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

by Atkinson, F J

  ‘We need to show ourselves by mid-afternoon,’ said Arthur as he turned back to look at the Afon valley and Aquae Sulis. ‘Then I can go down and talk to Guertepir or whoever’s in charge down there.’

  ‘And therein lies our problem,’ said Gherwan, his tactical mind alert. ‘To get them to attack uphill.’

  Pragmatic as ever, Arthur responded. ‘They won’t. Not today … not any day; I fully expect Guertepir to laugh at us.’

  ‘Which leaves us with Dominic’s plan,’ said Gherwan. ‘Do you really think it’ll work?’

  ‘We’ve nothing to lose by trying it,’ said Arthur. ‘Work or not, it gives us the chance to bloody their noses before they know what’s happening.’

  Guertepir, in no hurry to leave the luxury of Aquae Sulis and continue with the campaign, knelt in the small temple dedicated to Sulis Minerva. He cut the hen’s throat, allowing its blood to pulse into the altar bowl before him. Since his performance in the baths four days earlier, he had persuaded himself that his skin had taken on an almost God-like glow. Frequently, he had pulled up his sleeve and rubbed his hand over his arm, convinced its smoothness was an indication of his newly acquired mortality. Surely the Goddess would reward him for the sacrifices he had made. Though why Almaith still looked a corpse puzzled him. Why had Sulis Minerva not healed the eye (now a black, puffy slit) which Erec had left her with. Indeed, why did her other eye still have its vacant look, and why did her skin remain pitted any grey? Maybe she hadn’t coupled with the knight properly; maybe his seed had not entered her fat belly. His ponderings ended when an urgent Diarmait entered the temple.

  ‘You can put it off no longer, my lord,’ said his captain and champion. ‘The Saxons are outside and would speak with you.’

  Grunting, Guertepir got to his feet and threw the headless, fluttering chicken to the floor. ‘Want to move on do they?’ he said tetchily as he took a cloth from Diarmait and wiped his bloody hands clean. ‘It does not surprise me; their arses have become itchy for plunder no doubt.’ He jabbed his finger at Diarmait as if delivering a great truth to him. ‘They fear this town—believe me, Diarmait. Like all Saxons they prefer to live in their own dung, in their small settlements, that’s why even their chiefs camp beyond the walls.’

  ‘Be that as it may, but they insist you deliver your part of the bargain; they press you to move from here and take the fight to Arthur at Brythonfort. They are outside the temple awaiting you.’

  With a ‘hmmph!’ Guertepir kicked the fluttering chicken aside and stomped to the door.

  Outside, waited the four Saxon chieftains: Hrodgar, Wigstan, Cenhelm and Osbeorn. Hrodgar got straight to the point as Guertepir emerged from the temple. ‘We’re ready to go; you said four days, yet five have passed.’

  Guertepir blinked the low March sun from his eyes and gave Hrodgar his best winning smile. ‘Of course, my friend. Like I told you before, as soon as my army and the Votadini are ready we shall leave.’

  ‘The Votadini—this Cunedda and his rabble—seem even less inclined to leave than you do. Rumour has it they would return straight to Deva now they have your patronage—your protection down the western seaboard.’ Hrodgar swept his arm behind him, inviting Guertepir to look. ‘Does Cunedda’s absence from this gathering not tell its own tale?’

  Guertepir was aware that Cunedda had been furious with him and his own man Abloyc when learning of the killing of the infant in the temple. He knew the Votadini chief had since gone cold on the idea of taking the fight to Arthur. He attempted to placate Hrodgar. ‘Cunedda will be ready to fight on the morrow, as will I.’

  ‘So at last I can ready my men to move from this place?’ asked Hrodgar, peering at Guertepir as if expecting him to add a proviso to his assurance. Instead, Guertepir gave a reluctant nod. Hrodgar continued. ‘Good … Late is better than never, I suppose.’ He turned to his three companions. ‘Go to your men,’ he instructed. ‘Get them to stop drinking if you can, and tell them to be ready to move out at first light tomorrow.’

  Osbeorn, who was obsessed with finding Dominic—the killer of his brother Bealdwine—was the first to turn from the assembly. ‘At last,’ he muttered as he pushed aside the press of people around him. He made to move towards the field beside the river where his men were camped. As he did, he looked up to the hill that reared north of the town. He froze upon seeing the spread of cavalry dotted along the hill’s crest. As he watched, a long line of shields began to join the horsemen.

