Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (23 page)

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 having sufficed to cow her into silent submission as he had thrown the sack 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 desire. He knew of such a man who would give him much gold for the child in the town of Norwic. If he headed westwards the woods would soon end. Then he would journey north, before heading back east, travelling at dusk and early morning when the route would be quiet. He would keep himself and the child alive by stealing food from the towns and villages.

Knowing pursuers would follow, he travelled without rest for the remainder of the day, before camping off the track. He took the girl from the sack and roughly signalled her to lie down and sleep. Ceola, sensing that the man would truly hurt her if she misbehaved, fell into a shallow and frenzied slumber.

Next morning, Egbert waited away from the main track, listening for the passage 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. Curling into a submissive ball, she recoiled from him.

Brinley had resumed his pursuit at first light, his single-mindedness overriding his exhaustion as he pressed on. By midmorning, he had found Egbert’s tracks. He dismounted and stooped to examine the marks. A shuffling from behind was his only warning of Egbert’s approach, but before he could turn, the Saxon had slipped a cord around his neck.

Dragged to the ground and on to his back, his attempt to push his fingers under the ligature proved futile. He kicked, eyes rolling, as the leaf litter of the forest floor scrunched to a heap before his heels. With Egbert’s full weight upon the cord, he had no chance of breaking free, and his last sensation before death was the smell of Egbert’s fetid breath.

Panting from the struggle, Egbert stood up and looked around. Satisfied that Brinley was alone, he dragged his body from the track.

He set off westwards, Ceola again in her position in the sack before him. As noon came, he decided to rest up his pony a while. He settled a short distance from the track. More movement coming from the passage immediately alerted him to stay silent. Now he lay with his hand pressed over Ceola’s mouth as six riders passed by. A break in the shrubbery afforded him a fleeting view of them. He saw they were British warriors of high stature and expensive weaponry, riding heavy horses. He tensed as they halted. 

Arthur’s men felt an increasing unease the deeper they penetrated into the forest. Will, who rode at the front of the group, had leant ever forward examining the track

Now he stopped and slid down to examine the ground. He turned to the others, then peered beyond them towards the scrub beside the path.

He walked to Gherwan and beckoned the knight to stoop within whispered earshot. ‘A rider’s come down the track … his trail’s fresh … very fresh.’ He pointed to the scrub. ‘Over there … someone’s gone in.’

Gherwan signalled for Flint and Cadmon to ride back up the track and block the way should anyone break cover. ‘Erec and Will, with me’ he whispered as he pointed towards the disturbance in the undergrowth.

The three rode at a walk through the scrub boundary, just as a mounted Egbert took them by surprise and burst through. Ceola stood where he had left her, hand to mouth, her eyes startled as the giant 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 soon got him up the track and away.

He glanced behind and was relieved to see nobody in sight, but as he again turned his attention before him, he was forced to halt. A distance ahead, with eyes rimmed dark and face set grim, sat Murdoc bestride his pony. ‘My daughter, what have you done with her?’ he asked, dreading the answer.

Egbert understood only a few words of the British tongue, but knew what the question had to be. He readied himself to fight but froze as the Briton raised his bow. Murdoc’s voice was an amalgam of emotion and rage. ‘Where is she?’ he repeated, ‘Tell me what you have done with my daughter.’

A thundering from up track heralded the arrival of Gherwan and Erec. Gherwan rode past Egbert and met Murdoc. Meanwhile, Erec kicked the Saxon to the ground and removed Egbert’s war ax from the pony’s saddle.

‘We are Britons from the west, our lord is Arthur,’ was Gherwan’s only introduction.

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.

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 his tale Gherwan looked towards the Saxon who lay bound on the floor. ‘He is yours to dispose of Murdoc, do with him what you will.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The women, children and old men hiding in the woods had received Withred and Dominic’s appearance with relief and joy. Much grief Had then descended upon the group as they learned of the men who had died protecting them. The ensuing walk back to the village was a sad one, as the women, many of who had lost their men in the battle at the ox carts, supported each other in mutual condolence. Simon attempted to bolster a stricken Martha
,
who was inconsolable over the abduction of Ceola, feeling responsible for handing her to Egbert. She had lost the will to continue with her life.

Augustus and his twin brothers, William and John, were the only fighting men from the village who had survived the encounter with the Saxons. Their joy as they emotionally reunited with their wives and children in the village was short lived as the enormity of the communal bereavement, as well as the loss of their own brother, Samuel, returned to them. Brinley’s wife, Anna, hugged and comforted James’ widow, Sarah, as the realisation of losing both a son and a husband crushed her.

Dominic, Tomas and Withred started the task of burying the fallen, whilst Augustus and his brothers rode back to the flooded valley to retrieve James’ body.

