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

by Atkinson, F J

  When he had finished, all in the assembly exchanged concerned glances. In particular, Hereferth and Smala seemed less than pleased. ‘We were under no illusions of the magnitude of the task before us,’ said Hereferth, ‘but the reward of extensive land was too much to ignore. However, what you told us of the refusal of help from this Ffodor from Travena makes the undertaking before us much, much harder.’ He looked towards the door of the hall. ‘Outside, my men wait to go to war. Now I must tell them they will be completely overwhelmed if they do.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Arthur with some empathy, ‘but I intend to fight them from lofty ground with well-trained men. Such a combination has often overcome superior numbers in battle.’

  The Anglii chief pondered Arthur’s words. ‘The journey here was long, yet my men remain in good spirits and ready for a fight. However, your assurance still fills me with uncertainty.’ He glanced at Smala, who responded with an unhelpful shrug. Hereferth turned to Arthur again. ‘Still,’ he continued, ’we are here now, and may as well listen to what this assembly has to say.’

  Arthur, aware the alliance could collapse at any moment, addressed Dominic, hoping he had something encouraging to add. ‘What news from our fair land, Dom? ... Something good I hope.’

  ‘Things seem quiet for now,’ said Dominic. ‘We got no further than Calleva ... there we met up with Withred and Gus, and they saved us the trouble of journeying beyond.’

  ‘And why so?’ asked Arthur.

  Dominic glanced at Augustus, inviting him to take over. ‘We had no need to seek Saxons because we had already been told a host of them had passed through Londinium two days before we reached the town,’ said Augustus. ‘From Londinium they took Akeman street westwards towards Corinium and Aquae Sulis, no doubt.’

  Careful not to allow his inward anxiety to reach his face, Arthur responded in an even tone. ‘As I fully expected; Guertepir’s envoy achieved its aim.’ He pressed Augustus further. ‘How many men? Did they say how many?’

  ‘Two thousand, I was told.’

  ’So that’s it,’ said Arthur, aware of the futility of trying to dress up the numbers, ‘… the size of our task. A total of four thousand Hibernians and Votadini, and add to that two thousand Saxons.’

  Withred, unwilling to allow the meeting to take a downward turn, came in immediately. Curiously, his tone was optimistic. ‘Six thousand of them and three thousand of us; much better than the numbers facing us before I left for Angeln. I am confident we can win this.’

  Smala, who had remained silent until then, responded. ‘Confident, Withred? How can you be confident? Like you said, it’s six thousand of them and three thousand of us ... or even fewer if I decide to leave at once and take my men back to Angeln rather than chase a lost cause.’

  ‘I’m confident because we are blessed with something they can only dream about,’ said Withred with passion. ‘Something worth four thousand men.’

  Smala’s eyebrows shot up at this. ‘And what would that be?’ he asked.

  Withred pointed to Arthur. ‘That would be him,’ he said. ‘Arthur—a man with extensive knowledge. A man who is no stranger to the disparity of numbers, yet a commander who has overcome them several times when fighting for Rome. Above all, his presence on the battlefield inspires men to fight as if possessed. I know, because I have felt his aura myself.’

  Though uncomfortable with Withred’s glowing endorsement, Arthur, nevertheless, allowed him to continue to sing his praises. Anything … any words that would stop Hereferth and Smala leaving the hall and taking the Londinium road straight back to Angeln was fine by him.

  Smala had mused over Withred’s words. ‘So to overcome the numbers, we are to rely upon high ground, well-trained men and an inspirational leader. Do you really think that will be enough?’

  ‘We have no choice,’ said Arthur simply. ‘We fight or we die.’

  ‘You have no choice,’ corrected Smala, ‘but fortunately we do.’

  Augustus interjected now. ‘You forget, I visited your country and stood on a windy beach with you, Smala. The sea floods the land constantly and eventually some of your people will need to leave. The choice is yours—help us, or go back to your sodden lands.’

  Hereferth touched Smala’s sleeve, then nodded towards the door. Taking up on Hereferth’s hint, Smala answered Augustus. ‘It has yet to be decided whether or not we will leave Britannia, but for now I will go from this hall with Hereferth and speak privately with him. After our talk, we’ll go to our men and tell them the size of the task before us all’—he cast a quick glance to Withred—‘we will also mention your endorsement of Arthur. We’ll return with our decision soon.’

