Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (25 page)

‘I couldn’t help it, da. I only meant to wave—‘

‘We haven’t time for that now, lad,’ said Bran, immensely relieved as he proceeded to release Maewyn. ‘They’ve gone to attack the village and I need to decide what to do next. You and Maewyn’s life is the important thing now.’

Govan stood behind the stockade with a group of twelve men. All of them were armed—the most common weapon of choice being the ax. The women and younger children had withdrawn to the huts. The raiders had just arrived and it soon became clear that one was a fellow Briton.

‘You may as well let us in!’ shouted Irvin, from beyond the palisade. ‘We’ll get in anyway, so why make it hard for yourselves!’

Some of the men were about to shout back, but Govan gestured them to be silent.

‘If you let us in and open the gates it will be better for you!’ continued Irvin. ‘We’ll take what we’ve come for and leave your structures intact! Most of you shall remain and won’t be harmed!’

Again, his offer met with silence.

Govan let the silence linger a while before he replied. ‘Why is a Briton riding with murderers of his own people? Why have you abandoned us? It seems to me that your masters don’t speak British! That should tell you they shouldn’t be here!’

Irvin was unperturbed. ‘That is not for discussion. What matters now is you let us in without bloodshed! Resist and we will burn your settlement to the ground, starting with this fence! Believe me when I say this—we will spare no one if you defy us this day! The only survivors will be those we take back to Norwic to sell!’

Again, there was a pause as Govan looked to his men. Fearful but resolute stares met his gaze. Some shook their heads, dismissing Irvin’s offer. Others merely looked impassively at the floor, their breath sharp and rapid, as they hefted their axes and spears, readying themselves for battle.

‘Your fire does not frighten us!’ shouted Govan. ‘Rather, it should give
you
nightmares, for you are all destined for the flames of the burning pit! All of you will go to hell! So in answer to your proposal, I say this: turn around and go back to your festering rat hole of a town! All of you go back, for no man here is willing to let you in!’

Ranulf had understood enough of the conversation to make his decision.  Turning to his men, he gave the order. ‘Archers, prepare your arrows and encircle the palisade. Let loose your arrows when in position. I want a good even burn all around the fence. I also want arrows sent into the compound.’

One of the men held a pot filled with mutton fat. The archer’s dipped their hemp-wrapped arrow tips into the fat, then ran into position at intervals around the palisade. Lit at intervals all around the compound, small ground fires provided the men with flame.

Ranulf walked around as his men ignited their arrows and sent them into the tinder-dry palisade. Other arrows described white, incandescent arcs as they shrieked skywards and dropped into the compound.

Govan had no choice but to order his men to shelter from the airborne attack as best they could, and soon the village was in turmoil as thatched roofs began to burn.

Now folk ran around in panic and confusion, unsure of the best way to avoid the burning. Two men, pierced with flame arrows, emitted awful screams as they thrashed at their ignited clothing.

Govan’s thoughts went to Elowen. He ran to their hut, which had started to steam as its roof succumbed to the searing heat. It was empty. Govan knew he had to keep calm. He looked around trying to think straight. Then it hit him.
Water! She went for water!

He ran through the confusion … through the thick smoke that swirled everywhere. A shift in the breeze allowed him to see a little. He saw the outline of the well.
Please let her be there,
he though.
Please God, let be there
.

A burning figure passed him by. Govan looked on in horror as a woman, with clothes and hair aflame, hurtled towards the well. She ran into its wall and toppled over, to fall with a shriek into the water below.

A flaming arrow fell from the air, narrowly missing Govan as he stood by the well. He saw two of his fighting men a distance away. As he watched, the scorching air caused their clothing to combust. With his throat seared, Govan’s whisper, ‘
No, God—no
,’ was croaky and incredulous.

As the men’s screams joined the dreadful cacophony of sound within the compound, Govan noticed that his own jerkin had started to smoulder. Coughing hoarsely, he tugged on the well rope next to him. The bucket met resistance from the dead woman below. Another tug released it. He pulled up a bucketful of cool water and dumped it over his head and body, causing a swirl of steam to hiss from him. He lowered the bucket into the well again then dragged it back up. With the pail brimming in his grasp he thought of Elowen again. She was not in their hut … not at the well, so where could she be?