Next day, Simon sat with Martha against the wall of the hut where the abduction of Ceola had taken place. Leaning against him, his arm around her, she gnawed at her nails and stared into the hollow in the floor.

‘She may yet be found,’ said Simon quietly. ‘Brinley and Murdoc will not give up the chase, you can be sure of that. Have faith, they may yet return with her.’

At the mention of Murdoc’s name, Martha squeezed her eyes shut and shook. ‘I let him down Simon, I let that brute take his girl . . . I handed her to him.’

Simon knew that Martha was beyond consolation but he tried anyway. ‘None of us in there knew it was Egbert,’ he said. ‘We couldn’t see in the glaring light. Don’t torture yourself, please don’t, girl. We all thought Murdoc had come back. You’re not to—’

‘Riders approach!’ the cry came from outside the hut.
Martha and Simon could only look at each other.

As Murdoc rode into the village holding Ceola, a joyous cheer erupted. The gloom which had pervaded the village since the end of the battle seemed to dissipate as the joy and relief of seeing Ceola warmed the hearts of the onlookers. Martha ran from the hut. She stood before Murdoc, unable to speak, her eyes awash with apology.

Murdoc dismounted, handed Ceola to Martha, then placed his arms around them both, and there they stood, rocking and weeping. 

Imposing, the six Arthurians rode up to the assembly. Tomas’ eyes gaped upon seeing the huge warhorses and the knights they supported. Awestruck, he said to Dominic who had joined him, ‘So this is how Rome looked. These are the type of men you rode with.’

‘Yes, except that these are fellow Britons. The fellow in buckskin is Will and I know him well. I tracked alongside him for Rome … and look, they have a prisoner.’

Behind the last horse, Egbert walked, his hands bound by a leather cord tied to Erec’s saddle pommel. The crowd’s initial joy upon seeing Ceola now turned to hostility at the sight of him.

Anna screamed as she saw Brinley’s body draped over Flint’s horse. She ran to her husband and embraced his cold corpse.

Flint’s eyes were downcast, unable to meet Anna’s. He could barely manage a murmur as Anna sobbed beside him. ‘I’m so sorry. We found him dead. Dragged off the track. Egbert murdered him.’

Withred strode purposefully to Egbert and cut the cord securing him to Erec’s horse.

He glanced at Erec, nodded his thanks, then dragged Egbert towards the hut with the pit. He looked towards Augustus and his brothers as he walked. His voice was ice. ‘Get spears. Leave them by the side of the hut.’

He fought to contain his rage. ‘Intended to sell a child for wicked sport did you!’ he said as he pushed Egbert into the hut. With the flat of his foot he kicked Egbert into the pit.

Egbert landed in a heap and looked up at him from the gloom, his yellowing eyes glinting with hate. ‘Yes … why not, heron-shanks? Gold is gold and it would have got me away from this stinking isle.’

Withred sneered at him. ‘Look beneath you—you’re on straw. No warrior’s death for you, you bastard. No meeting with Woden. You’ll die a straw death like a crone on her straw pallet.’

Egbert grabbed a handful of stalks and held them up to Withred. ‘Better this than a traitor, eh?’

Withred smiled pityingly at him. ‘Oh, you sorrowful, sorrowful wretch,’ he uttered as he left the hut, ‘…you disgusting, sorrowful wretch.’

Once outside, he looked at the spears, then at Murdoc. ‘You did well managing not to slay the shit,’ he said. ‘Thanks for bringing him back alive. At least those he wronged can finish him now.’

Augustus picked up three of the spears. He threw two of them to his brothers then looked to Murdoc.

Drained by the ordeal of the previous day and night, Murdoc was now in an unexpected quandary as he held Ceola. He had yearned for this day; imagined how he would kill Egbert if he got the chance, but as he looked into his daughter’s trusting, brown eyes he knew he would let it be. Augustus and the others could finish him. Perhaps then, Ceola would not think that killing was natural to all men.

He spoke with Martha, then looked to Augustus. ‘He raped and killed my wife, and his riding companions killed the rest of my family, and this child saw much of it. That hut’s about to witness death, but I’m walking back to the village now with my girl. She’s seen enough killing for one lifetime. Martha feels the same. Just get rid of the swine … finish him now, he’s lived far too long.’

Augustus nodded and looked at Anna and James’ wife, Sarah, who were weeping and hugging in mutual consolation. ‘He’s done you both great harm,’ he said. ‘Your two husbands and a son lie dead because of him.’

Anna looked into Sarah’s eyes as the other fought to control her emotions. With her face twisted with torment, Sarah shook her head.