  Behind Osbeorn, Guertepir and the rest also gawked in astonishment as the entire length of the ridge filled with Arthur’s men.

  Diarmait pushed to the front, his hand lifted to his forehead as a visor, as his good eyes strained to make out the distant activity. ‘It seems they’ve saved us a journey,’ he said. ‘This thing can be settled here. And look … a knight comes to parley; he carries the unicorn flag of Arthur.’

  ‘Then get to him and hear what he has to say,’ snapped Guertepir as he squinted up towards the hill.

  One hour passed before Diarmait returned from his meeting with Flint. ‘Hibernian, Saxon and Votadini,’ said Diarmait to the group of leaders who waited below the northern walls of Aquae Sulis. ‘Just one of each … the leaders,’ he added. ‘To meet with their envoy of three on the empty grounds before the hill.’

  Arthur, now helmeted and armed, sat bestride his saddle. Alongside him, similarly caparisoned, were Flint and Gherwan.

  ‘Guertepir, a Saxon and a Votadini,’ said Arthur as he appraised the group’s slow progress towards them. ‘Looks like Guertepir’s been quaffing wine by the barrelful since I last saw him.’

  When twenty paces from them, Guertepir, Hrodgar and Cunedda halted. Arthur pressed his horse to a slow walk, followed by Flint and Gherwan. He stopped before them. He allowed the silence to linger a moment as he fixed each in turn with his penetrating stare.

  His appraisal of Guertepir was contemptuous. ‘Whoever thought it would come to this. For many years we lived in peace, our alliance keeping the lands free from the Saxon rabble, but it was not enough for you was it man? And did you really expect me to do nothing while you took my town?’

  Guertepir gave a scornful little laugh. ‘Your town, Arthur. When did it become your town? Why should this most prized possession be yours. Did we not both fight for Rome; do we not both deserve the finest of rewards?’

  ‘Men deserve what they labour and pay for,’ said Arthur. ‘Just as my people laboured and paid to restore Aquae Sulis. That’s what gave them ownership. The sluggard’s way—your way—is to watch while others do the work, then move in and snatch the prize after they’ve finished. And what of those who were within the walls before you came? The knights and the common folk. What’s happened to them, Guertepir?’

  ‘Why … I’ve done what any decent man would do—I’ve sent them on their way; got them from under my feet so I can enjoy Aquae Sulis without distraction.’ He tittered now. ‘And what a prize the town is. Have you actually been in there, Arthur? The place is wondrous to behold. It will give me pleasure for the rest of my very long life, for I do not intend to give it up.’

  Knowing he would get no more from Guertepir on the subject of the destiny of his folk, Arthur pressed on. ‘Whether I’ve been inside or not needn’t concern you. What should worry you, though, is this: I am here to remove your head.’

  Cunedda and Hrodgar immediately tensed, their hands going to their swords. Flint and Gherwan reciprocated the action.

  Arthur’s smile held a sneer as he looked at the three men opposing him. ‘Take your hands from your swords; this is not to be settled here, you idiots.’ His blistering gaze fell upon Cunedda. ‘And you … you are beyond contempt. What are you thinking about? A Briton siding with Saxon and Hibernian scum; riding with the very people who would tear our land apart.’

  Cunedda remained impassive, outwardly unaffected by Arthur’s words. ‘This meeting is to thrash out the terms of war, not to listen to your lectures or explain our actions. It’s time to sp
it out what you want, man.’

  ’I’ve already told you what I want’—he flashed a look at Guertepir—‘and his head is just the start of it.’

  Hrodgar, who had none of Cunedda’s poise, came in now. His expression was disparaging as he ran his gaze, head to foot, over Arthur. ‘Oh, this has gone far enough. Who do you think you are? I am not willing to sit here and listen to your carping any longer.’ He paused a moment as he took in Arthur. He could not deny that in looks at least, the British king lived up to his legend. His bearing, his confidence, his sheer presence, made him seem much bigger than he actually was—a giant almost. Regardless, Hrodgar continued with his arrogant dismissal. ‘Negotiation is not an option here. I intend to dismantle your protectorate and it suits me fine that your men stand on yonder hill and leave your lands and farmsteads undefended.’

