The border of the forest was a ragged line of green two miles from the town. A thin, swirling pall of smoke hung over the trees like a tattered, grey, veil. Cattle grazed and pigs grubbed upon the scrubland that lay between the forest edge and the town boundary.
‘We’ve still not seen one Saxon on this journey,’ said Erec, as he looked towards the forest edge. He looked to Gherwan. ‘My view is that we should at least observe what they are up to in the woodland.’
‘My thoughts too,’ said Will. ‘It would be good to see what we’ve to contend with.’
Gherwan pondered a short while then nodded. ‘I have to say, my curiosity wouldn’t allow me to return without looking into the woods, but don’t forget we’re more than likely to be outnumbered. Observe and return, was the task set by Arthur. More than ever now, we need to sustain strength in numbers. It would be no use to our cause if we fell in the forests.’
They bade their farewell to Wilfred and picked their way through the scrubland ahead of the woods. Upon reaching the track that led into the forest, they crossed themselves and entered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
After he had emitted his wolf howl, Tomas had run back through the bramble squeeze and skirted the conflict at the ox carts. On reaching his lookout position, he had witnessed the termination of the fighting below, as Osric’s four remaining men had withdrawn and mounted their ponies.
It was not long before the remaining force of thirteen men rode through the squeeze below him, expecting to meet Dominic and the others in battle. He knew that in imitating Dominic’s call he had only bought a little time for the hidden women and children, and hoped they would at least run from the hut and hide in the forest.
Withred and Brinley had run back into the village when Osric and his men had left to seek Dominic. On their toes and alert to any surprise attack, they had somewhat recovered from the exertion of the battle. Uneasy about the fate of the hidden villagers, they reached the hut to witness the aftermath of Egbert’s kidnapping of Ceola.
After being prevented from running into the woods after Egbert, Martha sobbed in the arms of Simon. The old man looked to Withred and Brinley. Utterly crestfallen, his voice was barely above a whisper. ‘Egbert took Ceola.’
‘What…which way!’ said Withred, looking around frantically.
Simon nodded to the western exit from the village.
Withred looked towards the exit, then grabbed the reins of a nearby, stray pony.
‘Withred, wait!’ shouted Brinley. ‘The threat from the others is still with us, and we need to get these people to a safer place.’
‘We can’t just let him get away,’ said Withred angrily, ‘Nerthus herself knows what that fiend will do with that child.’
‘Then I’ll follow him. At least I know the country around here. You’d be better helping Dominic against the remaining raiders. Surely, he must be outnumbered.’
‘And I’ll take our group into the woods,’ said Simon. ‘Dominic showed me a place he and Tomas found in the winter month—a secluded hollow beside a rocky outcrop—it’s where we would have gone with more warning of the raiders. We’ll wait there until this is over.’
‘Let’s waste no time then,’ said Withred, as he removed his sword and ran to the gap in the brambles where Osric’s party had gone. ‘We’ve no time to lose. Fly!’
The Saxons circled the area in front of the ox carts, tensely awaiting the arrival of Dominic’s force. Osric counted the men who had survived to fight alongside him. ‘Egbert . . . where is Egbert!’ He looked around and then at Wlensling.
‘I last saw him about to enter the hut,’ said Wlensling. ‘He may have been delayed there.’
‘Yes, and we all know what delays him on raids!’ stormed Osric. ‘Guthren! Ride back now and get him here at once. We need every man ready to meet them when they arrive!’
Guthren peeled off from the group and urged his pony back through the bramble squeeze. He was barely through the other side when he received the full force of Withred’s broadsword across his chest, knocking him backwards and onto the leafy floor. His disorientation and surprise still lingered as Withred’s sword pierced his throat and ended his life.
Withred was quickly back to his task as he edged through the gap and paused, partially hidden, to observe Osric with his twelve remaining riders wheeling around in the open awaiting developments. As he fastidiously checked his broadsword and dagger, Dominic’s blood-curdling howl again resounded through the air.
