Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (28 page)

Dominic fell into contemplative silence, while Augustus, as ever captivated by Dominic’s reminiscences, waited patiently for him to continue. ‘Rome protected us you see. As long as we accepted their rule, they sheltered us. Five years later, they were gone, and twenty-five years later we’ve come to this: the entire south-east invaded and settled; Britons either slaughtered or driven westwards.’

Flint who had joined them at the front, had overheard much of Dominic’s musings. ‘Then thank God you met us in the forest when you did,’ he said grimly. ‘Your fight at the ox carts was a considerable feat, but was one battle. In the west we have the power of Arthur behind us, and we won’t be trodden on like the poor souls who once farmed these lands.’

‘That’s for sure,’ contemplated Augustus, ‘yet it worries me they raid so close to Brythonfort. A huge clash will come soon I fear. One way or the other, this must be sorted out.’ He tensed as he noticed a movement up the track. The others had seen it too. A group of riders moved down the road towards them—their bearing in the saddle and the tack of their ponies suggestive of having spent many weeks in the field.

Withred readied himself for their encounter as the war band came to a halt before them. ‘Hope you’ve captured plenty of pretty slave wenches for us,’ he shouted, as their leader—a grizzled, middle-aged man with spiked, greased hair—stopped before him.

The man, Wigstan, was Jute. Hung-over, having spent his night drinking twelve flagons of ale and whoring in Camulodunum, he was eager to get back to his settlement in Cantiaci. Nevertheless, the disparate group of people before him had aroused his interest.

Through rheumy eyes, he studied the man who had spoken to him. The man’s accent told Wigstan he was native to the Baltic. An Angle he was, and fearsome looking to boot, with his dark beard and shaven head. He looked at the rest of the company. Again, hard-looking men met his gaze. All had seen action. Of that, he was sure.

‘What’s your business on the road, Angle?’ demanded Wigstan.

‘Didn’t you just hear me?’ said Withred. ‘
Slaves
are my business. We travel to Norwic to buy them. It’s men like us who make it worth your while suffering the hardship of campaigning.’

‘You need to hurry then,’ said Wigstan. ‘We left Norwic four days ago, but our slaves were already spoken for. They get harder to find, and the gold they fetch reflects their scarcity. So you’ll have to dig deep into your purse … not an activity popular with Angles, I hear.’ Wigstan waited until the ripple of laughter died down from his men. ‘The easy pickings have gone, you see. The further west we go, the more likely we are to meet resistance.’  He looked at Dominic who stood beside Withred. ‘What say you, craggy one? Is it a girl or a boy you desire?’

Again, sniggering came from the men.  Withred replied for Dominic. ‘Your wit is lost on him, I’m afraid. He’s British, you see. One of the growing number of high-born natives who seek slaves for themselves.’

‘And your role in this?’ asked Wigstan, a hint of suspicion now in his eyes. ‘I’ve never seen you in Norwic before. Where’ve you been hiding?’

‘On the continent, my friend,’ said Withred immediately. ‘My trade has always been there. Then I heard that money could be made here; buying and selling slaves.’ He nodded back towards Dominic. ‘Money to be made also by acting as a go-between for rich Britons.’

Wigstan looked the group over again, his mouth a thin line as he considered Withred’s explanation. ‘They don’t spend much money on attire, do they, these rich Britons of yours. They look a bit raggedy-arsed to me.’

‘They’re dressed for the trail,’ explained Withred, casting a look at his companions. ‘Their finery would not last a day on these roads or in the awful weather you have to endure on this isle.’

Wigstan’s look suggested he was still not entirely convinced. He looked over the Britons again, his head now banging from his excesses of the previous night. Finally, tired of the encounter and eager to be on his way, he guided his pony to one side to let them through. His followers did the same. ‘Why the bald head?’ he asked, as Withred passed.

Withred stroked the top of his head, his expression one of mock pain as he looked at Wigstan. ‘Too many nights spent in flop houses. The nits were driving me mad, so it had to come off.’

