Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (39 page)

Unnerved that none of the mac Garrchu clan had yet spoken, Tassach anxiously cleared his throat. ‘I hope the ale is too your liking, Lord,’ he uttered.’ Your favorite bread and honey is on its way, fresh from our ovens and hives.’

Fróech looked disdainfully at Tassach (a look mirrored by his brother Colman), then belched up his first quaff of ale. Tassach squirmed under the brothers’ withering stares, wishing he could slump inside his habit and disappear. Rodric, who was surprised at the lack of dialogue coming from Fincath’s sons, looked enquiringly over to Donard. The scribe merely raised his eyebrows as if to say,
we can do naught but wait and let it unfold.
 

Unfold it did, as Fróech spoke for the first time, the suddenness catching Tassach by surprise. ‘First of all,’ he said, eying Tassach coldly, ‘why do you sit at the head of this assembly? Why, indeed, do you have a better seat than everyone else?’ Tassach, who had no answer ready, merely shrugged and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Fróech allowed the silence to hang a moment, his head tipped quizzically to one side as he appraised the mute Tassach.

After the pause he continued. ‘No answer, eh? Just as I though. So let me help you. The fools you sent to convert us last year told us your God created all men equal; an absurd notion and one that forced me to shave off their mad hair and paint their heads blue so they’d resemble the dolts they are. So when I ask you why you sit at the head of the table when your religion instructs that no one should do so, you cannot answer me because it makes no sense.’

Fróech cradled his chin between his thumb and forefinger, his face affecting a look of confusion as he studied the tabletop. Raising his head to look directly at Tassach, he jabbed his finger at him as his rage finally exploded.

‘You see, my good priest from hell,’ he shouted, ‘what makes no sense to
me
is that you sit at the head of a table in a land bequeathed to you by my father, when the successor to this land—to this
tuath—
namely I, Fróech mac Findchado, son of Fincath mac Garrchu, is left to sit as a servant who waits to gather crumbs from his master’s table!’

Tassach, aware now of his slight to Fróech, immediately shot to his feet, and signalled Rodric and Donard to do the same. ‘No … no, I meant you no insult,’ he spluttered. ‘It’s just the way we do—‘

Fróech sprung up, grabbed Tassach by the cloth of his habit, and pushed him away from the table abruptly ending his excuses. ‘No …  no more, just get down the table and know your place,’ he shouted, as he helped Tassach along with a hefty kick at his buttocks. Rodric and Donard followed Tassach and took seats half way down the table.

Once seated at the head of the table, Fróech, with Colman on his right and Latchna on his left, brusquely signalled for a monk to refill his flagon with ale. He studied his fingernails, apparently absorbed with them—his rage switched off for now.

Calmer, he continued. ‘You know why we’re here, so go and get the slaves for our perusal.’ Again, there was silence, so Fróech turned his attention from his fingernails and looked penetratingly at the three monks. ‘Well?’ he asked, as he held out his hands as if awaiting a gift.

Tassach, Rodric and Donard merely looked bemusedly back at him; the room deathly quiet; the tension high.

‘Slaves you say?’ said Rodric, who could stand the icy silence no longer. ‘I’m sorry my lord but I have no idea what you can mean.’

Fróech looked at Rodric, then at his brother, Colman, who exchanged a look of exasperation with him. ‘Look, we know they’re here. We followed their trail. So go and get the slaves,’ repeated Fróech with strained patience, each sentence emphasized with a nod of his head.

‘If they came as far as this monastery, they did not present themselves to the Bishop, and
that
I swear to God the almighty,’ said Rodric.

Tassach’s eyes flickered under his knitted brow upon hearing Rodric’s oath.
Another one of my monks to roast in hell
, he thought.

‘So you’re going to make us search this place from roof to cellar,’ said Fróech. ‘I need not tell you what will happen if I find you are lying to us on this matter.’

‘Please feel free to search,’ said Tassach, as his composure partly returned. ‘We wouldn’t lie to you. If we held any slaves, I know you would look after them if they were so highly prized. Believe me; we would hand them to you if we had them.’

Fróech gave another exasperated shake of his head. Now, his tone was impatient as he addressed his men. ‘Search as I described,’ he barked. ‘Leave nothing. Miss nothing.’ He turned to Latchna who sat at his left side. ‘Use your tracking skills and look for signs around the edges of this place.’

A scraping of chairs on the stone floor of the refectory heralded the start of the search as Fróech’s men got to their feet and left the building.

Fróech remained with Colman—the long table now empty apart from Tassach, Rodric and Donard. The other monks had left to observe the search.

‘So you have just sworn to your God that the slaves are not hidden here,’ said Fróech to Rodric. ‘That means if we find them, you will, according to your strange doctrine, roast in the fires of hell.’ Fróech’s smile was thin as he continued. ‘Twice then, you’ll suffer; firstly, back at the ringfort at the hands of the mac Garrchu clan, where we have a man skilled in the art of slowly boiling our enemies in a cauldron for three days to prolong their agonized deaths, and secondly you’ll burn for eternity in the inferno of your own Christian hell.’

Rodric did not reply, but merely attempted to hold Fróech’s probing stare, his heart hammering as he fought to keep his gaze unblinking and true.

Fróech drummed his fingers on the table as the deadlock and silence continued. The mac Findchado brothers stared from monk to monk, the atmosphere strained and menacing. This continued until a shadow darkened the door. It was Latchna with news. Swiftly, he approached Fróech and whispered in his ear.