Tomas lay low and hidden on the elevated mound, watching the riders below him—his bow notched and ready for use as he awaited Dominic’s arrival. His anxiety had increased as the riders had begun to relax a little, and three had dismounted and looked towards his position. He edged back ready to run beyond the mound, sensing that they were about to use the lookout for their own purposes. This was when Tomas heard the howl.
Three hours behind the Saxons, Dominic’s group had ridden back towards the village as fast as their ponies’ stamina would allow. Grim, yet determined, the riders had brokenly discussed their hopes, and not allowed their fears to cloud their resolve as they approached the village.
Murdoc grabbed his spear from its harness and rode alongside Dominic. ‘We don’t know what’s happened,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we met them in the open this time.’
Dominic agreed. ‘Indeed, we don’t want to fall victim to our own tactics and expose ourselves to ambush in the confines of the village. I’ll see if my cry will draw them out, and may the Gods help us all.
‘Be sure that Augustus will help!’ said the burly butcher as Dominic gave out a lung-bursting howl. ‘We’ll carve some rotten meat before this day is out!’
As they turned the same bend the Saxons had rounded hours earlier, Dominic was quick to assess the situation, and looked to Augustus and his brothers. ‘Looks like they’d ridden out to meet us, anyway. ‘Gus! You and your brothers, start with the three on foot who climb the mound. Mur you’re with me! All stay mounted while you fight! We can take them if we STAY MOUNTED!’
‘This is for Joseph and his son!’ cried Augustus as he rode over and hacked at the first man. His brothers joined him, seemingly as adept at fighting well together as they were with other practical tasks. They wheeled their ponies together in mutual protection as they slaughtered the other two men.
Murdoc spotted the imposing Osric who had managed to manoeuvre himself behind the cover of his men as he readied himself for battle.
Murdoc launched his spear at Osric, but a young warrior, eager to gain status, put himself in the way. His small buckler could only deflect it, and the spear clattered the shield aside and deeply embedded into the youth’s chest—the force of the impact sending him in a backward roll off his pony. Murdoc had no need to dismount to retrieve the erect, wavering spear from the dead raider.
Dominic halted his pony and quickly notched an arrow when he saw another Saxon fall to the ground, pierced through the cheekbone. Astounded, he glanced up quickly to see Tomas, pushing his wolf hat high on his head as he again took aim. Barely suppressing a grin, Dominic let fly two arrows in quick succession, one of them hitting Wlensling, who fell from his mount as the arrow slapped into his shoulder. The other man fell dead, pierced through the sternum.
Wlensling grimaced as he snapped the arrow and quickly looked around to assess his position. Only six of his companions were now standing, faced by six assailants. Four of the Britons, burly fellows, fought fiercely with axes against four Geoguths. He watched as Osric threw his own short ax at the wolf-man, knocking him from his pony. He smiled grimly expecting that Osric, who now moved towards the stricken Briton with his great broadsword held above his head, would quickly put an end to him and break the spirit of his followers.
He brandished his own sword and was about to run and take on the other Briton who wielded the crude spear, when a shuffling behind him caused him to turn. He was just quick enough to fend off Withred’s sword strike as it slashed down
on him.
‘Traitor,’ gasped Wlensling, as he quickly gained his feet. ‘Always you arrive when the fighting is almost over.’
‘Twenty of your fellow murderers would disagree with you if they still held breath,’ growled Withred as the two of them circled.
The sword fight that ensued was brutal and unrelenting, both men having to defend their opponent’s savage swipes and thrusts. Withred took a flesh wound to his thigh and had to fend off several follow-up hacking blows from Wlensling who seeked to capitalise on the breach. This served only to drain Wlensling’s stamina, already much depleted after sustaining the arrow wound to his shoulder.
The momentary pause in the assault was enough for Withred, and a huge sideways swipe at Wlensling as his defensive stance briefly faltered, succeeded in partly severing his left arm. Screaming, Wlensling instinctively placed his right hand over the springing tendons and muscle, thus dropping his sword. It was all that Withred needed to conclude the fight. Swinging his sword with dexterity and power, his blade blurred, as it described a rapid horizontal arc to cleanly decapitate Wlensling.
