Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (36 page)

Augustus had felt sorry for Cate as she squirmed beside him. Knowing the cause of her discomfort, he had tactfully suggested she find a spot away from the camp to be alone.

Dominic smiled when Augustus joined him and explained where Cate had gone. ‘I wondered why Murdoc had come away from his lookout position,’ he said. ‘No harm done, though, for the time it’ll take her. I can’t see anyone being near us anyway.’

‘You think we’ve lost the chasers then?’

‘It doesn’t do to get
too
confident…but, really, I can’t see how they could have picked up our trail or followed us. I was careful when we left the road. If the roles were reversed I wouldn’t have seen the signs, and I consider myself pretty useful at tracking.’ 

‘By
pretty useful
I take it you mean the best tracker
I’ve
ever seen,’

‘Maybe you haven’t seen enough trackers, then,’ said Dominic modestly. Alert as ever, he turned to Murdoc who sat awaiting the return of Cate. ‘Taking her time isn’t she,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we should send one of her brothers to check on her.’

‘Give her a while longer, man,’ laughed Augustus, intervening. ‘She can’t just stand there and get on with it like you do, you know. She has to—‘

‘Cate’s not there, she’s gone!’ It was Art, her brother. ‘I needed to go as well. I expected to see Cate but she’s gone, and there’s a man watching us.’

Withred, ever the warrior, pulled the resting Flint to his feet. His tone was urgent. ‘Get the boys away from here; back beyond that rise in the bracken and away from the fight. Do not leave them Flint … if things go bad flee with them into the forest.’

Withred jumped onto his horse as Flint led the boys away. Dominic, Augustus and Murdoc did the same.

As their horses grunted and shifted under them, Withred took over, his instructions rapid and precise.  ‘I know how they fight. They’ll follow our trail and ride straight in here. If we meet them before they get here, we may wrong foot them. Listen to me and do as I say.’

He heeled his horse, setting it into a quick run, and removed his seax from his pack—the short sword being easier to wield from the saddle than his larger broadsword.

As Withred and the others burst through the bracken, an astounded Hwita jumped to his feet. He fell immediately to Dominic’s arrow.

The noise of approaching riders came to them.

‘Dominic with me!’ shouted Withred, as he wheeled to the right, away from the trampled track. ‘Murdoc, Augustus, go the other way. Let them ride through!’

Expecting to take Dominic and the others by surprise, Tidgar, eager to build upon his recently enhanced reputation, had decided to front the charge himself. Anticipating a quick and easy engagement, he howled his undying allegiance to Woden as his pony thrashed through the bracken.

His screaming, open mouth stopped the sideways swipe from Withred’s seax as the Angle met him at speed from his left flank—the crunching cut sending his lower jaw, tongue and all, tumbling to the ground amidst a shower of broken teeth. 

‘There’s six of them!’ shouted Withred, as he watched Tidgar’s mount crash through the bracken with the incapacitated, grunting, and soon-to-be-dead Tidgar slumped backwards in the saddle.

‘Five now!’ shouted Dominic as one of his arrows pierced the throat of another Saxon. 

The five remaining Saxons checked the stride of their ponies and wheeled around in mutual protection, surrounded on one side by Withred and Dominic, on the other by Murdoc and Augustus.

Murdoc hurled his spear at the nearest man, knocking him from his mount—the spearhead and one yard of shaft going cleanly through his side.

The Saxon landed heavily, expelling all his air. Murdoc removed his dagger and made to dismount, but Dominic quickly put an arrow into the man, finishing him. ‘Stay mounted Mur!’ he shouted. ‘Do not give them advantage!’

Evenly matched now, four upon four, each man faced an adversary. Augustus was impatient to finish with the conflict—his rapid thoughts straying to Cate who he knew must be with others further up the track. Better that he get this done with so he could get after her … get her back.

Earlier, as he had sat with the children, he had mulled over his life at Brythonfort. There, he lived a life of contentment with his wife. A life without children, though. Apart from a brief moment, fifteen years past, when their infant son had entered the world but failed to survive, he and his wife had never known the joys or pains of parenthood. Knowing that Cate and the boys had lost their own parents, Augustus had immediately felt deep warmth towards them. Maybe they could live with his wife and he back at Brythonfort. Gods, how they would look after them … teach them to be good people. The children would fill the gap in their lives, and they would fill the gap in theirs.

