Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (37 page)

As Arthur’s words cut through the air with clarity and conviction, Simon’s hair stood erect on all parts of his body. He now realised why men would follow the man anywhere—through any wilderness and into any danger—without the slightest hesitation. His glance at the captivated, mesmerized crowd convinced him they would do anything, absolutely
anything
that Arthur asked of them.  

‘Oh, that I had twenty thousand men at Brythonfort to protect all villages at all times,’ continued Arthur, with passion. He looked around at the devastation before him, his eyes now stinging with tears. He swept his arm before him, across the scene. ‘This would not have happened, if I had unlimited numbers to call upon. That child, and all the blackened corpses removed from the compound, would still be living and breathing. Would still be laughing and loving.’

He paused as he allowed the gravitas of his remarks to sink in, using the moment to regain a measure of his own self-control. Deeply moved by Arthur’s words and reaction, women wept and men pinched their eyes.

Arthur continued. ‘I will protect you as you labour here. Protect you until this village is standing again. Gherwan and the men I’ve brought here today will stay after I leave, and the larders of Brythonfort will provide food for the villages and homesteads you have left behind. Your kind act will be repaid with whatever your folks require for as long as it takes to complete this necessity.’

Arthur looked towards the fields beyond the village as a movement caught his eye. He smiled as he saw Will and Tomas approach. The crowd turned to see the reason for Arthur’s pause and smile.

‘Look!’ he shouted, ‘how can we doubt our safety when such fine rangers scout the lands around Brythonfort! Better still, they’ve brought fresh meat for you—a deer I’d guess. Tonight your labours will be rewarded by the smell of venison as it roasts to perfection on the spit.’

The appearance of Tomas and Will served to relax the atmosphere of the meeting. His oration completed, Arthur picked up one of the children and mingled with the workers, chatting with them in his easy manner. The murmur of conversation picked up and began to flow, and ripples of laughter sounded at the delightful prospect of roast meat that night. For now, all was well with the people at the village. For now, they had their lord at hand.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Fighting to contain his rage, Fincath mac Garrchu paced the floor of the huge roundhouse. His scout had delivered news to him that was both good and bad.

The scout, Latchna, had arrived the previous night during the feast, bloodied and exhausted. The bad news was the escape of Fincath’s slaves—a girl and two boys. The good news was the slaying of two more of the Uí Dúnlainge brothers, namely Saeran and Beccan.

Latchna had recounted how he had come across the Uí Dúnlainge camp after dark as he travelled from the docks with supplies for Fincath’s trading post. The smell of blood had been everywhere around the camp, and he had soon ascertained that a surprise attack had taken place. The brothers and five other of the Uí Dúnlainge clan had ambushed a cart that was destined for the trading post. Knowing that a boat had arrived from Britannia that very morning, Latchna had guessed that the brothers now held Fincath’s much-awaited slaves.

He had left at once, and travelled to the trading post, where six of Fincath’s men had spent the day waiting in vain for the arrival of the British slaves. Latchna had told them of events down the trail. The men, Latchna included, had then decided to act at once, even though darkness was almost upon them. Reasoning that the Uí Dúnlainge brothers would be gone at first light, they had decided to strike at night. Aware of the danger of an engagement in the dark, they were, nevertheless, unwilling to risk letting the brothers get away.

Silently, they had slipped into the camp, but one of the brothers, Beccan Uí Dúnlainge, had heard them and roused the others. The fight had been brutal and clumsy in the moonlight, as both parties had slowly lost their combatants to death and grave injury, until only Latchna and Saeran Uí Dúnlainge had stood opposed.

Luckily, for Latchna, the formidable Saeran had earlier taken a bad injury to his thigh, greatly affecting his mobility, and Latchna had been able to slay him after kicking him to the ground. Even so, Saeran had come close to killing Latchna, and had succeeded in stabbing him in his side. When Saeran fell, Latchna had stood alone clutching his wound.

On inspecting the carts, he had found the slaves gone. Not knowing how long they had been at liberty, he had undertaken a brief and painful search of the immediate area, but found nothing but tracks leading into the woods. Knowing the futility of embarking upon a chase alone and injured, he had returned to the trading post where he had dressed his wound and spent the rest of the night in a fitful sleep. The next day he had thrown himself over his pony and begun a painful journey towards Fincath’s ringfort. All day he had bumped along on the pony’s back, arriving at the ringfort long after dark. Here, he had delivered his news to Fincath.

Fincath now looked to his sons, Fróech and Colman. The victory feast had finished in the early hours, and the three of them had continued the debate throughout the night and into the new day.