  Although Hrodgar’s words troubled Arthur (indeed, only a small force resided in Brythonfort along with those who had sought the bastion’s sanctuary), he had nevertheless been expecting them. ‘We will not go away, Saxon,’ he said. ‘You know you need to deal with us sooner or later; why else would you gather in such numbers. Now is the time for war not for talking. I meet with you now to give you my terms. Your people—families, whores, cooks and the like who travelled with you—I will allow to live, and I ask only you do the same in the unlikely event you are victorious. Any fighting men who choose to surrender to me this day will be allowed to return to their lands in the east. Of those, of course, I do not include yourselves; you are for the ax, make no mistake.’

  Guertepir gave a harsh, explosive laugh. ‘NO! NO! and a shit-crusted NO! to your terms.’ He looked to Hrodgar who shared his resolve. ‘But my apologies … I should be thanking you for saving me the journey westwards which my Saxon friend here had planned to take tomorrow. Now I can sit and wait for you to come down off the hill and fight me; because, Arthur’—he fixed the lord of Brythonfort with a knowing stare; one that said, I know exactly what you want, do you think me so stupid—‘we are not coming up to you.’

  ‘So you would sit and wait rather than get this thing done,’ said Arthur, not surprised in the least by Guertepir’s downright refusal.

  ‘We wouldn’t be sitting and waiting long though, would we?’ smirked Guertepir. ‘Like my Saxon ally just said—your lands are vulnerable while your main force remains here.’

  Realising his faint hope of military advantage had gone, and eager to move on, Arthur decided to end the parley. ‘It bothers me not whether you come to me or I come down to you. The talking is over and you have made it clear what you want, so all we can do now is fight. Get back to the town and bathe your fat body and that of your benefactor slut of a wife. Go now and cleanse yourselves for the funeral blaze.’

  Guertepir, ignoring Arthur’s slight, wheeled his horse around and made to leave. ‘See you in front of the north wall then,’ he said over his shoulder as Cunedda and Hrodgar turned away and began to trot down the hill. As if just remembering something, he put his hand to his head. ‘Oh … before I forget, I brought you a gift—some friends of yours would have a quiet word with you.’ From the back of his saddle, unseen until he had turned, hung a pendulous sack. Guertepir threw it to the ground, then immediately jabbed his horse into a gallop down the hill and away from Arthur, laughing as he continued towards the walls of Aquae Sulis.

  Arthur, Flint and Gherwan remained frozen a moment as they eyed the sack. Flint made to dismount but Arthur stopped him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He was a dear friend of yours.’

  Ashen and grim, Gherwan and Flint watched as Arthur jumped down and went to the bundle. He stooped to the sack and untied it. A mass of tangled hair—both blond and dark— was his first sight. He parted the hair to reveal Morgana’s face. Beside her, as if inseparable even after his decapitation, was Erec. His third discovery caused Arthur to jerk his head from the sack. Gasping and ashen, he turned to Flint and Gherwan. ‘They’ve killed the child,’ he whispered distractedly as if to himself. ‘For pity’s sake, the bastards have dashed his brains out.’

  Dominic was ready to ride at midnight. Alongside him, Tomas, Murdoc, Augustus and twenty other archers waited on the edge of the ridge. All of them wore dark clothes; all of them had mud-blackened faces. Since nightfall, they had looked down upon a vast, dark plain, punctured by twinkling campfires and specks of lamp light. But now, as the lamps went out and the fires died, the group prepared to leave.

  Arthur, who restrained a leashed Titon, addressed them. ‘Remember, this is a quick strike’—he tugged Titon close—‘and not a task for this hellhound. Burn the tents of the military near the wall, not the civilians on the flood plain.’ He turned his attention to Augustus. ‘Gus, you are to do your thing then get back here; are you clear?’

  ‘Clear as springwater, lord,’ came his reply.

  ‘The rest of you stay close,’ said Dominic to the others. ‘Watch where I go and follow me. When your arrows have gone, then you can split up and get back to the ridge at top speed. Do you understand?’

  As they murmured their assent, Arthur had a final word with Dominic. ‘Careful, Dom, we cannot afford to lose men this early. Keep your men disciplined; your plan will work if you stick to it. May Fortuna watch over you.’