Now, though, he faced the man who came at him with a seax. His own preferred weapon was the ax. Single bladed and long in shaft, it gave him the advantage of superior reach over the shorter sword of his opponent. His first swipe was lofty and ill aimed, and the Saxon was easily able to duck under it. Distracted, as his peripheral vision caught sight of Murdoc falling from his mount, Augustus was unable to avoid the slashing counterstrike. The seax razored through his sleeve and cut deeply into his bicep.

‘Wrong arm!’ shouted Augustus, not feeling the wound in the heat of combat. ‘No wonder you fight against children and women!’ 

Again, he swiped his ax in a horizontal arc. This time it hit the mark, removing the helm of his challenger. Revealed, was a young, mustachioed man with blazing eyes. Augustus’ mount shifted so that horse and pony came together. With no room now to wield his ax, he slap-grabbed the chest of the other, pulling him towards him—his superior strength easily overcoming the man’s counter movement. He removed his butcher’s knife from his belt and thrust it into the innards of his assailant, twisting it to entangle the man’s viscera. He removed the knife and pushed the man from him.

A bloody Murdoc just managed to roll to one side as Augustus’ man landed dead next to him. Having fallen from his mount after having his nose broken by his opponent’s shield boss, Murdoc was now at the mercy of the man who stood over him. Eager to follow his advantage, the Saxon raised his ax to finish the Briton where he lay.

Augustus, still mounted, just managed to grab the ax and turned the man to face him. Still holding his knife, he thrust it into the man’s open mouth. ‘Get to your feet and get back on your horse!’ he shouted to Murdoc whilst worming the knife deep into the man’s throat towards his jugular.

Murdoc picked himself up from the floor as Augustus removed his knife, allowing his second corpse to drop to the floor. He turned to help Withred and Dominic, but found they had already dealt with their men—Dominic at range with an arrow, and Withred at close quarters with his seax.

Withred still throbbed with battle fever
,
alert for any follow up attack. ‘Anybody wounded?’ he shouted, as he wheeled his horse around looking at the others.

‘One cut arm, one bloody nose,’ said Augustus. ‘Me the arm. Murdoc the nose.’

Dominic took a quick look at Augustus’ arm. ‘Quite a deep cut,’ he frowned. ‘Lucky your arms are the thickness of most men’s legs, or it would be hanging off.’

‘Forget my arm, it’ll be fine, I’ve got to get Cate back!’ said Augustus.

As he made to leave, Withred stopped him. ‘Careful,’ he warned. ‘We don’t know how many are left, and there are only four of us here with Flint minding the boys.’

‘Then it’d be better if you stay here and go to Flint. I’ll take a look up the trail. We’ve no time to lose. I’ve got to get her back.’

Withred relented. ‘Go, but be careful. If you can get Cate back without endangering her, then do so. And don’t forget you carry an injury that needs attention.’

Augustus heeled his horse forward. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘It’s Cate we need to worry about.’

Ranulf’s concern grew as he waited for his riders. They had been gone too long. Doubt wormed into his mind as he considered all the possibilities. In retrospect, his judgment had been bad. He should have led the raid himself, as he always did. It was the only way. He should have prevented Tidgar from going forward. His doubts and self-recriminations intensified, and his agitation grew. Unable to wait any longer, he set off down the trail. He had not ridden far when he met Augustus.

The Briton was riding as fast as he could over the trampled bracken, eager to find signs of Cate’s captors. His arm still bled from his wound, and his head had become woozy as the exhilaration of combat faded and the deep pulsating ache in his arm increased. With vision blurred, he was barely aware of Ranulf when they met … and so was unprepared.

Having spotted Augustus early, Ranulf was able to deal with him quickly. He delivered a heavy ax blow across his chest, knocking him backwards and out of his saddle. Now, Ranulf looked down at the giant of a man below him. He could finish him with his ax if he still lived. Time, though, was short. He had to find out what had happened to his men. The man on the ground was probably already dead after the blow he had given him. Anyway … dead or not, he wasn’t going anywhere soon.