‘I’d avoid Camulodunum then,’ warned Wigstan, as he shifted in his saddle and scratched at his crotch. ‘You’ll be shaving the hair from you cock and balls as well if you sleep with the whores in that town.’ Again, there was laughter from his men as Withred and his group rode through and reached the empty road beyond.

The Jutes turned in their saddles, unmoving as they watched the Britons depart. Withred cast a glance back at them.
Ride away you bastards,
he
thought as he set his horse to a trot.
Lose interest in us and ride away.
He allowed his breath to leave him in a slow, quiet sigh as he heard the Jutes finally turn and move on.

Murdoc joined him. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You were cool back there. They seemed satisfied by what you said, but Christ Jesus! The tension! What’s the plan now?’

‘Not to enter Camulodunum, that’s for sure. Dusk will see us at the gates of the town, but tonight we camp away from the place. It’s far too dangerous to go in there.’

The day passed without further peril. As darkness came, they camped a mile distant from Camulodunum.

The town was a nucleus for many returning and out-setting war parties, and had been Rome’s most important town after Londinium for much of their reign. Preferring to stay away from the ruinous towns, the first Saxons had avoided Camulodunum, but its strategic importance and convenient location near to the eastern shore had led eventually to its occupation.

The town, though very old, now had a frontier feel about it, and many different garbs were evident in the streets. Warriors, fresh from plunder and pillage, strutted round in gaudy ostentation, in contrast to Saxon farmers and traders dressed in rough woven clothing. The good housekeeping and sanitation, typical of Roman occupation, had broken down completely, and now dogs and pigs scavenged throughout the filthy streets. In places where the ground was clear of buildings, landless families had established impromptu smallholdings.

Many establishments did a brisk trade in whores and ale throughout the night, and the town’s dull red radiance was visible from several miles distant.

Murdoc lay propped on one elbow beside a low fire as he observed the distant glow. ‘Seems like a vipers nest that place,’ he remarked. ‘No doubt Egbert dipped his snout in the trough when he was there.’

Dominic shoved a stick in the fire, using it as a poker as he pushed a settled layer of smoldering branches upwards, thus creating a tunnel that allowed a fresh combustion of flames. He frowned when hearing the name of their former tormentor—a truly evil man who had finally been disposed of when captured by Flint and Gherwan after trying to flee with Murdoc’s daughter, Ceola.

‘No doubt he did,’ said Dominic, ‘and there are many more where he came from.’ He looked at Murdoc, who seemed troubled by his recollection of Egbert. ‘But none to hurt Ceola or Martha; not now they’re safe in Brythonfort.’

Flint sat beside them. ‘But still, as you say, many more where Egbert came from. My brothers and niece are proof of that.’

Murdoc appraised Flint. ‘I would’ve lost everything, and ended my own life if you hadn’t found and rescued Ceola that day. I’ll repay you for that; believe it Flint, even if it means travelling until I drop.’

Flint stared into the fire, his youthful features dancing in shadow. For the first time since starting the journey, he was deflated and unsure. ‘Thanks Mur, but we’ve still three days travel before we get to Norwic, and we still don’t know if that’s where they were taken.’ He attempted a smile as he looked to Dominic and Murdoc. They regarded him now with mild concern. ‘But Withred seems convinced they’ll be there,’ he continued with more hope in his voice, ‘and that’s good enough for me. Tomorrow may bring news and hope.’

Next day, their progress was steady along the much-used road between Camulodunum and Norwic. Even with heavy use, the eastern road was still in good order. Built wide enough by the Romans to accommodate adjacent, horse-drawn wagons, the road could easily handle the sporadic traffic that used it now.

More armed groups passed by, but they were ignored by them. Yet, whenever they approached, ever aware that someone could recognise him—even with his changed appearance—Withred would raise the cowl on his tunic and cast his face in shadow.  

Two more days went by uneventfully, until on the third afternoon after leaving Camulodunum, Norwic came into view.

Withred looked concerned as he scrutinized the town. ‘We need to be careful now,’ he warned the others. ‘There must be people here who know me.’ He stroked the respectable twelve-day growth of dark beard that covered his face, then ran his hand over a head that had been frequently and fastidiously shaven. ‘I just hope the transformation works,’ he added.

