Osric sliced a hunk off the loaf and eyed Egbert disdainfully. ‘You still managed to lose many of your men, not to mention the slave boy and the woman. Maybe I should leave you here eh? Maybe you’re more trouble than I can endure. Maybe you take too many risks.’
The barkeepers grunting from behind the nearby curtain got louder, and before Egbert could respond, Osric continued. ‘Speaking of risk taking, I once took a risk. Do you know how I got this mark Egbert?’ He pointed to the scar on his face.
Egbert shook his head, although he had indeed heard rumours of the origin of Osric’s scar. ‘I got it from a wench on a raid,’ continued Osric, ‘… a wench who struggled much and grabbed my knife. For her insolence, I gave her another mouth—a wide, red mouth underneath her chin. Risky eh? It’s a heavy burden to hear a maiden’s mouth scolding, and I risked doubling the noise. That’s what I call taking a risk!’
Egbert stared at Osric, his drunken mind taking its time to comprehend. As Osric’s anecdote finally sank in, he slapped the table and exploded into hysterical laughter. Spittle flew from his mouth as he lurched to his feet and walked over to the closed curtain, pausing to turn and point his appreciation to Osric as his guffawing intensified.
Egbert snatched the curtain back, as Osric smiled, knowing he was about to witness the entertainment he had incited. Egbert kicked the barkeeper’s bare buttocks, abruptly ending their gyration, and grabbing the man by his hair, threw him out of the cubicle. The barkeeper hastily hitched up his hose, jumped over the beer table, and crouched behind it.
Egbert looked back to Osric for approval, and encouraged by his leader’s mirth, grabbed the abandoned whore under her arm. He dragged her out of the booth, and towards Osric’s table.
Furious at the curtailment of her business with the barkeeper, the girl turned on Egbert, and gifted him a hefty slap. She screamed at him, ‘Get your stinking hands off me you fat turd!’ and landed another series of stinging slaps around his head and shoulders.
This time it was Osric’s turn to succumb to hysterics, as Egbert swept the table clean with a swipe of his arm, and threw the wench upon it and made to mount her. His efforts met with a gobbet of spit ejected with force from the girl, hitting Egbert square in the face. She followed this with a strong kick to his groin.
Osric, by now, was red faced and crying with laughter. ‘My…you’ve a lively one there…a spirited wench… that’s for sure!’
Egbert’s face had clouded and he punched the girl in the face, knocking her back onto the table. ‘Spirited she is indeed,’ he said as he picked his knife up off the floor. ‘And she’s going to meet the spirits, that’s for sure.’
Osric seeing what was about to happen, sobered and made to stop Egbert. ‘No … no, don’t kill her, she provides entertainment for the men, she—’
Egbert slid the knife across the girl’s throat, cutting deep. A fountain of blood erupted, showering the table and Osric.
Egbert dragged her off the table as the fountain abated. ‘Another wench with two mouths,’ he said, ‘but both mute … strangely.’
He took a slab of Osric’s cheese from his plate and dipped it in the fresh blood on the table, before stuffing it into his mouth.
As Egbert grinned and chewed open mouthed at him, even Osric wondered if there was any limit to Egbert’s depravity.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The blizzard had been blowing for three days, producing snowdrifts that curved up to the thatches of the village buildings.
Murdoc shared a circular hut with Martha, Tomas and Ceola, and they had spent the last days sat around a fire in a struggle to keep warm. An icy breeze whispered around them constantly, even though they had stuffed straw into any gap they could find.
Tomas and Ceola huddled under the same blanket, as Murdoc hobbled to the pile of firewood he had dragged in from outside. He fed the fire with a dry branch, which began to crackle and spit as the flames got hold, sending a myriad of sparks into the room. Martha sat beside Murdoc, a blanket draped around their shoulders as he poked the fire with a stick.
Dominic entered, bearing a dead rabbit, and quickly shut the door to preserve the heat. His wolf hat was snow-covered and his deep-set eyes peered out from under the wolf’s snout like black coals. ‘Curse this storm,’ he muttered, as he threw the rabbit onto a crude wooden table at the side of the room. ‘Never have I seen such a winter.’