‘We have to get them back,’ Fincath raged as he continued to pace the hall. ‘Do you have any idea how much gold I sent to Griff for the girl? I could have traded her on if it fitted my purpose. Fifty cows! Fifty blessed cows, I could have asked for her! The King of Cúige Chonnacht would have given such numbers without quibble.’ He looked at Fróech, who had fixed him with a questioning stare. ‘Oh, yes, I know, I know,’ spluttered Fincath. ‘Maybe her blond hair and blue eyes would have put fire in your belly, and you would have taken her for a wife, but if she was not … if she was not to your liking, I could have traded her for cows for Aventia’s sake! Cows worth four times the gold I sent to Griff.’

Colman gave his brother a knowing look as Fincath paced away from them; a look that said,
Leave him to exhaust his rage and allow him to lament the loss of his precious cows
.

‘So we set out and head south-east to find them,’ said Fróech simply, his calm tone a counterbalance to his father’s outburst. ‘Latchna says they left a trail in the woods near to the docks. Fresh horses are being readied as we debate this. We should reach the woods where the ambush occurred by nightfall, and tomorrow will see us reach their trail. I can see no reason why we shouldn’t find them. If they move on foot, their progress will be slow. So cheer yourself father. In two days I’ll have the slaves back here.’

‘Take twenty men with you, then,’ said Fincath, calmer now. ‘We’ve bloodied the noses of the Uí Dúnlainge rabble, and for now they’re weak, but we can’t take any chances. Take well-armed men and be careful of counter attack. Above all, bring me back what is mine—what I have paid for.’

Colman and Fróech made to leave the hall, but as they walked towards the low door, Fincath stopped them with his last instruction. ‘And do not forget that the girl must remain pure,’ he said. ‘Take away her purity and she’s worthless.’

Fróech turned and nodded his agreement to Fincath, before continuing his stride to the door with Colman. He rolled his eyes in supplication as Colman gave him an exasperated look. ‘
Cows
,’ he said, when out of earshot of his father. ‘That’s all he thinks about.’

Maewyn, Elowen and Mule had slept like the dead. A month had passed since the destruction of their village, since when they had only slept in fitful spells, usually in cold and discomfort. The monastery guesthouse was simple and clean and they were its only guests. Springy matting in many layers made up their simple beds, and thick, woolen blankets served to keep them warm.  

Maewyn was the first to waken, and it took him several seconds to establish just where he was. He remembered the kind monk, whose name eluded him at present, who had found them in the woods and led them to this place. It had been morning then (that he could remember) and by midday, the monk had filled their bellies with a thick and tasty fish stew. Then, they had given in to their exhaustion, Mule actually falling asleep where he sat, leaning forward with his head resting on the table. Elowen, too, had started to sway as she fought against her desire to sleep. Maewyn remembered that his own head had also started to nod.

The kindly monk had then enlisted the help of a younger, cheerful-looking fellow, and with much puffing and panting, they had carried the comatose Mule to the guesthouse.  Maewyn and Elowen, barely awake themselves, had followed in a daze and fallen into the welcoming beds. Here, Maewyn now lay, with no recollection of the last twenty hours.

He sat up and looked to Mule, who had started to stir near to him. Elowen still slept soundly, her small shape hunched and hidden under her blanket.

As Mule’s eyes fluttered open, Maewyn gave him a gentle nudge. ‘I think we slept through half of yesterday and all of last night,’ he said sleepily.

Mule shut his eyes again, but Maewyn did not intend to be the only one awake. He nudged him again. ‘Wake up you lazy sod,’ he said. ‘You fell asleep at the table as soon as you had filled your belly, yesterday. What must the monks think of us?’

‘I’m hungry again,’ mumbled Mule, keeping his eyes shut in defiance. ‘Do you think the monks will give us breakfast?’

‘I doubt they’ll let us starve, you ninny,’ said Maewyn, now distracted as he noticed the filth covering his tunic. He peered closely at the garment pulling it away from him. ‘It must be a month past since we were taken from our village and this is the first time I’ve noticed how dirty I am.’

‘It’s little wonder you’re filthy,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘You were too busy with the business of keeping alive before you got here.’

Maewyn looked to the door to see a freckled, ginger haired youth, garbed in a habit, and not much older than himself. The youth’s eyes sparkled with fun, and his small features and upturned nose reminded Maewyn of a rather startled squirrel. He noticed the monk holding a tallish pile of simple but clean clothes.

‘Glad to see you all slept well,’ said the young monk as he laid a bundle of clothes next to each of them. ‘We met briefly yesterday but you were all so tired I doubt if you remember much. My name’s Ingomer and I have the job of looking after you. Some of the other monks call me Ingle, and you can call me the same if it pleases you.’

Maewyn looked at his new, clean clothes, and nodded his appreciation to Ingomer. ‘Thanks Ingobble … er … I mean Ingle.’

