Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (26 page)

Nila spoke for the first time. ‘I have lost a husband, and
you
a father, as well as having two sons taken. Your uncle Govan has had his dear Elowen taken as well, so maybe we
should
doubt the effectiveness of the protection of Brythonfort.’ There was silence in the room for a short while before Nila continued. ‘Yes, it would be easy to feel let down, but for those outside the walls, your patrols cannot be everywhere at all times. No doubt, the raiders watched the area and struck when they knew it was safe.’

‘They probably did,’ said Flint. ‘So all we can do now is try to get our loved ones back, and that must be done with a small party of men. No job this for a large group.’

‘Indeed no. An army would find plenty to fight in the east, but would have little chance of finding the children,’ added Gherwan. ‘Beside, it would weaken our garrison here if we left with a huge force for a journey that could take God-knows how long.’

‘This is where we hope
you
can help us Dominic,’ said Flint looking at him. ‘Your skill at reading the ground, as well as your local knowledge made you an easy choice when we were working out how to go about this.’

Dominic, who had been listening intently to the discussion, looked up from the ebony inlay he had been studying on the table. ‘I’ll do it for you with pleasure; it will be good to travel again.’  He looked to Arthur. ‘I take it that when you say
covert
you mean we’ll be travelling anonymously?’

‘Yes, we thought you might pose as a group of slave traders. Our intention
was
to send you to Camulodunum where we suspected the slaves had been taken. Now we know it’s Norwic, that will be your goal. There, you can infiltrate and find out who has passed through the town.

‘But what about Withred?’ asked Dominic. ‘He is well known amongst them—a man of legendary deeds.’

‘Ah, we come to Withred,’ said Arthur, exchanging a knowing glance with Flint. ‘His inclusion is important because he is the only one at Brythonfort who speaks the Germanic tongue; my grasp of Latin would be of no use on the eastern shore.’ He studied Withred, seemingly embarrassed at what he was about to say next. ‘Er, yes … the problem of his renown has occurred to us.’ Arthur hesitated again, and Withred barely suppressed a smile at the display.  Arthur cleared his throat. ‘Therefore we hope it would not be too big an assault on his vanity if we asked him to cut his hair, and
maybe
grow a beard.’

Augustus exploded with laughter, unable to contain himself. ‘At last
I
will have a twin,’ he chortled, ‘…a bald headed, bearded, heathen, twin. What chance will they have against two of us!’

Withred’s hand shot to his long dark hair. He smiled, and then laughed, as he noticed that his show of vanity had not been lost on the others. As Augustus’ infectious laughter infused the room, causing much amusement, Withred smiled wryly.

‘By
cut my hair
I take it you mean I join Dominic and get a sharp knife close to my scalp.’ He raised his voice so it was audible above Augustus’ outburst of baritone mirth. ‘Yes … of course I’ll change my look … and no doubt some of you will be happy about it.’

‘A small sacrifice, I think,’ said Flint, ‘if we can get the captives back.’  He looked towards Murdoc as the laughter abated, then at Augustus. ‘I would be glad to have you two as well.’

Murdoc frowned, seemingly confused. ‘I for one will be glad to help. But will it not look odd—four Britons and an Angle travelling together?’

Flint started to answer, but Withred got in first. ‘Not in Norwic. It’s quite common there for Britons to mix with folk from the continent. As I mentioned before, some
Britons
are now actively involved in trading people.’

Arthurs face flickered with disdain. ‘What have we come to? That makes them worse than the foreigners. Learning to live with them is one thing, but selling our own people into bondage? No … they will pay for their involvement in such a trade, but that will come later.’

‘There’s no place for me then?’ asked Govan, his disappointment plain for all to see. ‘To sit here and do nothing will send me mad.’

‘Two days ago you were close to death, uncle,’ said Flint. ‘You are much improved but still not strong enough for the rigours of the journey. It would be no use to Elowen if you died on the trail and left her orphaned.’

Nila took Govan’s hand and stroked it in consolation. ‘We will wait for them together, Govan. You for your daughter, and me for my sons. It will help if we keep each other strong.’

A respectful moment passed before Augustus spoke. ‘Slave buyers we are then. I take it we are to set out as soon as possible?’

‘Yes, you’ve no time to lose,’ said Arthur. ‘You need to get going tomorrow. Dominic knows the country beyond here better than anyone, and I’m sure he’ll know the best roads to take.’

Tomas walked in the garden copse with Simon and Rozen.  ‘There,’ said Tomas as he pointed to a low-lying herb on the ground. ‘The blue flowers gave it away … Thyme, if I’m not mistaken.’ Rozen nodded; her smile giving encouragement but asking for more. ‘Its oil can be used on bandages to stop wounds going bad,’ added Tomas, frowning now as he tried to remember. ‘Introduced by the Romans along with many other herbs … its leaves can also be boiled in water to treat belly ache.’