As Wlensling and Withred had fought, Dominic lay stunned. Osric’s ax had hit him with its blunt end, fracturing his cheekbone, but not killing him outright. Through a silent, vague fog, he saw the Saxon warlord bear down upon him after leaving his pony. Dominic prepared to become a dead man; sorry that he would not see the defeat of the Saxon force after such an immense struggle. When the deathblow didn’t arrive, it took only a fraction of a second for his muted world, and blurred kaleidoscopic vision, to return with a rush to the here and now.
He saw that Osric had fallen, rather than got down from his pony, and the reason for his fall was the arrow sticking from his side. ‘Tomas,’ said Dominic, as Osric made to gain his feet, his broadsword still in his grasp.
Still incapacitated from the blow, he watched as Murdoc rode quickly up to Osric to thrust his spear between his shoulder blades, and through his ring-mail hauberk. Osric fell forward again onto his belly, his helm dislodging. Dominic lost no time in picking up the nearby ax that had caused his injury. With it, he cleaved Osric’s head from nape to crown.
Murdoc dismounted and stood beside him, just as Withred arrived. Back to back, they rotated around to see that Augustus and his twin brothers, William and John, still fought against three of the Geoguths. The fourth brother Samuel lay wounded, possibly dead, under his collapsed pony.
Dominic quickly retrieved his bow and took down one of the Saxons. One of the others was hacked to the ground by William. The third, knowing it was over, made to gallop from the clearing. He fell to Tomas’ arrow.
‘Nobody goes back this time,’ said Dominic, as he put another three arrows into the wounded man.
The battle-weary men assembled around the critically wounded Samuel. Augustus cradled him, just as he had cradled James the day before. He looked to his brothers, his face haggard and his pale eyes brimming with tears. ‘We’re too late for him—he’s gone.’
Dominic, his cheek now black and swollen, placed a consoling hand on Augustus’ shoulder, before turning to leave the brothers to their grief. Tomas, by now, was trotting down the hill to them—his face a mask of worry.
‘You saved my life, along with Murdoc,’ said Dominic, ‘I’ll never—’
‘Egbert!’ shouted Tomas, ‘Where’s Egbert, I can’t see his body!’
Withred, now haunted and drawn, looked to Murdoc, barely able to impart the dreadful news. ‘He took Ceola down the westward track. Brinley has given chase. Both were mounted.’
Murdoc’s colour drained—his face as sick as sin. ‘What,’ he whispered, ‘. . . my little girl is with that monster?’ He shook his head in disbelief, before taking a great gasp of air and running to his pony. ‘Westward track you say, I’ll return with Ceola or not at all!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Egbert rode his pony as fast as the rutted track would allow. He had stuffed Ceola in the sack procured from the hut in the village; his threatening glare sufficing to cow her into silent submission as she lay shivering with fright slung over the pony’s withers.
He knew he could not go back—Osric and the others would kill him for leaving them. To take the child to a slave trader—one that specialised in the sale of infants—was now his priority. He knew of such a man who would give him much gold for the child in the town of Northwic, and figured that if he headed westwards the woods would soon end. Then he would journey north, before heading back eastwards, travelling at dusk and early morning when the route would be quiet but still light enough for him to find his way. He would keep himself and the child alive by stealing food from the towns and villages along the way.
Knowing that pursuers would follow, he travelled without rest for the remainder of the day, before camping off the track. He untied the girl from the sack and roughly signalled for her to lie down and sleep. Ceola, knowing that the man would truly hurt her if she misbehaved, fell into a shivering and shallow, tear-stained slumber, as darkness fell.
The next morning, Egbert waited, away from the main track, listening for the sound of riders. He was about to continue his journey when the sound of movement down the way alerted him. He glared at Ceola and put his finger to his lips in a hushing gesture. She recoiled away from him, curling into a submissive ball.