Then it dawned on him. 
Wyn and Mule!
She had gone to get water for
them
! Mule had spilled water on the floor. He ran to Bran’s smoking hut and entered.

’Elowen! Elowen!’ His shout promoted a fresh bout of hacking coughs. His cry was unanswered and he became frantic.

The hut had no windows—the only light coming from the open doorway. In the gloom, he overturned a table, then a straw pallet.

And there she was, cowering and terrified, having gone to ground when the arrows had started to fly. Her own clothes had started to char. Govan remembered the bucket and threw its contents over her.

Gasping, Elowen came to life and Govan pulled her to her feet. ‘We have to get out!’ he shouted. ‘This hut will be in flames soon!’

Outside, they witnessed hell itself. Fire still fell into the compound, and many villagers now lay dead, from smoke, flame or arrow. After pulling Elowen towards the well, Govan drew more water from it and dumped it over their heads. Repeatedly, he doused them until they dripped. He looked for a way out, but could see none. Could see no possible outcome other than undignified death.

Ranulf stood with Irvin watching the inferno. A frown creased his face. ‘It burns well … t
oo
damn well! All our profit is being roasted inside.’ He nodded towards the fifty-odd men who waited for the fire to breach the palisade. ‘They’ll have nothing to do,’ he muttered. ‘No man in there will be capable of fighting.’

Irvine pointed at a section of fencing that glowed red. It sent off a myriad of sparks and grey ash into the air. ‘That looks ready to come down,’ he said. ‘Any survivors will pour through it when it does.’

Ranulf studied the fence. He addressed his men. ‘Be ready for whatever comes through the gap. Anyone of value is to be spared. Kill the old, if any managed to survive; and kill all who resist.’

As they watched, the section of burning fence crumbled and drifted to the ground. Ranulf and Irvin peered through the smoke. Soon, human forms began to emerge.

Numbed to silence, Bran crouched by a holly bush. He held his boys close as he watched the blaze. Mule’s brown eyes were open wide, the fire reflecting in his pupils as he grasped his father’s hand.  Maewyn wept as he observed his life burning to oblivion before him.

They had managed to keep hidden when the raiders had ignited their village. The bowmen had then departed to answer Ranulf’s summons, leaving them alone.

Another section of the palisade burnt through and collapsed in a shower of sparks before them. Glowing, pink-grey embers scattered to strew across the ground. A bare-foot and bewildered old man stumbled through the gap amidst a swirling of smoke. The wind caused the smoke to billow and shift so that Bran lost sight of him.

‘It’s uncle Eoghan!’ shouted Mule as the smoke swirled again. ‘He’s jumped into the ditch. We must help him. He’s drowning!’

Eoghan had flung himself into the water; the mad rage to feel cool again more important to him than anything else at that moment. Furthermore, he had plunged into a deep, recently cleared section of the ditch.

Bran was in a quandary. His wife’s older brother had unexpectedly appeared, then quickly disappeared. Could he risk leaving Bran and Maewyn while he helped Eoghan? What if the Saxons returned—they could be back in a flash on their ponies. The emergence of Govan and Elowen ended his dilemma. He looked Mule in the eyes. ‘None of them can swim,’ he said. ‘I have to help them. Stay here with Maewyn and don’t move until I come back for you.’

Maewyn now bolstered himself, and swiped his arm across his eyes, creating a streak of grime upon his cheek. Attempting to be brave, he said, ‘I’ll make sure he stays here with me, da, don’t worry.’

Bran gave Maewyn’s arm a comforting squeeze, then ran across to the ditch.

Eoghan had not surfaced. Unthinkingly, Govan, who still held Elowen’s hand, had also jumped into the moat. Bran plunged into the water and managed to grab the girl as she returned to the surface gasping for air.

Able to stand with his nose and mouth clear, Bran dragged her towards him. ‘Run to Maewyn and Mule by the holly bush,’ he gasped as he pushed her up the embankment. ‘Wait there until I return with your da.’

Elowen scrambled up the side of the ditch, feeling forlorn and helpless as she noticed how her father floundered on the far bank of the ditch.

‘Go! … run to them!’ shouted Bran.