He continued down the track leaving Augustus where he lay. Soon he came to the bodies of his riders; all dead before him; their blood seeping into the ground. Again, his mind raced. There was no sign of the Britons. They must be alive. He knew they must still be alive or their bodies would lie below him. The injuries sustained by his men told a tale of vicious assailants—men who were more than a match for him.

He made his decision: he woul
d
get out and return to Norwic. First though he had to catch up with Irvine. The mission had not been a success, but not a total failure either. He turned his pony and sped back up the track, trampling over Augustus in his retreat.

CHAPTER TEN

Govan and Nila held each other as they looked at the scorched remains of their village. Two weeks had passed since Ranulf’s war band had burned it to the ground.

‘Everything’s gone,’ wept Nila, her hands to her mouth as she took in the scene of slaughter. ‘Not even the fence remains.’ She looked beyond the village towards the eastward hills. ‘My boys … my dear boys and your sweet daughter … they’re out there somewhere … alone in that wild, awful land.’

Grim and pale, Govan viewed the devastation before him. He shook his head disbelievingly—his expression as fraught as his tone. ‘We can only hope Dominic and the others have found them,’ he said heavily.

Forlorn, Nila turned to Govan. ‘Fourteen days they’ve been gone … fourteen days since they left to find them. Any day now they should be back, but I fear their return, Govan … I fear it in case they
haven’t
found them.’

Nila had just echoed Govan’s own inner fears. ‘Better
not
to think of the outcome, then,’ he said.

A clattering from behind had them turn. Two men from a nearby homestead stood on an ox cart and threw long planks on to the ground. Other men took the planks and stacked them at intervals around the periphery of the ruined village.

‘The new fence will be higher than the last one,’ said Govan. ‘All the better for a bigger blaze next time.’ 

‘Here come Robert and Simon,’ said Nila, unsettled by Govan’s defeated tone. She wiped her salty face dry with the sleeve of her dress. ‘It looks like they’ve brought the wattle for the walls of the buildings.’

Robert and Simon sat on a cart pulled by an old pony. Piled onto the cart was a high, springy bunch of thin hazel strips.

It was the first time that either man had seen the devastation wreaked by Ranulf. Simon’s mind went immediately to the day, more than a year gone, when callous raiders had sacked his own village.

An evil man named Egbert had led the raid that day. Simon had survived the attack having risen early to attend a job in a field away from the village. He had been near enough to witness the raid, though, and the images of what the raiders had done to his friends and family frequently plagued his thoughts and dreams. The thoughts would
never
go away … he knew that now. For as long as he lived the images would be with him. 

That day he had rescued Martha, and they had fled into the forest, only to be quickly recaptured by Egbert. After much suffering at the hands of Egbert, Dominic had finally been able to rescue them, and eventually their destiny had led them to Brythonfort.

‘It’s no wonder no one survived this,’ said Robert, bringing Simon out of his ponderings.

‘A complete new building job from start to finish by the look of it,’ said Simon. ‘My old bones will do some creaking before this job’s over.’

Robert smiled. He knew of Simon’s past hardships, yet was amazed at the old man’s indomitable spirit and energy. Simon was now seventy years old and, as such, was left to his own devises and not expected to undertake heavy tasks. However, when he had arrived at Brythonfort, he had offered his labour to Robert and his team of workers, whenever they needed a helping hand, or whenever Simon felt like filling his days with an interesting task.

As it turned out, Simon had proven to be a skillful and effective artisan in his own right, and his recent intricate work in restoring the shrine to the war God, Mars, back at Brythonfort, had seriously impressed Robert. Whether the work was intricate or arduous, though, Robert knew that Simon was up to it.

Robert turned and patted the pile of hazel strips that swayed and lurched behind them as the cart bumped over a grassy tussock. ‘No need for your bones to creak on this job, Si. You’ve got the job of weaving these fellows into wall panels.’

‘Another
interesting
job for the old man, eh,’ said Simon rolling his eyes in mock desperation. ‘Meanwhile, you lot have fun clearing out the ditches, up to your knees in shit.’

Robert laughed. ‘I can arrange it so you join us, you know. I don’t mind exchanging jobs with you. A bit of boredom is an effective antidote to wading through shit.’