Martha smiled and beckoned Dominic to sit beside her as Murdoc stared sullenly into the fire. ‘Thanks for the coney,’ she said, ‘though how you manage to catch fresh meat is beyond my imaginings.’
Dominic shrugged modestly. ‘They burrow through the snow, so it’s easy to spot their runs—the snares do the rest.’
‘Yes thanks, we’ll have a stew later, it’ll give us strength for the fight,’ said Murdoc, still staring into the fire, ‘though I think we needn’t worry about any attack from the savages this year.’
Dominic held his palms to the fire. ‘I wish they would try to come,’ he said. This weather would see them off if they did.’
‘The damned snow prevents you and Withred training the men of the village…training me,’ said Murdoc, tetchily. ‘The sooner we’re shown the ways of the spear and ax, the easier I’ll feel.’
Dominic nodded. ‘Withred knows how they fight and I’ve ideas on how to engage them, even though we’re outnumbered. Our knowledge combined should give us an edge, even though our men are more used to the plough than the spear or ax.’
‘How goes it with you and Withred?’ asked Martha, ‘I believe you share the same hut.’
‘We talk tactics constantly,’ said Dominic, ‘so for us, this forced exile has been useful. We also share the hut with Simon and Darga.’ On mentioning the youth’s name, he whistled and shook his head in dismay. ‘Give me a hut full of boar before one Darga. The boy argues over everything, and I’m sure he’d try to tell me how to hunt and trap if I let him. He also has a thing about Withred’s background—blames him for the invasion. Withred does well to keep his temper, but he knows he would be playing into Darga’s hands if he lost his self-control.’
Martha smiled. ‘That bad eh, why not stay with us then until the storm is over?’
‘Thanks,’ said Dominic, ‘but I think it wouldn’t lie well with Withred and Simon. They would then have all of Darga’s attention, and beside, I keep things calm in there.’
Tomas came over and sat shivering next to Dominic as Ceola slipped under Martha’s blanket. ‘How’s my forest companion this evening?’ asked Dominic, smiling and ruffling the boy’s hair.
‘Cold,’ said Tomas, his teeth chattering. ‘I can’t wait for the snow to stop so we can go out again and hunt and trap.’
‘I’ll show you how to set snares tomorrow Tom,’ said Dominic. ‘It’s time I had my best hunting companion back with me.’
Tomas smiled and rubbed his runny nose. ‘And I’ll cook the rabbit, when we return,’ he said.
The bad weather continued for two more weeks, until finally the wind died and the air became still and cold.
Upon leaving their huts, the villagers marvelled at the white world that lay before them. The snow covered everything—gentle, white bumps being the only indication of any objects, such as carts and ploughs, left outdoors.
Remarkably, the breeding stock of cows, pigs and goats had survived. They lived in the village longhouse, alongside the ponies and three families of Britons. Here, they had been fed hay and scraps, and were considerably less troubled by the cold than their human bedfellows.
The villagers combined their efforts to remove snow from the open square. When they had cleared a frozen, level space, Withred gathered the men, including Murdoc, and the older boys, and immediately started basic training with the weapons that had been stored in the longhouse.
Dominic took Tomas with him to beat a track to the edge of the forest and examine the traps they had set weeks before. It took many trips and three days of hard work before they completed the task. Th
ey found that the interior of the silent forest resembled the sparkling, white nave of a vast cathedral—its aisles lined by towering white columns. Nothing, be it the smallest twig or frozen, frosted leaf, stirred in its still interior.
Disorientated by the transformation that had taken place since their earlier foray, Dominic searched around in vain, seeking out anything recognisable. Tomas finally spotted a gnarled and stunted oak where they had laid one of the traps—the tree now resembling an ice sculpture. They walked thigh deep to the tree and began to remove snow from where they guessed the trap to be.
A spike of frozen, grey fur appeared, and Tomas was immediately excited as more of the shape became apparent. Further excavation proved difficult through the compact snow, but eventually their scrabbling revealed a huge timber wolf.
Dominic looked at Tomas and smiled. ‘I see a fine hat there for a young hunter. When the enemy sees two wolves snarling at them, they’ll surely bugger off back to their rat holes.’ He prised the stiff carcass from the frozen ground and walked back to the village with his arm around the delighted Tomas.