  ‘As you will,’ said Arthur. ‘And remember your reward for this—extensive tracts of land above the wall of Hadrian.’

  ‘Why do you think we’re here in the first place,’ said Smala as he stood and walked to the door with Hereferth.

  An air of tension infused the hall as an anxious conversation ensued. All knew what the outcome would be if left to fend for themselves. ‘If they go home we’re finished,’ concluded Withred to Arthur, ‘… even with you leading us.’

  ‘That, I know too well,’ said Arthur. ‘With them, we can go to Aquae Sulis and at least take up position upon the hill and face our enemies; without them we can only withdraw to Brythonfort and sit helpless while our lands are ravished.’

  ‘Talking of Aquae Sulis … any more news since it was taken?’ asked Murdoc.

  ‘None yet,’ said Arthur. ‘I have Tomas and Nairn watching the place. If Guertepir decides to take his snout from the trough and move out with the rest of them, they’ll let us know.’

  ‘And no sign at all of Erec and the knights garrisoned there?’

  ‘Nor the people,’ replied Arthur heavily. ‘I fear the worst, Mur. There were many women and babies there; I should have got them out before Guertepir arrived.’ Suddenly, he slapped the table in frustration, causing many to jump. ‘Why did I let Erec go to Aquae Sulis! If we lose him it will be a sorry loss indeed.’

  ‘What of Will? Any sign or rumour of him on the road?’ asked Murdoc, keen to steer Arthur away from his self-recrimination.

  ‘None,’ came in Dominic. ‘Perhaps he followed the Saxons as they made their way to Aquae Sulis. You know Will. Meticulous in his scouting; likes to make sure.’

  ‘Still, I worry for him,’ frowned Arthur. ‘It’s not like him to leave it so long without getting word back to me, somehow. But there’s nothing we can do for—’

  Hereferth and Smala stepped back into the hall, cutting off Arthur’s words. Inscrutable, their faces betrayed no indication of their decision. Both sat and were silent a moment. Frowning, Smala studied the tabletop. He drummed his fingers as if still mulling over his decision.

  In dread of his response, Arthur asked him: ‘Well, come on man; spit it out. What are you going to do?’

  Instead, Hereferth answered. ‘Decided we are on a fool’s errand and this can only end badly,’ he said. Crestfallen, Arthur’s men fell to silence. Hereferth allowed the hush to linger a moment before continuing. ‘But war is the trade of fools so we might as well get it over and done with.’

  Arthur stirred as if pushed by a broom. ‘You mean . . . you are saying—‘

  ‘Saying we will go to war with you, Arthur. The troop has agreed to see this out. They fear the awful trip back to Angeln more than any army—Saxon or otherwise.’

  Arthur sprung to his feet and went to Hereferth. He embraced and back-slapped him. Above the outbreak of relieved murmuring, he said: ‘That is so good to hear, man. Now we can fight; now I can look my enemy in the eyes instead of scanning his distant figure from the battlements of Brythonfort.’

  Smala explained further. ‘Our people want the land, you see. Many of the men out there were dispossessed after the recent storms and have little to show from a lifetime of heavy toil.’ His attention went to Arthur. ‘Also, your name is known to them; even across the sea your deeds are
legendary. To fight alongside you they regard as a great honour and is the reason many of them came to Britannia, so in the end it was not hard to convince them to stay.’

  Arthur gave a curious little smile. ‘Convince them, you say. So you were in favour of this all along?’

  ‘Before I left the hall I had made up my mind, Hereferth as well, but we could not speak for our men because they are volunteers.’

  ‘Seven hundred British and Anglii mounted men, and three thousand footmen are our numbers now,’ said Arthur. ‘At last I have something to work with. The first thing to do is to get your mounted men used to fighting from horseback. Withred tells me the animals are used merely to get you to the point of battle, from where you dismount and fight on foot. But my knights fight the Roman way, from the saddle, and this will give us a steal over them. The Votadini, Saxon, and Hibernian horsemen also use the horse merely as transport, but we will force them to fight mounted, and therein lies our advantage. Your Anglii riders will receive the knowledge of how to fight as my riders, and though untested when going into battle, it will at least give you some advantage over them.’