Ingomer’s laugh was shrill and infectious, causing Maewyn to blush and Elowen to stir and sit up suddenly. ‘Sorry, girl,’ he chuckled, ‘but your cousin’s just invented a mad new name for me.’

Elowen rubbed her eyes and yawned haplessly as she looked blankly around at the interior of the dormitory. ‘Oh yes, I remember now,’ she said. ‘We are with the monks in Hibernia.’

Maewyn, who still fidgeted with his dirty clothes, pulled the neck of his tunic away from his body. He sniffed inside to assess his odour. He nodded, satisfied at the result.

Ingomer shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I was several days unwashed myself, you know, before coming here to take my vows. And you know what; I thought I, too, smelt quite good considering. Trouble was my nose had got used to the stink, unlike the noses of the monks who welcomed me into the monastery.’ Ingomer cleared his throat. ‘Er, if you don’t mind me saying, I think that your nose has also got used to the stink, if you get my meaning.’

Maewyn looked at Mule who had also listened attentively to Ingomer’s proclamation. They gaped and exchanged frowns as they figured out what the young monk could be hinting at.

Maewyn, as ever, was the first to twig. ‘Ah,’ he said, his smile breaking out as it dawned upon him. ‘You mean we all stink like polecats and don’t know it.’

Mule, still open-mouthed, now chanced a sniff under his armpits. Slowly he nodded his understanding to Ingomer. 

‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,’ said Ingomer, ‘but there’s a well just outside this dormitory, and I’ve left some soap and buckets of water there. Perhaps you might all like to have a good wash before dinner. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, so the Bishop keeps telling us, and we’ve continued the Roman tradition of washing, here.’

At the mention of dinner, Mule finally sat up and stretched. ‘Can’t we eat first and wash later,’ he asked.

Bishop Tassach sat with his most trusted advisors: Rodric, and the scribe, Donard. What to do with the children was the topic of their meeting.

Tassach was a short, stern man with a ruddy wine-induced complexion, and a reputation for not suffering fools gladly. ‘First thing is to stop them smelling like cattle,’ said Tassach. ‘Then we must make sure they’re fed and watered as the good Lord instructs us to do.’ He paused, lost in thought, as he considered the bigger picture. ‘And that, my good friends, is the easy bit.’ He looked at Rodric, then at Donard, his eyebrows raised, inviting a response. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Any ideas what we are to do with them?’

‘The way I see it, we have few options,’ said Rodric in his matter of fact way. ‘From my conversation with the boy, Maewyn, I’ve learned they were taken from their British village one month ago. To return them to Britannia must be our aim, although how we can do that before next year eludes me.’ 

‘And why so?’ asked Tassach.

‘The problem is finding a trustworthy boat, Your Excellency,’ explained Rodric. ‘Most of the merchant boats, whether British or Hibernian, have the roughest and most ungodly specimens of men on board. Quite simply, we cannot trust to send them unaccompanied.’

‘And why would this be a lesser problem next year?’

‘Because we have charted a small boat in the springtime next year for the transportation of nine of our order to travel to Northern Britannia,’ explained Rodric. ‘As you may recall, we are to establish an outpost in Deva from where we can deliver our ministry to the pagan hordes.’

‘Of course … the mission,’ remembered Tassach. ‘Four months then … we would have to look after the children for four months. Have you considered the consequences of this?’

Rodric looked at Donard the scribe for help. Both had been expecting the question and privately they had pondered over the difficulties of protecting the children. Donard was Rodric’s closest friend who spent all of his days copying Latin script in the scriptorium. Aware that the precious Latin manuscripts, including much holy teaching, could be lost forever, the task of duplication and translation had fallen to all of the monasteries in Hibernia, each of which contained a scriptorium, as well as monks skilled in the arts of letter writing and translation. Donard, himself, was a clever man, and was able to interpret, not only Latin script, but also the look that Rodric now shot his way. It was an invitation for him to take over.

‘Yes we are aware of the difficulties,’ said Donard. ‘But we have few alternatives—the children were to be handed over as slaves to one of the tribes.’

Tassach, now slightly alarmed, looked to Rodric who nodded in agreement. ‘Probably the mac Garrchu clan,’ confirmed Rodric. ‘They are known to do much trade in this field with a merchant in Britannia.’

Tassach’s face twisted in disgust at the mention of the mac Garrchu name. ‘Pah!’ he spat. ‘Unwashed, pagan rabble, the lot of them. It would serve our cause better if we preached to
them
, converted
them
before going to Britannia. But they’ll have none of it. That we know too well.’

Tassach was referring to the time he had sent two of his monks to the mac Garrchu ringfort with instructions to introduce the clan to the teachings of Christ. The two had returned stripped naked, tied backwards in their saddles, their heads shaven and painted blue.