‘Very good,’ said Rozen, ‘and well-remembered. Another one you can tick off your list. Don’t forget that it is also useful for killing parasites—crabs and lice, in particular, do not like it.’

Tomas scratched his neck at the mention of parasites, then surreptitiously checked the inside of his britches to be sure that nothing sinister dwelt down there.

Now fifteen, Tomas had been under the yoke of the malevolent Saxon, Egbert, when enslaved after the sacking of his village. The man had brutalized him, but Tomas had managed to escape and meet up with Dominic.

Since arriving at Brythonfort a year earlier, he had worked with both Dominic and Rozen and gradually he was gathering an all-round capability as a woodsman and healer. When he was not ambling in the nearby woods, tracking and learning the signs with Dominic, he was studying herb lore with Rozen.

Rozen, a widow, had an extensive knowledge of the subject, handed down to her by her own mother. She enjoyed teaching Tomas the arts of healing and loved to spoil him, having no children herself. And so, she treated Tomas as a son, calling him
Merlin
—a nickname given to him by Arthur’s scout, Will, who had compared his guile at the
battle at the ox carts
with that of the small hunting hawk.

Simon for his part, enjoyed the company of Rozen very much, and the two of them had grown close … v
ery close
. Of a similar age (Simon was sixty-nine) Rozen had soon grown fond of him, attracted by his gentle humour and easy disposition. As another of the forest fugitives, Simon, along with Martha (a young woman from his own destroyed village), had been rescued from Saxon capture by Dominic and Murdoc.

A gregarious man, Simon now filled his days ambling around Brythonfort, teasing the children and conversing with his friends. He also lent his practical skills to Robert and his team of artisans who were responsible for the maintenance and building work at Brythonfort.

His latest job had been the refurbishment of a shrine which stood in a corner of the hall. Many of Arthur’s men had ridden for Rome as auxiliaries, and had adopted many of their ways, including the worship of their Gods. As soldiers, they paid homage to the war deity, Mars, and made offerings to him before leaving Brythonfort. Arthur was relaxed in the matter of religion, and Brythonfort was a melting pot of beliefs. Apart from Roman deities, Christianity, although now in decline, still had its adherents, as did many of the Celtic Gods. Indeed, the worship often became intertwined and inseparable, creating an ever-changing diversity.

Simon now walked with his arms around the shoulders of Tomas and Rozen as they left the herb plantation. They walked by the moat that ran alongside the drystone curtain wall of the bastion. When reaching its one gate, they nodded to the guards and entered. Dominic walked towards them on his way to the nearby woods to check on his many animal traps.

‘How went the meeting?’ asked Simon.

Dominic told them of Arthur and Flint’s plan.

‘So no room for me on this trip?’ asked Tomas. 

‘No we travel as slave buyers, and your age doesn’t fit the ruse,’ Dominic said. ‘We leave tomorrow, so I have no time to lose. Come on lad you can help me check the traps. Looks like you and Will will be taking over from me for a while.’

CHAPTER THREE

Swathed by crumpled, rose-coloured sheets that framed him like a silken fan, Griff woke to find he was in bed alone. He rose to one elbow, squinting as he looked towards the marble archway that led from his bedchamber.

‘Titon! Chronos!’ he shouted. Immediately, two large black dogs padded through the arch and jumped onto his bed.

Griff laughed as the dogs licked his face with their slobbering tongues. He chided them half-heartedly. ‘Silly darlings. Away with you, you poppets … at this rate I’ll not need to bathe.’ He playfully pushed them away, but the dog and bitch licked even harder, happy to ignore Griff when his tone suggested their play could continue.

After another bout of giggling and licking, Griff rose to his knees and pushed the dogs away again. ‘I mean it. Away now! To the floor with both of you!’ he ordered. This time, the dogs jumped down and sat to attention by the bed, still hungry for his indulgence.

Frowning now, he looked again towards the marble archway. ‘Ciaran, my love, come back to bed, it’s too big in here alone.’

Carrying a bowl of fruit, a youth of seventeen, dressed in a white linen bed gown, walked through the doorway. With a flick of his head, he tossed his copper coloured curls away from his face. His carriage was graceful … almost feminine; his hands slender; his fingers ringed with gold. He placed one hand on top of the head of the nearest dog, giving its skull an indulgent scratch. As he chewed a grape, he looked at Griff and sat delicately on the edge of the bed. ‘I was hungry and you were snoring like a swine,’ he said. ‘Besides, it’s time you were up; the servants await your instructions.’