Brinley had arranged a meeting in the longhouse, where a hearty fire blazed on the compacted soil floor. Grey smoke billowed above the fire, before finding its way out through the thatched roof. Extra torches, set along the side of the building, sent shadows dancing around the glowing room. Two long benches, crammed with men, ran alongside a long oak table. Brinley sat at the head of the table.
There was a general murmur of conversation as Brinley’s wife, Anna, along with some of the other women, set down tankards of mulled ale for the men. Brinley cleared his throat, his strong timbre cutting through the chatter. ‘Your attention my friends.’ The chattering in the room died to silence as all looked towards him. ‘The time’s come to discuss the problem of the invaders, who we expect to return next year.’
Darga immediately piped up. ‘A talk that’s long overdue if you ask me. Who knows when they’ll arrive.’ He looked at Withred. ‘What say you … Saxon, or whatever you are?’
Before Withred could reply, Brinley interposed. ‘The discussion was delayed because we were too busy surviving the worst winter storm in my lifetime. I’m sure that Withred will confirm that we’re under no immediate danger.’
Withred nodded, and fixed Darga with a steady stare. ‘Don’t worry yourself about an early attack, Darga. It’s not done to venture out campaigning in mild winters, let alone one such as this. I’m confident that we’ve at least three months to prepare for the assault that will surely come.’
‘And in this preparation you’ll be most useful to us,’ said Brinley, ‘knowing as you do their tactics and method of combat.’
Darga again interjected. ‘No doubt you personally used such methods with keenness when riding with them.’
This time an angry Murdoc overrode Withred’s reply. He placed a restraining hand on Withred’s arm and said icily. ‘I’ve more reason than most to hate the invaders, but this man has proved himself to me, and I’ll not hear a youth, barely weaned off his mother’s pap, disrupt this council with his prattling.’ He looked at the bristling youth and his tone was stern and measured. ‘When you’ve proven yourself against them, loud one, then I might, just might, listen to what you’ve to say. Until then it would be best if you open your mouth only when you have something useful to say.’
Darga stood, knocking over his tankard and pointing at Murdoc. ‘You’ve—’
‘Enough Darga!’ Brinley slapped the table in frustration. ‘We’ve heard more than enough from you and it’s time to press on. Sit down now or I’ll have you thrown out of this meeting!’ Darga continued to glare at Murdoc, but as a menacing Dominic took to his feet, he reluctantly sat down.
Brinley turned to Withred. ‘Now, how many riders can we expect to come against us?’
‘It depends on how many men Osric can cajole,’ said Withred, as he turned his glowering stare from Darga. ‘I’d guess his war band will number between forty and sixty men.’
A renewed murmuring greeted Withred’s assertion.
The room quietened when Griswalda spoke. ‘I’m an old man, but still intend to fight, but even with me and some of the other old ones we can still only muster a small force—maybe thirty men. How are we to have any chance with so few?’
‘Craft often wins over force,’ said Dominic, who was still standing. He had removed his hat, as the room had warmed, revealing the sparse, grey stubble of his scalp. ‘With my expertise in the forest, and Withred’s tactical insight, we can defeat them, of that I’ve no doubt.’
‘What about the women and children … who will look after them?’ asked James fervently. ‘I’ve lost one son to these murderers; I’ve no wish to lose any more of my family.’
Dominic’s nod towards Simon indicated that he had been expecting this question. ‘We’ve plans for those who are vulnerable. Simon is aware of this and he will fill you in on the details after this meeting. As for the expected fight, we hope to keep the loss of life low, which is why we’ll meet them on our terms—in the forest. Withred and I have discussed this in detail, and we both agree that this is our only chance against a larger group of men.’
‘But that will leave the village undefended,’ said James. ‘The village and all in it will be destroyed if we fail in the forest.’
Withred spoke now. ‘We feel that leaving a number of men behind, including myself, would be a last defence against them should they break through.’
