Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

After a mild start, the winter arrived in a fury as arctic air flowed down the east coast of the island. Heavy snow fell, smothering all life out of the country. In between the heavy falls, swirling bands of spindrift, whipped up by the wind, spiralled across white blanketed fields and through deserted town and village squares.

No one walked in the vast forest. Herds of deer fed as best they could by hoofing away the frozen snow and grazing on the inert vegetation below it. Thick slices of snow covered the north-facing sides of the trees, their branches seemingly sculpted from ice as more snow fell. Although cold and forbidding, the conditions within the forest were less severe than in the cleared lands. Here, brutal, swirling winds searched through the loosely woven clothing of those souls unlucky enough to roam outdoors.

But few would venture out into the numbing cold, unless the retrieval of fuel necessitated such an act. Piled high next to most dwellings, bundles of firewood, stockpiled in anticipation of a long winter, lay in readiness. Slaughtered livestock provided salted and dried meat. Only breeding stock was sustained, and this fed with dried hay which had been set aside for the purpose. Grains and pulses formed the bulk of the peasant diet, supplementing their sparse meat provisions.

Choked with smoke, the cottages burned fires day and night—the smoke finding its way out through weather-distressed thatched roofs
,
as cold winds sent icy draughts through thin, broken walls. Many were to die that winter (mainly the young and old) as the season refused to release its bitter grip upon the land.

The bear was struggling to survive the winter. It had found a shallow cave deep in the forest, but the relentless cold and a gnawing inner illness caused by old, festering arrow wounds had weakened it.

Eventually it awoke from its hibernation and lurched into the forest in search of food, its splayed pads crunching through frozen snow as it sniffed the air for prey. Two days were to pass before it sniffed out a herd of deer, but they easily outran the predator. 

In desperation, it searched out a favourite stream where weeks earlier it had hunted for salmon. But now the stream was thick with ice.  Attempting to break through the frozen surface, the bear stood upright then crashed downwards with tremendous force. The action served only to create superficial, frosty cracks on the white plate.

A further week passed without the weakening bear finding food, its former thickset physique having become even more spare and bedraggled. Finally, on an evening when the arctic wind hurled thick snow between the trees of the forest, the bear finally surrendered to its exhaustion and lay down in a low-lying, snow-sculpted, hazel grove. At last, its final sleep came to it.

In Camulodunum, the conditions were equally forbidding.  Fires burned inside huts as folk fought to survive. Consequently, the location of the town was evident from many miles, betrayed by a lingering pall that lingered in the snow-saturated sky above the town. The cold claimed many victims—the weak and vulnerable making up the bulk of the cadavers. These were stacked in frozen heaps on the outskirts of town.

Egbert had spent most of his time in the alehouse, drunken or sleeping, and occasionally whoring. His condition by now had deteriorated; dark rings encircling eyes set in a grey face—a face almost entirely obscured by a filthy mat of stiff beard. It was in this condition that Osric found him.

The Saxon chief had left one of his many women asleep on the cot in his quarters, and ventured through the blizzard to retrieve firewood from the stockpile in the main square. Noticing the usual dull orange glow coming from the alehouse, he decided to sup ale and check on Egbert.

Surrounded by a swirling of snow, he entered the gloomy room. He spotted Egbert, slumped facedown and snoring with an empty upturned flagon beside him. A grunting from behind a nearby curtain told him the barkeeper was busy with one of his whores, so Osric helped himself to bread, cheese and two jugs of ale. One of jugs he poured over Egbert’s head, causing the comatose debauchee to splutter to a semi-conscious awareness.

‘Bastard!’ Egbert fumbled for his knife in vain. He blinked his blurred vision from his eyes until Osric’s form became apparent to him. ‘What … what … are you doing here? Why do you disturb me?’

Osric took a swig of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Believe it or not sow-gut, but you’re to be fit for a campaign next year, and at this moment I seriously doubt you’ll even be alive for it.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ slurred Egbert, ‘my winter pleasure has always been the alehouse, and it has never…it has NEVER! stopped me from killing Britons in the springtime.’

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 but before Egbert could respond, Osric addressed him again. ‘Speaking of which, 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. Now that’s what I call taking a risk!’

Egbert stared at Osric, his drunken mind taking its time to comprehend. As the 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 only to turn and point his appreciation to Osric as his guffawing intensified. He snatched the curtain back.

Osric smiled, knowing he was about to witness the entertainment he had incited. Egbert kicked the barkeeper’s bare buttocks, abruptly ending their gyration. He grabbed the man by his hair and threw from the cubicle. The tenant hastily hitched up his hose, jumped over the beer table and crouched behind it.

Egbert looked back to Osric for approval. Encouraged by his leader’s mirth, he grabbed the abandoned whore under her arm and dragged her out of the booth towards Osric’s table.

Furious at the curtailment of her business, the girl turned on Egbert and gifted him a hefty slap. She shrieked at him as she landed another series of stinging slaps around his head and shoulders. ‘Get your stinking hands off me you fat turd!’

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. He made to mount her, but his efforts met with a gobbet of spit ejected with force which hit Egbert square in the face. The harlot followed the expulsion with a strong kick to Egbert’s groin.

Osric, by now red faced and crying with laughter, could barely speak. ‘My…you’ve a lively one there…a spirited wench… that’s for sure!’

But Egbert’s face had clouded. He punched the girl in the face, knocking her back onto the table. ‘Aye, she’s spirited,’ 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 slicked 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 pulse diminished. ‘Another wench with two mouths,’ he said as the woman twitched her death spasm on the floor, ‘… but both of them mute … strangely.’