  ‘When do you purpose to leave,’ asked Hereferth.’

  Arthur turned to Flint for guidance. ‘How ready is the shieldwall?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re ready to fight,’ said Flint matter-of-factly. ‘Only real combat will improve them now.’

  ‘And archers, Dominic. How many can we count on?’

  ‘One hundred worthy men I took from Flint and Erec’s shield fighters. All men familiar with the bow. Add the bowmen from Angeln, and I can start to prick the faces of Guertepir’s rabble.’

  ‘Archers, shield men and knights,’ said Arthur, seemingly satisfied. ‘A good balance of fighters to take to the enemy. One day’s intensive practice for the Anglii knights—yes knights you will become, not mere horsemen—then two days’ travel to the city. Three days from now we will stand together overlooking Aquae Sulis. Badon Hill and glory or death awaits us there.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tomas and Nairn looked down on Aquae Sulis from the summit of Badon Hill. Below them, at a distance of three miles, the n’s northern wall stood high and imposing, its buttresses looking down upon a boundless horde of humanity. Such were their numbers that a tented settlement had set down its roots on the flood plain to the east of the river. The Afon flowed beside the town’s eastern and southern walls, partly encircling and adding further protection to the ramparts.

  Arthur’s orders to Tomas and Nairn had been quite clear: follow Guertepir from his ringfort and send back any news of his progress eastwards. Their scouting had inevitably led them to Aquae Sulis, where, five days earlier, they had witnessed the merging of the Votadini and Hibernian armies. Nairn had sped away at once and taken the news to Arthur.

  Alone that evening, Tomas had witnessed the opening of the town gates and the admittance of the enemy. The next day, Nairn had returned with another rider to learn of the capitulation of Aquae Sulis. The spare rider immediately left for Brythonfort to inform Arthur of the latest dark news.

  Two days later, they witnessed the arrival of the Saxon army, when a mass of two thousand men had marched boldly up to the gates of the city.

  Two further days elapsed before a convoy of wagons, wains and walking folk arrived. These, the families and camp followers, settled beside the river—their encampment now covering a broad swathe of the Afon valley in a sprawling untidy sea of white canvas.

  ‘Do you think they’ll come … Arthur and his men, I mean?’ asked Tomas as he lay on his belly, watching the activity on the fields before Aquae Sulis.

  ‘No. Not unless Withred and Gus get enough men from Angeln,’ answered Nairn. ‘When I left Brythonfort, Arthur was in a sombre mood; he had only his knights and one thousand farmers in the shieldwall to count upon.’

  Tomas continued to squint through the failing light. ‘We are almost three miles from the town yet they stretch close enough so I can make the nearest of them out individually. There must be fifteen thousand people before us now.’

  ‘And nearly half of those are fighting men,’ mused Nairn. ‘Little wonder Arthur hesitates to come and so leave Brythonfort undefended.’ He strained to make out the distant gates set in the town’s northern wall. ‘They’re arrogant bastards down there, that’s for sure; they even saunter in and out through the gates as if unafraid of any reprisal. Do you think anyone got out alive?’

  Tomas shivered. ‘Maybe some are alive … who knows. I saw a knight—had the bearing of Erec, though I couldn’t be sure—just about make it inside. He’s got to be worth some concession if they decide to ransom him.’

  Nairn looked unconvinced. ‘Nah, I don’t think so; Erec’s well known in these parts; a warrior of legend; they’ll kill him, trust me, and in doing so remove the biggest of thorns from their side.’

  Their chat continued until darkness fell. When it did, a blaze of campfires lit the valley below like bloated, dying stars in an inky universe. From near distance to afar, the lights dotted the flood plains of the Afon, their number leaving Tomas and Nairn in no doubt of the size of Arthur’s task should he decide to take the battle to Guertepir.

  Soon, the noise of revelry and drunkenness drifted up through the chill air of the valley. Tomas shifted in his blanket. Even though it was his turn to rest, sleep would not come to him. ‘Some have been pissed since they got here,’ he mumbled as he sought out a good sleeping position. ‘Some of those wagons were full of ale, wine and mead. I watched as they unloaded them.’

  ‘They fight pissed; that’s what makes them so reckless and fierce,’ said Nairn.