Augustus—a stocky, barrel-chested man, with a confident air—questioned Withred’s strategy. ‘But if we are outnumbered surely it makes no sense to split our force up. I’ll fight to the death, make no mistake, but surely it makes sense to fight in numbers.’
‘I’ll try to explain how my knowledge helps here,’ said Withred, ‘so that our plan makes more sense. First, I’ll tell you how they fight.’ The room went quiet, the tension palpable. ‘They ride ponies but don’t fight from them. The steeds are for quick passage only. Once the warriors arrive at the conflict they fight on foot in open order. Their main weapon is the spear, which they thrust with and sometimes throw. Many also favour the ax. The biggest shame for them is to die outside battle. To die a straw death—a death at home on their pallet of straw. For this reason they fight fanatically, and it would be futile to meet them head on.’ His face was grim and resolute as he looked round the hall at the intent faces. ‘We’ll be destroyed if we fight them head on. Believe me in this.’ He paused as the gravity of his remarks sank in. ‘To kill at close quarters, they consider a great honour, and for this reason they seldom use the bow. Indeed few of them are skilled with it anyway. Some, although unpractised with it, will carry the bow however. Dominic will speak more of this shortly.’
‘What about swords?’ asked Augustus. ‘You didn’t mention swords. We’ve few of them, and I hear they’re truly a formidable weapon in battle.’
‘Only the chieftain, Osric, and his few personal followers, the Gedriht who have sworn to die for him, have the wealth to own a sword. Even so, some Gedriht—Egbert for example—still favour the ax, so don’t worry about the sword.’
At Egbert’s name, an angry murmuring broke out around the room. Murdoc and Martha had told everyone of his wickedness, and it was now widely believed that he had killed James’ son, Eidon. Some of the men looked at Withred’s sword.
‘Yes I was a Gedriht, he said,’ sensing the gathering focus upon the weapon. ‘But I had no wish to follow the ways of the war band. My God, Nerthus, does not allow for the slaughter of undefended folk and neither do I.’ The room quietened as the focus of attention returned from the sword back to Withred. ‘Their main body is made up by younger men, the Geoguth, and few of these have the resources to own a sword.’
‘It’s good that you brought weapons,’ said Griswalda, ‘but we’ve not the skill to use them. Yes, you’ve started to train us, but we’ve no experience of combat and are fewer than they are. Would it not make more sense to flee from a foe that cannot be be
aten? I hear that a great British chieftain lives in the west and sits at a table that has no head and no foot so that everyone is equal. The invaders, it’s said, are smashed like waves against granite when they come up against him.’
‘I know the man you speak of,’ said Dominic. ‘When I was in the employ of Rome it was said that a British warrior rode with them in another legion, as an outrider. This man advanced his position to become a great leader of a cavalry division. In thanks for his service, the Romans granted him land in the west where rumour has it he now has his base, heavily defended against attack. Arthur is his name, and maybe if we survive this we can consider seeking him out, but we don’t have the time now. To uproot a village that has meagre supplies would mean great sufferance and death along the way. Beside, who’s to say that Arthur would accept us? Maybe he already harbours more refugees than he can provide for. No … first we must rid ourselves of a force that would surely hunt us down anyway if we fled.’
‘But surely we’ll die if we stay here,’ said Griswalda.
‘Surely, we would die if we fought them man-to-man, ax-to-ax, spear-to-spear,’ said Dominic. ‘That’s why we’ll meet them in the forest and engage them on our terms, many days before they reach the village.’
He picked up a bow from under the table and notched an arrow, fully commanding the attention of all in the room. He took aim at a wooden beam at the far end of the longhouse, his power and grace combining as the arrow was drawn and released to flash into the beam in an instant. There was sporadic applause as Dominic went to retrieve the arrow.
He held the arrow for all to see. ‘This is how we’ll defeat them,’ he said. ‘Most of them don’t wear chainmail. Few can afford it. This is how we’ll kill them. We’ll sting them from distance my friends. With the arrow!’
The gravity of Dominic’s proclamation again promoted silence in the room, and this was broken when Griswalda spoke again. ‘You’ve spent many years using the weapon to hunt. How can we expect to be as accurate as you, with so short a time to learn?’
The Red And Savage Tongue (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 15