Stricken, Anna replied: ‘As Murdoc said, he has to die for what he’s done, but we don’t want to see his face ever again. We won’t give him the chance to spit his poison at us before he goes to hell.’

Tomas walked up to Augustus and held his hand out for a spear. His face was dispassionate. ‘Give me a spear, Gus,’ he said. ‘He treated me worse than a dog, now he’ll die like one. He can spit all he likes as far as I’m concerned.’

Withred joined Tomas and took a spear from Augustus.

Dominic, one side of his face now sporting a yellow-black bruise, put his arms around Anna and Sarah. They began their weary trudge from the hut and back to the main village. The rest followed, sad but resolute.

Augustus picked up his own spear. He looked at the others; his bearded face a dour mask; his pale blue eyes, chips of granite. He nodded. They entered the hut.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

After Egbert’s demise, Dominic and Will had embraced and briefly reminisced over their time in the legions. When turning their attention to the struggle in the woods, Will had nodded sagely when Dominic had told him how Tomas had skilfully sniped from the knoll, saving his life after Osric had knocked him to the ground. ‘A young hawk he seems,’ said Will, smiling as he took in Dominic’s wolf hat. ‘I think a feathered hat would be more apt for young Tomas, rather than the fur one he now wears in homage to his hero. You are the wolf Dominic, and he the little hawk—the Merlin.’

Tomas kept his hat, but the name stuck, and when Dominic presented him with the new composite bow, he presented it to ‘Merlin’ rather than Tomas.

After hearing the tale of the fight at the village, and the skirmish in the forest, the Arthurians had realised the calibre of the men who stood before them. They knew that such men would be valuable additions to the guardians who defended their southwestern realm.

As they looked at the devastation around them, and realised the likelihood that more Saxons would follow in the wake of Osric’s party, it had not taken Murdoc and the others long to accept Gherwan’s invitation to relocate to Brythonfort. That
all
the village survivors would go to Brythonfort, of course, was beyond question.

Tomas gasped as Brythonfort came into view. Its earthwork buttress, encircled by a huge drystone wall, towered above the surrounding landscape of strip fields. Smiling as he witnessed Tomas’ wonderment, Gherwan who rode at the front with Will, turned in his saddle to see the same expression mirrored in every face.

Murdoc held Ceola and pointed at the stronghold, while Martha rode beside them, her face a picture. Dominic rode alongside Augustus, while his two brothers followed a distance behind, driving two of the ox carts that contained everything of use from the village. Simon, with Withred beside him, piloted another cart in which sat some of the children and old ones who had come through the conflict. Some preferred to walk behind, and these made up the rest of the village survivors. Erec and Flint brought up the rear of the entourage.

One month after the battle at the ox carts, they entered the fort, where Arthur met them at the gates. An outrider had delivered a message from Gherwan and told him of the impending additions to his garrison.

‘Great God, I thought the fort imposing, but look at that man,’ said Simon to Withred. ‘It’s little wonder the people here feel safe under his stewardship.’

Later, in the wooden hall, a celebratory feast took place around the huge circular tables therein. Here, the villagers learned they would remain in their family groups and be placed on established farms around the fort where labour was needed. Robert and his team of artisans were tasked with the building of extra accommodation.

Sarah and her remaining son would live with Brinley’s wife, Anna, within the compound. Here, they would work in the bakery that provided bread for the garrison.

Simon would also live within the walls of Brythonfort. As an old man, he was not required to work, but after his introduction to Robert, he volunteered to lend his practical skills to him.

Dominic’s expertise as a tracker and skirmisher was soon realised. He would train a group of scouts, along with Will and Murdoc. Tomas would accompany them and increase his own learning, until he knew enough to work alone.

Withred’s inside knowledge of Saxon combat tactics would be utilised in the academy, where he would assist in the training of recruits alongside Erec and the other instructors. Here, Augustus and his brothers’ strength and fortitude would be refined; their rough edges removed.

Later that evening Murdoc stood alone with Ceola on the stone battlements of Brythonfort. Before him, the sun rested like a golden coin on the horizon, sending a yellow slick over a scene of pastoral tranquillity.

Over a year had passed since he had stood overlooking the forest, cradling Ceola, with little hope they would survive the coming days. He had looked upon the forest then as a malevolent entity that would accept him into its formidable maw and consume him without trace. He now knew that the forest was good. It had delivered him. There, he had met Dominic again, and like Dominic, he now loved the woods.

He looked again at the peaceful scene below, aware that menacing storm clouds were gathering. The struggle had only just begun. The future was uncertain and perilous. The Saxon hordes would one-day stand at the walls of Brythonfort, but for now all was well. A rustling from behind caused him to turn. Martha approached them. He kissed Ceola’s cheek. ‘Come my little dove,’ he said, ‘mother’s here.’

