’ In the way of introduction, he turned to the two men beside him. ‘Hereferth and Smala,’ he said to Arthur. ‘They know this land and speak British, and both are well-regarded in Angeln. It is they you can thank for the two thousand men who camp outside.’

  Arthur quickly appraised the two men. Hereferth was tall and imposing with an intricate swirl of ink covering his face; Smala was compact and stout—like a young bull. Arthur grasped their hands and thanked them for their attendance. After bowing to Heledd and kissing her hand, the Angle chiefs took their seats at the war council. Heledd left the hall and Arthur briefed the gathering with the latest information—the news of the fall of Aquae Sulis in particular creating a groan of dismay in the room.