He took a slab of Osric’s cheese, dipped it into the fresh blood on the table, then stuffed it into his mouth.

As his charge 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 which curved up to the thatches of the village buildings.

Murdoc shared a circular hut with Martha, Tomas and Ceola. Struggling to keep warm, they had spent the last days sat around their fire. 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. It 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, his deep-set eyes peering 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. ‘I’ve never seen such a winter.’

Martha smiled and beckoned Dominic to sit beside her. ‘Thanks for the coney,’ she said, ‘though how you manage to catch fresh meat is beyond me.’

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, 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 blaze. ‘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 it.’

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 besides, 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.

‘C-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.’

‘Tomorrow then,’ said Dominic. ‘I’ll show you how to set snares tomorrow. 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.

Two further weeks of snowstorms ensued, before the wind died and the air became still and cold. Upon leaving their huts, folk marvelled at the white world before them. Snow covered everything to the height of a man, and gentle white bumps betrayed the location of carts and plows that lay frozen beneath the snow.

Remarkably, the breeding stock of cows, pigs and goats had survived. They lived in the village longhouse along with the ponies and three families of Britons. Here, they had been fed hay and scraps, and been considerably less troubled by the cold than their human bedfellows.

The villagers combined their efforts and scraped snow from the open square. When they had cleared a frozen and 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 set by them days earlier. It took several trips and three days of hard work before they completed the task. The interior of the silent woods resembled the sparkling white nave of a vast cathedral—its aisles lined by towering white columns. Neither frosted leaf nor frozen twig stirred in its unmoving space.

Thrown by the transformation, Dominic sought out any recognisable landmark. Finally, it was Tomas who 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 in snow towards it and began to dig.

When a spike of frozen grey fur appeared, Tomas became excited. Both then scrabbled the snow away, until they uncovered the carcass of a huge timber wolf.

Dominic smiled at Tomas. ‘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.’ They prised the stiff carcass from the frozen ground and set off to walk back to the village.

Brinley had arranged a meeting in the longhouse, where a hearty fire blazed on the compacted soil floor. Grey smoke billowed above the blaze, finding egress through the thatched roof. Extra torches, which had been set into the walls, sent shadows dancing around the 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, assisted by 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.’ Murmurings died to silence as all looked towards him. ‘The time has come to discuss the problem of the Saxon raiders.’

‘A talk that’s long overdue if you ask me,’ burst in Darga. ‘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 his steady stare. ‘Don’t worry yourself about an early attack, boy. It’s not done to venture out campaigning in
mild
winters, let alone one such as this. I’m confident 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. Icily, he spoke. ‘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 from his mother’s pap, disrupt this council with his prattling.’ He stared out the bristling youth; his tone now measured. ‘When you’ve proven yourself against them, loud one, then I might, just
might
, listen to what you have to say. Until then, it would be best if you open your mouth only when you have something useful to contribute.’

Darga stood, knocking over his tankard. Furious and red faced, he stabbed his finger at Murdoc. ‘You’ve no right—’

‘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 from this meeting!’ Darga continued to glare at Murdoc. He sat only when Dominic got to his feet and made to move towards him.

Brinley turned to Withred, glad to move on. ‘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, yet I intend to fight, but even with me and some of the other old ones we will still only muster 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–I’m sure of that.’

‘What about the women and children … who will look after them?’ asked James. ‘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 he had been expecting the question. ‘We’ve plans for those who are vulnerable and Simon is aware of this. He’ll fill you in with the details after this meeting. As for the expected fight, we hope to keep the loss of life low, which is why we will meet them on our terms—in the forest. I’ve discussed this with Withred and we both agree it’s 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. ‘That’s why we’ll leave a number of men behind, including me. This would be a last defence against them
should
they break through.’

Augustus, a barrel-chested giant of a man with a confident air, questioned Withred’s strategy. ‘But if we’re outnumbered surely it makes no sense to split our force. I’ll fight to the death, make no mistake, but surely it makes more 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 animals are to get them where they need to be, that’s all. When they arrive, they always 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. Many appeared concerned, some afraid. ‘We’ll be destroyed if we fight them face to face–you need to know that.’ He paused, further allowing the gravitas of his remark to sink in. ‘To kill at close quarters, they consider a great honour, and for this reason they seldom use the bow. Actually, few of them are skilled with it, though some
do
carry the weapon. Dominic will speak more of this shortly.’

‘What about swords?’ asked Augustus. ‘You didn’t mention swords. We’ve few of them and they’re truly a formidable weapon in battle.’

‘Only the chieftain, Osric, and his 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 no need worry about swords.’

At Egbert’s name, an angry murmuring broke out. Murdoc and Martha had told everyone of his wickedness, and it was now widely believed the Saxon had killed James’ son, Eidon. Some of the men now 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. ‘Anyway, their main body is made up by younger men—the
Geoguth
—and few of them possess the wealth to own a sword.’

‘It’s good that you brought weapons,’ said Griswalda, ‘but we don’t have the skill to use them. Yes, you’ve started to train us, but we’ve no experience of combat and are fewer than they. Would it not make sense to flee from a foe that cannot be beaten? I hear that a feared 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, he rode with them in another legion. The man advanced his position to become the renowned 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 for that now. To uproot a village that has meagre supplies would mean certain 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 hunt us down anyway if we fled.’