Galvanised now, Elowen turned and stumbled across to Maewyn and Mule. 

Govan was close to panic as he attempted to reach Bran’s extended arm. But before his brother could grasp him, he heard the sound of riders.

Bran’s thoughts went straight to the children. He shot a desperate look of apology to Govan, then turned away and climbed from the ditch.

CHAPTER TWO

Everything was a blur as Govan’s lucidity returned. He felt the surface beneath him and was surprised at its warmth. A woolen blanket covered him. He heard the voices

‘He’s awake. Quickly Murdoc, here. He’s awake!’

Govan blinked and tried to make sense of things as the images became clearer. Above him, with blond hair braided and clean, stood an attractive woman. An angel maybe. This was heaven then—the place all the Christians talked about. Peace, warmth, beauty.

The angel spoke again. ‘Govan can you hear me? You’re safe now. You’re in Brythonfort.’

Govan’s discordant thoughts suddenly became clear. ‘My daughter, Elowen,’ he looked around him, close to panic. ‘Where’s my daughter Elowen?’

Martha sat beside him and stroked his brow, her face troubled. She looked to Murdoc, who held his own daughter, Ceola. Martha’s heart went out to Govan as she looked to him again. ‘We didn’t find her. She wasn’t amongst the dead. Neither were her cousins. We think they were taken by the raiders.’

Govan, frenzied now, made to leave the bed. ‘I must go then, I can’t just—‘  

Dizziness hit him, and he fell back into the bedding. After a moment, Murdoc helped him to sit up and rest against the bolster. ‘I know how it feels to have a child stolen,’ said Murdoc gently, as he glanced towards Ceola. ‘We are meeting this day to decide what to do. Rest now Govan. Save your strength for the days ahead of us.’

Govan looked to Murdoc, then to Martha. ‘The boys, Maewyn and Mule … you say they have gone too? What of their father: my brother, Bran?’

Martha didn’t know what to say. She looked down at her feet, unable to meet Govan’s desperate, questioning gaze. After a moment, she raised her head and looked him in the eyes. Her voice was hollow. ‘They killed him; we found him beside the ditch.’

Penetrated, Govan crumpled then. As his pain poured from him, Martha held him whilst Murdoc looked on grimly.

Several aching moments were to pass before his grief abated and he was again able to speak. Through swollen and pained eyes, he looked at Martha. ‘Why did they not kill me?’ he asked. ‘Why am
I
left in this awful world?’

‘They struck you with something blunt, the side of an ax maybe, and left you for dead as you clambered out of the ditch,’ said Murdoc. ‘Luckily, for you, they were in a hurry. They don’t usually let anyone who resists them live. Too close to Brythonfort for their comfort, you see … they had to be away.’

Govan regarded Murdoc. The man was dark, his eyes green and penetrating; eyes that reflected an inner goodness; eyes that were also tinged with their own loss. He too had experienced tragedy, Govan could tell that.

An awful truth then dawned on Govan. ‘My brother’s wife, Nila, she’s here … visiting Flint.’ He looked desperately at Murdoc and Martha. ‘A husband and two sons—she’s lost a husband and two sons.’ His hand went to his head. He felt a bandage and closed his eyes as his tears came again.

Brythonfort stood on a huge, multi bank earthwork, made by the Brython people a millennium earlier.  A thick dry-stone wall ran in a lofty, unbroken loop around the stronghold, and was enhanced every two hundred paces by squat wooden watchtowers. A spacious timber hall stood at the highest point of the earthworks. Between the hall and the curtain wall was an assortment of domestic huts, stables, armories and workshops—these dotted at intervals over the wide grassy slopes.

Most of the peasant inhabitants of Brythonfort had arrived seeking sanctuary from invasion, and some were permanent residents within the protection of the walls. Others farmed land around the fort, providing some food for its population. In exchange, they received a good level of protection from the garrison. A weekly market held outside the gates ensured a steady flow of people and goods to the fort.

The hall contained a number of round tables, and it was at one of these that a huge, raw-boned man sat. Arthur’s tousled, auburn hair fell to his jaw line, and his brown eyes had a hard cast to them as he spoke quietly to Bran’s son, Flint. The knight Gherwan sat at his right hand.