  He offered his arm and Dominic gripped it. Then he heeled his horse into a slow walk down the hill. Soon the group came to the edge of the civilian camp. Snores and the sound of occasional copulation came from the covered wagons as they weaved their way between them. Night fires, many of them fallen to ember, lit the wet fields with a faint glow as the riders ghosted their way towards the northern walls of Aquae Sulis.

  A lone man, blanketed and huddled by a fire, stirred as the horsemen passed by. Dominic paused as the man rose to his knees and started to pee into the darkness. Dominic sought out Augustus and soon saw his large silhouette. ‘Will he do, Gus?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes. Leave me here, I’ll see to it.’

  Augustus noiselessly dismounted and Dominic moved on. Another period of silent approach passed until they could see the dark shapes of the military tents before the northern walls of the city. Ten fires, radiating in a rough semi-circle from wall to wall and encompassing the camp, indicated the positions of guards. Dominic turned to his men. His gesture told ten of his best archers, including Tomas and Murdoc, to dismount and approach him.

  In the centre of the huddle, Dominic turned as he addressed each man individually. ‘Get as close as you can and keep low to the ground. Make every arrow count. The guards must be dropped. They mustn’t give warning to the camp. Do not act until you hear the owl hoot.’ He went to the mounted men. ‘As soon as we’re done, have our horses ready and be prepared to move quickly.’

  The archers fanned out, each picking out a guard. Some of the sentinels sat, whilst others stood and drank from horns of mead. Two men desiring to break the tedium of their watch, had come together to speak—their animated conversation punctuated by sporadic burst of laughter.’

  ‘Keep your noise down; men are trying to sleep and hump in here!’ The shout came from one of the tents. The guards waved the complaint away and continued their conversation.

  ‘Tomas … with me!’ hissed Dominic. He placed his arm around the youth’s shoulders and pointed towards the two talking men. ‘They are the fly in the ointment, the rest should be easy to hit, so I need your accuracy alongside mine here.’ He peered through the darkness trying to see his other archers. Their crouching shadows told him they were in position. ‘The men are ready to strike and I’m ready to give my signal. When I do, take the man on the left, I’ll take the other. My call should serve to make the guards freeze. I’ve done this many times when ambushing for Rome and it always makes them freeze. But it lasts only a moment so there’s no time to dawdle. Are you ready, Tom?’

  Tomas, who already had his arrow nocked and his string partly tensioned, nodded his assent. He had killed men before at the battle at the ox carts in the eastern forest, and the story of his guile from h
is sniping position had earned him the name ‘Merlin’ from Will—a name that most at Brythonfort called him by. That he now stood beside his hero ready to strike a blow for the good men of the world, meant everything to him.

  Dominic pulled back his bowstring to the tip of his nose. Tomas did likewise and Dominic gave his signal. The singing of strings along the line followed his owl’s ‘hrooh,’ which was clear and authentic.

  As predicted, the Saxons became still—startled by the owl call. Both fell quickly, one taking a wound to his chest, the other to his neck. Dominic and Tomas pressed their advantage and rushed them. ‘Mine’s already dead,’ said Tomas, as Dominic ran his blade across the throat of his man.

  ‘Mine too,’ said Dominic. ’Just making sure. You do the same.’

  Tomas obliged then looked across at the fires to his left where similar scenes were occurring. Dominic gripped his shoulder and pulled him to his feet. ‘Come … lets to the horses; it’s time to move.’

  Murdoc task had been much easier. His man, worse for wear after drinking all night, had swayed slightly as he took a huge quaff of mead. Dominic’s hoot had even served to steady the sway, allowing Murdoc’s subsequent arrow to find its mark. When Murdoc got to him, the Saxon lay dead, pierced through the heart.

  Along with the others, he went back to Dominic. ‘So far so good,’ said Dominic. ‘That couldn’t have gone better. Now we need to burn their arses.’

  The man was shaking the last drop of urine from his penis just as Augustus grabbed him from behind and lifted him off his feet. Clamping the man’s mouth, he hissed into his ear. ‘Stop your wriggling and this will be better for you.’

  The man gave a muffled, ‘mumph, mumph’ as Augustus carried him effortlessly back to his horse. Looking around to ensure his action had gone unnoticed, Augustus made to place the man upon the ground. ‘Listen to me,’ he warned. ‘I am a giant, and I will rip you from limb to limb if you make a noise while I bind and gag you. Do you understand me?’