  ‘And slow, according to Flint. Arthur fines his men if they drink too much before a patrol; he reckons it takes the edge off their responses.’

  ‘He’d do well letting the inexperienced men—the farmers and such—have their horns of mead if he ever gets them here. When faced with a jeering shieldwall of Saxons they’ll need the courage drink brings to stop them shitting where they stand. Most will turn and run…‘ Nairn went suddenly quiet. Rapidly, he cast his blanket from him and took to his feet. ‘Nemetonas’ tits! How could we let this happen? Get up Tom!’

  But Tomas was already beside him. Both held their knives.

  ‘Sloppy … I see your shadows against the lights. Both of you would wear my arrows as neck adornments were it not for your raggedy-arsed shapes telling me who you are.’

  ‘Dominic … you’ve come.’ Tomas breathed his relief and relaxed.

  ‘Aye lad, and I’ve brought an army with me; prepare yourself for a fight that will forge a kingdom. Tomorrow we go to war.’

  THE BATTLE – DAY ONE

  Dawn came and Badon Hill from any viewpoint appeared unpeopled. Arthur had been careful to place his men out of sight behind the ridge until they were grouped and organised. As tents went up, he walked with Flint, Gherwan and Withred amongst his men. The main body (the foot soldiers) occupied a sloping field that ran away from the hill’s crest. Several huge tents of canvas, each roomy enough to accommodate fifty men, were laid in a grid pattern across the field. One of the many things Arthur had learned from his time with the legions was this: that a dry, well-nourished soldier was less likely to dessert than a sodden wretch with an empty stomach. Furthermore, Arthur saw his people as men of honour and dignity, and not mere puppets of war to dance to his tune.

  He approached a group who worked together to secure guy ropes to one of the tents. ‘How many’s that since the sun peeked over the horizon?’ he asked.

  Too many to count, high lord,’ said the nearest man, ‘but we’re seeing the last ones go up now.’ It was his first sight of Arthur and his captains in the light of the new day. Their no-nonsense bearing filled him with hope.

  Arthur carried his white-plumed Roman ridge helmet, allowing the man to observe his face—a visage moulded gaunt and wan with the expectation of battle. The artisan noted the hint of bridled power betrayed by a slight quiver in his king. But woe beti
des the enemy who interpreted the idiosyncratic event as fear. He had seen Arthur in combat; had witnessed the quiver transform into uncompromising power.

  Arthur was dressed to fight from horseback; his apparel chosen for freedom of movement and rapidity. His knee length studded tunic was split to mid-thigh; its constitution of thick leather, laid over with a burnished bronze breastplate. The combination offered protection from slashing blade and errant arrow. A broad belt encircled his tunic, and from its attached scabbard protruded the long handle and silver pommel of Skullcleft—his renowned blade. Behind him stood his groom, a lad no older than thirteen, who held Arthur’s unicorn-emblazoned shield. Flint, Gherwan and Withred were similarly attired, and all mirrored Arthur in the gauntness of their countenance.

  Arthur moved on, giving words of encouragement to the common men who stood outside the tents; men readying themselves for the unknown experience of brutal war.

  ‘They couldn’t be better trained,’ said Flint, noticing Arthur’s brooding concern. ‘Erec and I drilled them until their arms were rubbed raw by the shield loops.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but war is different,’ said Arthur. ‘Nothing can prepare you for its stink; its noise; its rotting filth. These men are farmers, not warriors, and we are about to pit them against—‘

  ‘Probably, many other farmers,’ said Withred, eager to lift Arthur. This was his leader’s one weakness: his incessant anxiety over the welfare of his men. ‘Do not forget the Saxon shield is made up mainly from their levy, many of whom are chancers and farmers looking to acquire new land.’

  ‘Yes … I know … I need to relax a little,’ said Arthur, aware of Withred’s insight into his character. He crested the ridge. Below them lay the fields of Aquae Sulis. The four fell silent awhile as they surveyed the masses assembled below. After some moments, Arthur turned to observe his own army. A distance away, beyond the tents, Smala, Hereferth and the Anglii laboured to establish their own camp. Further back still—beside a line of covered chuck wagons—men and women from Brythonfort had already set up tables and cooking equipment.