Commissioned by Arthur, the table had been fashioned by the artisan, Robert, and his team of workers. It was round because Arthur believed that all men were equal, and thus no one could sit at the head, or the foot, of any table in the hall.

The son of a wealthy landowner, Arthur had enjoyed the leisure as a youth to become skilled in the use of sword and saddle. It had been the steady flow of the raiders from across the Mare Germanicus, which had finally led Arthur to offer his services to Rome, so before taking the stewardship of Brythonfort, he had ridden for twenty years with the Romans, first as a tracker and scout, then as a knight, as his formidable performance in battle was recognised. He had come to accept the stability and protection that Rome had given to Britannia, having seen how his folk had lived in peace under their later rule. He had fought many battles beside them, and always his opponents had been the Anglo Saxon and Jute invaders. In gratitude to his deeds, Rome had bequeathed the mound of Brythonfort and the surrounding lands to him on his discharge from the legions. Along with many of the discharged knights who had rode alongside him, he had immediately set to work to fortify the bastion, further strengthening the imposing buttress. The recent departure of the Romans from Britannia had further increased the importance of the safe haven of Brythonfort.

A force of over two hundred well-armed men now kept the surrounding lands empty of invaders, allowing the farmers to produce grain and meat for themselves and for the tables of Brythonfort.

Arthur nodded his greetings as a small assembly of worthy people made their way to him. ‘Gentlemen …
and
ladies,’ began Arthur, as he smiled at Martha and Nila who were late arrivals to the assembly. ‘As you know, grave events have befallen the lands around us: a village laid to ruin, and its inhabitants either callously slaughtered or taken captive. There’s little we can do for now to stop our land in the east being stolen by the Saxon hordes, but I feel duty bound to protect the people within the shadow of Brythonfort.

‘In this, I have recently failed, and feel that redress is due to the survivors of the village. Flint has implored me to get his brothers back, along with Elowen his cousin. None of the other children came through the raid. The only two adult survivors sit at this table; Nila who was fortunate to be here visiting her son when the attack occurred, and Govan, her brother in law, who took injury and will now tell his tale to us.’

Govan looked around the table; looked at the hard looking men who sat, pensively, awaiting his account. Nervously, he began. He told his harrowing tale, much of it only recently remembered after his concussion. His discourse with Irvin, the Briton working for the Saxons, evoked much interest and caused a stirring in the room.

Dominic, the tracker and fearsome combatant, held up his hand to speak. ‘By your leave Govan, but I feel that if we are to find the children, the only clue to their whereabouts will come from what the Briton said from behind the palisade. Think carefully. Did he mention the place they had come from?’

Frustratingly, Govan ran his hand through his hair as he looked at the tabletop and tried to remember what had passed between himself and Irvin. Frowning, he strained to recall the finer details of the conversation.

Eventually he looked up as his recollection improved.
‘
Yes, some of it’s come back to me,’ said Govan, now nodding his enthusiasm. ‘The man who shouted over the fence, said something like
, “Unless you let us in,
we
will spare no one, apart from those we take back to the North,”
… or was it Northwin … I’m not sure exactly what he—‘

‘Norwic,’ interposed Withred. ‘He must have meant Norwic.’

Govan looked at the gaunt, longhaired man who spoke with a strange accent. Yet another man who looked as if he could smash the table to firewood with his fists. Where
had
Arthur got these people from? He shrugged. ‘Yes … that may well be what he said, but I couldn’t swear to it.’

‘I suspected Norwic before you began to speak,’ said Withred. ‘What you have just said confirms it as far as I’m concerned.’

Gherwan had been listening intently to the conversation, his hands together as if in prayer, his forefingers touching his pursed lips. ‘Why Norwic, Withred?’ he asked.  ‘What made you think of that place? Indeed, where is it?’

‘It’s on the eastern seaboard, north of Camulodunum, near the old Roman town of Venta. I went there once in my old life. The settlement is recent. Several villages, now grown into one larger community. The land thereabouts has fresh water, plenty of timber and good soil. Furthermore, a deep river gives access to the sea. The wharfs were awash with herring when I visited. It’s an ideal place to live. I billeted there for a while. We fought the local tribe who were resistant to foreign presence at the time. A truce prevails now with this tribe … the Iceni if I remember correctly. I’m afraid some of them are now in cahoots with the raiders. Hungry for gold, no doubt.’