Simon looked at Robert, a grim cast replacing the humour in his eyes. ‘Thanks anyway, but I’ll stick to the weaving. The mud in that ditch no doubt covers many bodies, children amongst them.’

The men fell into a contemplative silence as their wagon rolled up to Govan and Nila.

Respectfully, Govan extended his arm to Simon to help him down from the cart. ‘I expected to see Will and Merlin with you,’ he said as Simon jumped down beside him.

‘You’ll see them soon,’ said Simon, ‘they’re scouting the surrounding fields and woods, making sure there are no nasty surprises, or should I say nasty
men
lurking around.’

Govan raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘No military presence here then?’ he asked.

‘Not for now,’ said Simon, ‘but Will and Tomas—or
Merlin
as you prefer to call him—have been out for over a week, reading the signs and making sure the area is clear. They left just after Dominic and the others set out. One of them rides back to Brythonfort every couple of days to report to Arthur. The high lord still sends out patrols, usually led by Gherwan or Erec, but they can only be in one place at a time, though I guess we’ll see them within the next couple of days. Arthur’s aware that we’re vulnerable here at the edge of the protectorate, and wants to see this rebuilding completed as soon as possible. It’s important to him … that we all know.’

‘Yes, I hope all this work’s worth it,’ said Govan, as another cartload of labourers arrived.

Tomas stalked the roe deer, staying downwind from it, his multi-patterned green and russet tunic blending seamlessly into the bracken behind him. As he came within killing distance, he knelt, then locked his breath. The deer, ears twitching and eyes alert, looked around, nervy and vigilant, as it chewed upon the lush grasses of the glade.

As he pulled back on his composite bow, crafted for him by Dominic a year earlier, he remembered the straw deer-dummy upon which he had practiced. Repeatedly, he had practiced upon it until perfecting his technique. He knew, though, that a live animal was something else.

He concentrated on keeping the shake out of his shoulder as he pulled the hide string fully back against his nose. With brown eyes unblinking and gaze intense, he settled his aim upon the kill zone just below the deer’s shoulder. The string sang as he released—the time between release and penetration a mere fraction of a second, such was the power of the weapon.

‘Good kill Merlin, lad!’ Tomas turned as Will walked over to him. He was grateful that Will had allowed him the kill, and smiled, not for the first time, at Will’s address to him. Will had given him the name after hearing of his craftiness at the
battle at the oxcarts
. He had compared Tomas’ guile to that of the small hunting hawk—the merlin. His old friends still called him Tomas, his new friends Merlin, and sometimes this lead to confusion, but Tomas didn’t mind; the new name flattered him, and he was happy to answer to it.

The deer lay dead, instantly killed, pierced quickly and cleanly through the heart. Will clapped Tomas on the shoulder as they walked through the ankle-high grass towards it.

‘Now you can butcher it and show me what you’ve learnt,’ he said. ‘Quarter it and we’ll make our way back to the builders at the village. The meat will cheer them tonight.’

‘The land is clear of raiding bands around here at the moment,’ said Tomas, as he stooped to prepare the deer. ‘So we can have at least one night in the company of others.’

As Tomas gutted the deer, Will crouched beside him. He watched as Tomas figured out the best places to insert his knife to butcher the beast. ‘That’s it, just where I told you,’ he encouraged. He let Tomas figure out himself how to dismember the deer, occasionally offering his advice
. ‘Good lad. Slide the blade along the bone. Twist the limb so it comes away from the body.’

When Tomas had done, Will helped him to bundle the deer into two sacks. Tomas wiped his hands, sticky with blood, onto the grass before him. Will stood up and slung one of the sacks over his shoulder. ‘Quite a bit of weight in this,’ he grunted. ‘Lucky you killed the deer so close to the village.’

Tomas, after feeling the weight of his own sack, had to agree with Will.  As he glanced at Will, Tomas could not help but liken him to Dominic. Both were wiry, quick men, and both had learnt their craft scouting for Rome. He had worked closely with them since arriving at Brythonfort, and realised how lucky he was to have two similar but unique-in-their-own-way, woodsmen teaching him his craft.