The End

Domini
c’
s Quest

BEING THE SECOND PART OF

WOLFBANE

Book two of the Dominic Trilogy

F J Atkinson

PROLOGUE

The two mastiffs flanked Griff and stood at almost half his height. Griff, indulgent as ever, scratched at the smooth fur beneath the dogs’ collars, prompting them to stretch their bull-like necks in pleasure. Now craving his attention, both animals raised their broad, wrinkled heads towards him.

Griff’s attire was British high status. His intricately embroidered tunic lay over a silk undershirt. Tucked into leather knee boots, his saffron-dyed woollen trousers were of a fine weave. A russet, overlaying cloak of wool, clasped by an elaborate, golden serpent brooch, kept out the worst of the searching easterly wind that blew between the thatched, plank-built houses.

He watched as the Saxon, Ranulf, rode into Norwic town followed by his band of gnarled raiders. Walking behind the group; secured together by neck halters; their hands bound with hemp; trudged a group of trail-haggard captives.

‘Not as many this time,’ said Griff as he met Ranulf and cast his eyes over the bedraggled group. 

‘No, the bastards keep dying on me,’ said Ranulf as he dismounted and faced Griff. ‘I thought you lot were a hardy race, but it seems that a gentle stroll through field and forest in the rain is enough to make a slave want to lie down and die.’

Griff again looked the slaves over. ‘At least the ones who make it to Norwic have stamina. I’ll sell them on with that in mind … who knows, maybe I’ll get more gold for them if I point out their robust constitutions.’ He squinted in the insipid autumnal sunshine as he peered at them. ‘I see some here who may go to Hibernia. My buyer is specific in his requirements.’

‘Talking of gold,’ said Ranulf, ‘my price will reflect the danger I endure every time I have to travel further afield to seek untouched villages. These slaves came from the west, not far from the protected land. It’s only our speed on the raids that prevents our engagement with well-armed Britons.’

Griff smiled resignedly as he anticipated the robust haggling that would occur later with Ranulf. Yet, he knew he commanded a grudging respect from the man, because he possessed the thing that all Angles and Saxons coveted: he possessed gold. As a highborn Briton, he had been able to use the wealth of his family to buy off the raiders when they had first threatened his estate.

Known only to him since his father had died, his family’s gold now lay in a place secure and hidden. Griff, for his part, still lived the Roman life. The imperialists had built his villa many decades before, and he still enjoyed the comforts of bath and spa. In contrast to the comparative squalor of those who lived around him, his life was a paragon of opulence.

Griff
himself
loved gold, and his personal wealth had grown as he realised he could profit from the captives the Anglo-Saxon raiders brought back to Norwic. These, he ‘sold on’ for a high return. They were destined for Hibernia, where British slaves were highly coveted.

‘Step to the front!’ barked Ranulf as he turned to the captives. ‘Let yourselves be seen by your betters.’

The dogs gave low, menacing growls as the line of Britons moved closer to Griff. He took his time as he appraised them and considered their potential for profit. He fondled the blond hair of a slender girl who stood shivering and terrified in the line. She was eleven or thereabouts and would be pretty when cleaned up. She was his first choice. A cattle chief in Laighin, Hibernia, who had requested such a girl, would further trade her on for many cows—the mark of wealth in Hibernia. She must be pure though. He had instructed Ranulf that such a child must remained unsullied, otherwise she would be worth nothing. Next, he approached a huge youth. He stood a nose away and peered into the lad’s simple, trusting eyes. A dullard by the look of him, thought Griff. Twenty years old or so, and big with it. An uncomplaining workhorse if ever he saw one.

No harm in testing him then.

Without warning, he punched the youth hard in his stomach, causing him to double up and retch.

Another lad, younger, went for Griff, who grabbed the collars of his hounds as they made to savage the boy. Amidst much snarling and barking, Ranulf intervened, quickly knocking the adolescent to the ground.

Griff allowed Ranulf to land two hefty kicks before stopping him. ‘No! … no more; he’s just what I’m looking for. It’ll affect the price I get for him, and the price I’ll pay you, if you damage him further. Now I have the three I want: the girl, the workhorse, and a fiery young warrior who will make an excellent guard for the cows in Hibernia. Do what you will with the rest. We can agree a price for these three later.’

Ranulf nodded and beckoned one of his men to herd the three into a wicker-enclosed wagon that waited nearby.

Griff was about to walk away when Ranulf placed his hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He pointed to two older Britons who stood in the line of captives.

‘Ah yes,’ said Griff. ‘Usual price for old meat I take it.’