Arthur assessed the information. ‘It seems that the Briton on the raid who spoke to Govan was one of them. Access to the sea, you say? Easy to ship slaves out then?’

Withred nodded. ‘Yes, it had already started when I was there; on a small scale then. But as the market for slaves grew the trade increased. Many were shipped to Hibernia, where British slaves are highly prized. As soon as Govan mentioned the word
north
, it confirmed what I already felt. Norwic is the place to look.’  

‘And
look
we will,’ said Arthur. ‘I have a plan which I’ve already discussed with Flint and Gherwan in anticipation of the news we’ve just received. We feel there can be only one way to go about this.’

He paused as he considered the roles of the people he had invited to the assembly. All of them were recent arrivals at Brythonfort. A year gone, they had ridden into his bastion with some of his scouts. Apart from Withred, all of them were survivors from Saxon incursions. They had fought valiantly and completely wiped out a force of fifty invaders while protecting a village deep in the eastern forest. The battle had been the talking point at Brythonfort for months afterwards. Known as the
battle at the ox carts,
the conflict had also cost the lives of almost every man of fighting age in the village. Faced with further invasion, the survivors then had no option but to leave and seek the sanctuary of Brythonfort.  The men who now sat at the table had come through the battle, and although the resources at Brythonfort were not limitless, Arthur had been more than willing to accept men of their caliber.

However, Arthur had struggled at first to accept Withred. As a member of the Angle tribe, Withred had once ridden with the invaders, but had grown increasingly disturbed at the conduct he witnessed on the raids. Captured by Dominic’s group and spared after offering to help them, he had not let them down.

The man was proven and reliable. Arthur now knew this and accepted him. Above all, he was formidable. Arthur suppressed a smile as he recalled Dominic’s eloquence on the matter of Withred’s capabilities. Dominic had said:
‘I’d rather have Withred stood
inside
my cave pissing out, than stood
outside
my cave pissing in.’

His eyes briefly rested on Dominic now. The bald, craggy woodsman had removed his wolf head hat—a trophy from a long ago wolf attack.  Craggy and flawed to behold (two lines of scar tissue, one extending from the top of his forehead across his right eye and down to the corner of his mouth, the other a diagonal cut across his left cheek—the product of a tavern brawl long ago) Dominic was a gem, pure and simple. An iron-hard Briton who had trained and tracked with the Romans, then chosen to live a solitary life in the forest. Ten years later, he had met up with a desperate group of British fugitives who had entered the forest as they attempted to hide and survive. Dominic had saved them all.

Murdoc was one of the fugitives. He had lost everything, apart from his infant daughter, Ceola. Arthur now considered Murdoc’s inclusion in the proposed plan. His friendship with Dominic went a long way back, way before their chance encounter in the forest, and together they were an effective force. It would be foolish to split them up, so Murdoc would go to Norwic as well.

Arthur again smiled as his eyes fell on Augustus. Along with two of his brothers, he was the only village fighting man to have survived the battle at the ox carts. Augustus was a giant in both personality and stature. Arthur, no dwarf himself, stood at least two heads lower than Augustus. A burly, bearded butcher, Augustu
s
possesse
d
eyes that always seemed to sparkle with an inner amusement, and a bald head that was encircled by a bush of curly hair. Better not to underestimate him though, thought Arthur. The man was powerful, and word had it that he was fierce and uncompromising when faced with adversity.

Arthur addressed the group again. ‘Now that we know the likely whereabouts of the slave market we can discuss what to do next.’ He turned to Flint. ‘Maybe you would like to talk a little about this.’

Chosen to train in Arthur’s military because of his physical prowess, Flint was a young man of twenty-three. This day, his eyes were red rimmed, his face stark, as he looked at the assembly. He began. ‘All of you have been chosen because of your capabilities which will be put to use on the forthcoming journey. We have the means here at Brythonfort to defend ourselves, and those around us …usually.’ He paused and looked to Govan and Nila. ‘Although my mother and uncle may now have good reason to argue with me on that point.’