Dressed from head to foot in buckskin, his face adorned with a thick beard, Will looked every inch the hunter and trapper as he strode through the low shrubbery ahead of Tomas.

Tomas increased his stride to walk abreast of Will. ‘What do you think of Arthur’s plan … think you’re up to it?’ asked Will, who looked ahead and chewed thoughtfully on a stalk of grass.

Tomas grabbed at the head of a tall grass stalk as he passed; pulling it from its node, half way up the stem. He placed the juicy part into his mouth emulating Will. ‘Sounds good in theory,’ he said, nibbling on the grass. ‘We need to get it just right, though. It’s going to take some balls to pull it off, that’s for sure.’

Will took the piece of grass from his mouth, and with a
‘phtt’
blew out a pithy, well-chewed clump. He replaced the stalk and continued to chew. ‘We can only trust in Arthur’s judgment and hope he’s got it right,’ he said. ‘He has a knack for making the right decisions.’

Simon had started weaving his second wattle panel when Arthur arrived with Gherwan and a company of knights. For many, it was the first time they had seen Arthur. Indeed, many of the men and woman who laboured in the ditch or toiled in the blackened compound, had never even left the boundaries of their own villages, such was the insular nature of their lives.

Arthur was dressed simply; as were his knights, but such was his aura that many could only stand and gawk at him as he approached Robert, who laboured in the ditch with a team of younger men.

‘It’s heartening to see my most skillful artisan up to his knees in shit,’ laughed Arthur as he dismounted his chestnut mare.

Robert crouched in the ditch, stripped almost naked, his body adorned in mud. Some of it he wore wet and black, and some of it dusty and grey where it had dried upon his skin. He pulled out a glop from the ditch and slapped it onto the banking, adding it to his impressive heap.

‘Unfortunately there’s no fine work to do here just yet,’ said Robert as he brushed stray locks of hair from his forehead, thus adding another smear of mud to his face. ‘And as well as dredging the ditch we’re also providing daubing for the walls of the huts.’

‘Good economy as ever, Rob,’ said Arthur as he cast an admiring eye along the ditch where several others scooped out mud.  ‘Killing two birds with one stone …‘

His voice trailed away as he noticed a shape covered by a pair of sacks lying against the ditch. It was a small shape; the shape of a child.

Robert followed Arthur’s gaze. ‘It’s the first body we found in the ditch, but we know it won’t be the last,’ he explained. ‘Govan knew the child … a young boy … knew him from his clothing, but apart from his clothes there was not much left of the lad.’ He glanced over to Govan, who still stood with his arm around Nila. ‘Poor man has enough to contend with without having to identify the people he shared his life with.’

‘They
will
pay for this,’ said Arthur, his voice now cold and resolute. ‘I vow that the men responsible for such wickedness will have their reckoning in this life as well as the next.’ 

‘And I for one would be glad to witness it,’ said Robert as he climbed out of the ditch.

Gherwan the knight stood beside Arthur—his mouth set in a tight, grim line as he looked at the sad bundle beside the ditch. He noticed Simon nearby, weaving the willow panels. He looked back to Robert, then at the other workers. ‘Good men still exist, though, and I thank Mars for that,’ he said.

‘And it’s the good men
and
women who labour here that I have come to thank,’ said Arthur, his tone now lifted and enthused. ‘Gather round, fine folk,’ he shouted, ’so I may speak to you.’

Thirty-five men and women, along with twelve children, drew now towards Arthur—all of them in awe of a man who radiated an amalgam of power, charisma and charm.

He began. ‘We rebuild this village in defiance to the callous men who ride through our blessed land thinking they can take whatever they wish and kill whoever they wish.’ Arthur pointed towards the dead child that lay beside the ditch, his face twitching with emotion. ‘We cannot allow ourselves to believe that whoever did that is the representation of humanity.’ He took out his knife and held it to his wrist, before continuing. ‘I for one would open my own veins with this blade if I though such a thing. No … today before me, I see the
true
spirit of Britannia; the true
treasure
of Britannia. I am talking about its
good
people. I am talking about all of you. You have left your own villages and come here to rebuild, and in doing so, you restore not just a settlement, but the faith I have in the human condition.’