Griff lay back, his hands laced together behind his head. He smiled and frowned at the same time as he studied Ciaran. ‘Only two years since I rescued you from the dung heaps of Hibernia and you’re already telling me how to run my household. Ten cows you cost me. I think I would’ve been better buying a herd of asses, they’d be less stubborn, that’s for sure.’

‘Maybe … but would they bring fruit to your bed in the morning?’ said Ciaran as he shoved the bowl over to Griff. ‘Would they keep you warm at night?’

Griff took a grape from the bowl and tossed it to the nearest dog. The animal caught it with a hollow snap. He fed the other dog in the same manner, then turned his attention back to Ciaran.

‘Possibly not,’ he mused as he ran his gaze over the youth’s slender body, ‘… possibly not.’ His eyes glinted and his smile barely turned up the corners of his mouth as he suddenly sat up and grabbed Ciaran by the arm. ‘Now get your ginger cock back under these sheets,’ he ordered, ‘before I set the dogs on you.’

Later that morning, Griff took the air in the spacious, enclosed courtyard of his Roman villa. His family had procured the place after growing fat and rich on the proceeds of slavery. They had acted as agents; first for the Romans, then for the Saxons, when they had become the dominant occupiers. He had been alone since his father death—his mother and only sister murdered years earlier after a failed kidnap attempt. Served by a small household of slaves, he now lived a life that most Britons could only dream about, as he enjoyed the luxury of bathing, heating and sanitation.

As he proudly appraised his opulent surroundings, a stocky Negro man approached him. ‘When do they arrive?’ asked Griff.

‘It should be soon, my lord,’ said Ambrosius, the head of Griff’s household and occasional envoy to Hibernia. ‘They left yesterday, so by my reckoning they will reach the ruins soon.’

‘Ready my chariot then,’ said Griff. ‘I’ve no wish to miss their arrival.’

Daveth and Marya bumped around in the dank, enclosed wagon. A brief tangle of wickerwork set in the twine-secured door afforded them their only light, and provided a restricted view of the track behind them. Strangers before their capture by Ranulf, they had formed a close bond on their long trek from the west. What their role would be, they did not know—gardeners or cooks for wealthy owners, Daveth had speculated.

Of advanced years—Daveth was sixty-two, Marya fifty-nine—they had been surprised at their inclusion in the group of slaves—most of whom were young or adolescent Britons. They had seen many of the younger children die on the trek eastwards; their young bodies unable to recover from the gnawing cold brought on by heavy rain and bitter winds.

After arriving exhausted at Norwic, Daveth and Marya had been the last two to leave the slave line. Standing hunched and cold, they had watched as the other captives had left in secured wagons to destinations unknown. They had been surprised to see that a Briton—a man of means by the look of him—had been the main buyer at the market. This same Briton had looked them over, his chin cradled in his hand as he frowningly appraised them. He had mockingly raised Marya’s dress with the ebony baton he carried, sharing a joke with the brutal slave raider who stood beside him. They had then endured the close proximity of the Briton’s two stocky, savage-looking dogs, which had sniffed them all over. The slave raider had then pushed Marya and Daveth into the wagon.

‘Maybe we’re to work as a pair,’ said Marya, as the wagon bumped and shuddered, seemingly finding every rut in the track below them. Her tone now became desperate, as she again succumbed to the fear that had ebbed and flowed inside her since her capture. ‘… they’ve kept us together so why not?’

‘Maybe so,’ said Daveth, who was not convinced. ‘Best not to think too much about it, though … best not to raise our hopes. Our journey will end soon, you’ll see. Then we’ll know.’

Another hour passed before the wagon suddenly stopped. The driver, a stout, surly Saxon, untied the twine securing the door, and impatiently beckoned them to get out.

At first, they struggled to see anything after leaving the gloom of the wagon. Squinting, Daveth raised his flat hand to his forehead, and soon the white light subdued into clarity. ‘Where in the name of Christ are we?’ he said in awe, as he looked at the terraced stone steps that surrounded them.

The grey oval of the small, provincial amphitheater was unkempt and in a state of disrepair. Weeds, such as dock and dandelion, had colonised the many cracks and fissures in the stone. Decades earlier, theatre productions and occasional gladiatorial bouts had graced the enclosure, but since then the only patrons had been foxes and rabbits. Dry, crispy leaves, stirred by a light breeze, skittered across the chalky floor and whispered around their feet. They turned, alerted by a movement from behind. The Saxon driver had climbed into the enclosed cart and shut the door. He peered at them from behind the wicker mesh—his eyes a combination of fear and expectation.

Marya’s voice was small and panicky as she looked back at Daveth. ‘Whatever has he done that for? Why has he shut himself into the cart?’