Brinley had resumed his pursuit at first light, his fervour overriding his exhaustion as he single-mindedly gave chase. A disturbance in the undergrowth behind him was the only warning he got of Egbert’s approach, but too late to react and prevent Egbert from slipping a cord around his neck.
Dragged to the ground onto his back, he tried to grab the cord but to no avail. He kicked until the leaf litter of the forest floor scrunched into a heap before his heels. With Egbert’s full weight dragging downwards, Brinley had no chance of breaking free. His last sensation was the smell of Egbert’s fetid breath.
Egbert stood up and looked around panting. Satisfied that Brinley was alone, he dragged the body off the track.
He set off westwards again, Ceola in her position in the sack flung in front of him. As noon came, he decided to rest up his pony away from the track. Again, fortune favoured him, as the sound of travellers, this time from the west, alerted him to stay silent. He lay with his grubby hand over Ceola’s mouth as six riders passed him by. A quick glance told him that these were men to avoid—British warriors of high stature and expensive weaponry, riding heavy horses. He tensed as the men stopped.
Will examined the track closely as he rode at the front of the group. Gherwan, Erec, Flint and Cadmon rode together behind; the tension heightened since they had entered the confines of the forest.
They stopped as Will held up his hand and dismounted to examine the ground. He turned to look at the other men, and then looked beyond them towards the scrub beside the path. He walked to Gherwan and beckoned the knight to stoop within whispered earshot. ‘A rider’s trail meets us here from the oncoming direction,’ he breathed. ‘It’s fresh…very fresh.’ He pointed to the scrub. ‘Someone went in there.’
Gherwan signalled to Flint and Cadmon to ride back up the track to block the way should anyone try to flee. ‘With me, Erec and Will,’ he said quietly as he looked to the disturbed vegetation.
He nodded, and the three of them rode slowly through the scrub boundary just as Egbert, who took them by surprise, burst through on his pony. Ceola stood where he had left her, hand to mouth, her eyes startled, as the huge British warhorses crowded the space around her. ‘Will, see to the child!’ barked Gherwan, as he turned his horse to follow Egbert.
Back on the track, Egbert saw his westward route blocked, so turned and galloped back down the track. His pony had the advantage of rapid acceleration over the heavier British horses and he quickly put a good distance between himself and the pursuing Erec and Gherwan.
He looked back, relieved to see that the Britons were out of sight, but as he turned his attention back towards his onward route, he was forced to halt. Ah
ead of him, eyes rimmed dark and face set grim, sat Murdoc upon his pony. ‘My daughter, what have you done with her?’ asked Murdoc, dreading the response from Egbert.
Egbert understood only a few words of the British tongue, but knew what the question had to be. He readied himself to fight with Murdoc, but froze as the Briton raised his bow. ‘Where is she?’ he repeated, his voice quavering now with a mixture of emotion and rage. ‘Tell me what you have done with my daughter?’
A thundering behind Egbert heralded the arrival of Gherwan and Erec. Gherwan rode past Egbert and met Murdoc. Meanwhile Erec kicked Egbert from his saddle and removed the war ax from his pony.
‘We are Britons from the west, our lord is Arthur,’ said Gherwan to the astounded Murdoc.
Murdoc was about to mumble a reply when Will arrived carrying Ceola. ‘It’s my girl,’ said Murdoc, crying now. ‘I thought her surely dead…that man took her…I chased him through the night…but I thought her surely dead.’
Will handed Ceola to Murdoc, and he hugged and rocked her through a babble of tears and laughter as he soothed and comforted her.
Gherwan later told Murdoc the story of their journey from Brythonfort. Murdoc, with Ceola on his lap, then told them of his struggle alongside his compatriots. The name of Egbert cropped up repeatedly as he spoke, and after Murdoc had told their tale Gherwan looked towards the Saxon as he lay bound on the floor. ‘He’s yours to dispose of Murdoc, do with him what you will.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Red And Savage Tongue (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 22