‘You’d fool me, you ugly bastard,’ grinned Augustus as he stood in his saddle trying to get a better look at the town, ‘and I’ve known you
too
long.’ He sat down again. ‘Not as big as Camulodunum this place … looks much newer though.’

‘It’s grown since I was last here,’ said Withred. ‘It was more a collection of small settlements then. All of them built beside the river. The Wensum we called it, meaning
the winding
. There’s little space between the settlements now by the look of it, though. The place must be doing good trade for it to have grown to this.’

‘Not all of it
good
trade,’ commented Flint.

‘Indeed, no. That’s why we’ve travelled twelve days to get here,’ conceded Withred.

Dominic and Murdoc, who had been riding behind, now joined the others at the front. ‘We need to remember we are rich Britons from here onwards,’ Dominic said. ‘That means we sleep in the town tonight. Well-to-do Britons do
not
sleep on the ground on the outskirts of town.’

Augustus pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted. He pointed to a small grove of trees nearby. ‘We need to dress like rich Britons, then. Time to get into our finery … over there.’ He rummaged through his pack and removed a richly embroidered tunic. ‘The last person to see me dressed like a jack-a-dandy was the wife when we were wed. A nice tunic I had on that day as well. Didn’t keep it on for long, though.’

Murdoc gave a shudder of mock revulsion. ‘No Gus, please,’ he pleaded. ‘For a moment, I imagined your fat, hairy arse in its full glory.’ 

Murdoc rode his horse into the copse as Augustus hooted his appreciation at the slight. After dismounting, Murdoc removed his own lavish tunic from his pack. He held the garment before him and admired it. ‘Never expected Brythonfort to have attire like this,’ he commented. ‘Thought it would be all weapons and armour.’

Flint pulled his own tunic over his head. ‘The sooner we’re garbed and into the town, the better.’ He threw an opulent, striped, woolen cloak across his shoulders, securing it with a gilt bronze brooch. Frowning, he looked towards the town. ‘Let’s hope we’re not too late for them,’ he added.

As wealthy traders, they approached the town; the plain leather tack of their horses now adorned with gilt bronze ornamentation to rival their own clothing.

A busy market was in sway—the streets thronged with townsfolk, warriors and merchants. Everywhere, children weaved and ran between the milling crowds.  Lads, lost in their games, were scolded by the merchants as they ran amok, bumping and rattling against the stalls.

Some booths groaned with herring; the strong smell suffusing the air with its sharp tang. Bundles of fleeces, towering twice the height of a man, occupied one corner of a cleared space. Upon these a man stood, taking bids from the merchants who bustled and shouted below him.

Nearby, a pig rotated on a spit. Before it stood a rough table, holding pewter platters stacked with pork. The seller noticed Dominic’s group approaching and immediately pitched for a sale.

‘Good sirs, come and try my tasty swine. The finest in Norwic. A piece of silver will feed you all.’

Dominic cast a half glance to Murdoc, who stood beside him. ‘A Briton, by the sound of it. Let’s see what we can find out from him.’

They dismounted and secured their horses to a nearby hitching rail.

Dominic removed a coin from the purse at his belt. Arthur had supplied each of the men with a full purse—the coins useful merely as bartering items rather than currency since the Romans had departed. He held up a silver coin to the man. ‘Will this do, fellow?’

The pork seller took the coin, bit it, then gave Dominic a crooked grin. ‘By your leave, I needed to check it’s genuine,’ he explained. He held the coin between his thumb and forefinger, displaying it back to them. ‘I know a man who makes these into ornaments. They’re much coveted. I’ll give him half a pig to craft a pendant from it, and then I’ll exchange the pendant for a whole pig.’

‘Good business all round, then,’ said Dominic, as he passed haunches of loin back to Murdoc and the others. You’re Iceni, I take it?’

‘Yes … and you?’

‘Trinovante. We live near the ancient forest, west of Camulodunum. The Saxons leave you alone, then?’