Daveth gave Marya’s hand a reassuring squeeze as he looked around the deserted amphitheater. Puzzled and hesitant, he replied. ‘I don’t know … maybe we’re to be collected here by someone … maybe this is the place we’ll be handed over. I think we—’

Marya flinched, interrupting Daveth. She pointed to the rim of the terracing where a lone man stood at its highest point. Stirred by the gusting breeze, his sand-coloured cloak and long dark hair swirled in harmony around him as he impassively watched them.

‘See … he may be our new master,’ said Marya, as she strained her eyes to get a better look. ‘I think it’s the man who selected us at the town. He must have bought us for himself. Soon we’ll be …‘

A sense of dread replaced her resurging hope, and she fell silent as two familiar dogs appeared from behind the man and stood by him.

‘I-I don’t like them,’ stammered Marya as she fearfully eyed the dogs. ‘He let them too close to us before. They have black souls. They’re demons.’

Daveth
,
his eyes locked on the dogs, said nothing. Scared now, he feared the worst.

Earlier, Griff had watched as the cart had entered the amphitheater and stopped. He had seen the driver unharness the horse and lead it outside the arena through its one gate. When returning, the driver had exchanged places with the prisoners and climbed into the safety of the enclosed wagon to watch the show. Griff had smiled when seeing this. He knew the man would enjoy what was to come next. They still loved an event these people. Still loved the smell of blood. Still craved for it even now. Just a one-man audience, but he would give him his entertainment all right.

Emitting low, menacing growls, the dogs now pulled against Griff’s restraint.  He looked at the dogs, then at the two slaves who now huddled together in mutual protection. A lizard smile flickered across his face as he considered the futility of their position.

‘Feed!’ he snapped, causing the dogs, which were still restrained, to rear upon their back legs with their forepaws clear of the ground. He pulled back with all his might as the dogs gave out rapid barks, then let go when his shaking arms could take no more.

As if released from a catapult, the dogs shot down the stone terracing, growling threateningly as they hurtled towards Daveth and Marya.

Marya screamed as Daveth took her hand and started to run to the exit of the arena some eighty paces away, but they had gained little ground before the dogs were upon them. The leading dog jumped into Daveth’s back, knocking him to the ground. Quickly, he turned to face the dog, meeting its snapping jaws with his forearm. Grimacing, he tried to rise to his knees as he pushed against it. The dog shook its head to aid the grinding effect of its bite, ripping away shards of Daveth’s forearm as it did so. After shaking the meat from its bloody maw, it turned its attention back to Daveth, who lay now on his back, shocked and disorientated, his maimed arm held aloft.

Marya fared worse. Knocked to the ground by the other dog, she fell onto her belly and, at once, placed her hands over her head as a shield. Her screams, dreadful and heart-rending, filled the arena as the dog shredded through her hands and into her scalp.

After its relentless bites had laid bare the back of her skull, the canine looked for softer flesh to gorge upon. By shoving with its head, it was able to turn Marya onto her back. The mastiff then went for her exposed neck, tearing at her throat in a frenzy of wild savagery. 

As Marya’s struggle ended, the dog, eager to take on live prey, joined its sibling which was going to work with gusto upon Daveth. Both dogs now began to inflict terrible damage upon him as he rolled over on the chalky soil of the killing pit in a desperate attempt to protect himself from meat-rending bites. His resistance only made things worse, leaving him wishing for death as the dogs bit into anything that came before them. Prolonged and dreadful, his death finally came, but not until Daveth had witnessed much of his own dismemberment.

Throughout the attack, the Saxon driver had whooped and banged on the inside of the cart door as his bloodlust had whisked him into a high frenzy. Griff had walked slowly down the steps as the carnage had unfolded before him. Unmoved by the display, having witnessed it many times, he had nevertheless been satisfied to see his dogs feed. He considered their need to attack live prey. That way, they would protect him at his command. The old bastards would have died soon anyway, and he had done them a service taking them from their grinding existence in the fields. He knew there would be many more. Indeed, he would continue to provide his dogs with a ready supply of fresh meat. Ranulf would always sell the old ones for a low price; it was part of the deal.

‘Titon! Chronos! To me!’ he shouted as he reached the flat floor of the arena. The dogs raised their bloody muzzles from Daveth’s entrails and trotted obediently over to him. Griff looked to the wagon. ‘Come out now,’ he ordered. ‘The show’s over. Time to tidy up.’

The door opened a hand’s width and the Saxon peered through the crack. ‘Out man,’ repeated Griff, impatiently. ‘They won’t touch you unless I tell them to, so get this offal into sacks and take it to my villa. I’ve no desire to waste good dog feed.’