When he had finished Fróech looked at the monks—at Rodric in particular. ‘My scout has found the trail of three travellers leading from the side of the hill, near to where we first found the trail of the slaves. It leads away from this place. Your soul and skin may just have been saved my good monk.’

Elowen, along with Maewyn and Mule, squatted in a muted world. After spotting Fróech and his men, Ingle had assisted them into the sunken bell chamber, which was full almost to the brim with grain.  Maewyn, Elowen and Mule had then wriggled into a sitting position in the chamber, until only their heads protruded. Stalks and grasses, mixed in with the barley grains, caused them to prickle and itch. Ingle had given each of them a hollow straw from which to suck air if the situation necessitated them burying their heads under the barley.

He sat by the open, wooden door to the chamber, having emphasised again their need to bury their heads and breathe through the straws if he had reason to shut the trap door. ‘
This will be the signal that a search has begun
,’ he had told them. They were to remain covered until he told them to surface from the grain. On no account, he had stressed, must they resurface unless he, I
ngle
, told them to do so.

For what had seemed an age now, the children had been breathing through the straws. Ingle had left them after receiving a signal from another monk that the search had started.

Elowen grasped Mule’s hand tightly to keep him calm. Claustrophobic and hot, he had started to wriggle and fidget, and Elowen could sense he was close to panic. Unable to communicate in any way other than touch, she rubbed his hand between hers, hoping to transmit her reassurance to him.

As for Maewyn … although uncomfortable and hot himself, he had become stoic and resolved. He just wanted the thing to be over and end well. He thought about Ingle and the monastery, his head now swimming with images as time became suspended in the sensory deprivation of the barley pit. 

He saw Ingle. Saw Rodric. He imagined the serenity of the valley and the monastery. At first, the people had seemed strange to him with their odd clothing and tonsured hair. He had never seen monks before. His village had not practiced Christianity—had not practiced anything really, other than a vague respect towards the natural order of the world. They had been superstitious, of course. Sometimes he would find a way to avoid crossing a stream in case he evoked the wrath of a water God. As for Christ, he had never taken Him seriously, until now.

As he shifted slightly in the pit and spat out a barley grain that had encroached into his mouth, Maewyn realised that the belief in Christ had shaped the lives of the men who resided at the monastery. Maybe they were not perfect people—indeed, Ingle had told him that God made man imperfect—but at least they
strived
to be good, and that was what set them apart from the monsters they had met since their capture.

Maybe he too could become a better person if he listened to what the monks preached. He knew he was capable of love. His bond with Elowen and his brother, for example, had grown stronger than ever. He would die for them now … that he knew.

And maybe he would have more patience with Mule—not scold him so readily—if he could live his life more like the monks. Ingle had promised to show him how to read if he so desired. He might just do that if they got out of this scrape.

His ponderings ended abruptly as Mule’s foot pushed against him.

Inevitably, Mule’s head, searching for air, was the first to shoot out of the grain. As it did, the trap door opened, and Maewyn realised that things had changed yet again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

With Withred and Flint beside him, Dominic now rode tentatively over the trodden bracken looking for Augustus. It did not take them long to find him.

Augustus had managed to rise to one knee, his right hand clamped over the wound to his left forearm. He winced and blanched with pain as his broken ribs ground within him. Dominic was quickly off his horse to attend to him, while Flint and Withred, ever the vigilant warriors, rode past Augustus to watch for any attack or possible ambush from up the trail.

Content that no such danger loomed immediately ahead, Withred returned to Dominic, leaving Flint to continue his reconnaissance. He dismounted and joined Dominic beside Augustus.

Dominic had insisted that Augustus sit back on the ground. ‘Left me for dead,’ said Augustus. ‘Knocked me flat, then rode his horse right over me, the bastard. Good job I’m well-padded.’

‘Well-padded or not, you’ve still been in the wars,’ Dominic said. He touched Augustus’ chest, causing him to recoil. ‘You took a big impact here and it’s cracked your bones by the feel of it.’ Augustus still had his hand clamped over the injury to his arm. Dominic removed the hand, frowning upon seeing the gaping wound. 

Before he could attend to the wound, a sudden awareness came to Augustus and he made to get to his feet. ‘I’ve got to get Cate back,’ he said. ‘Time runs out for us the longer we wait here. Help me to a horse. I have to find her.’

Dominic glanced at Withred, his shake of the head conveying,
this man is going nowhere
.

He turned his attention back to Augustus. ‘I’m sorry Gus,’ he said gently but firmly, ‘but the chase must end here for now. The ax blow came close to opening your veins, but luckily stopped short thanks to the thickness of both your jerkin and your chest. Several of your ribs are broken and your head took a heavy knock when you were trampled.’

He started to tie a strip of torn cloth around Augustus’ arm. ‘This injury gives me the most reason to worry, though,’ he said as he secured the cloth with a knot. ‘Through it, you’ve lost much blood, though I think I’ve managed to stem the flow now.’

Augustus looked at his arm as he sat helplessly beside the crouching Dominic. Defeated now, he realised he was too weak to give chase. Brokenly, he looked at Dominic. ‘But we can’t just abandon her,’ he said. ‘God knows what they’ll do to her now.’

Dominic had few words of comfort for Augustus. ‘We may get a chance to get her back … but not now. We have not the time, and you have not the strength. We still have to find Elowen, Maewyn and Aiden, as well as protect Cate’s two brothers. To go off on a chase now will only end in more tragedy. We can no longer travel on the road or enter the town of Norwic.’

Flint returned from up the trail and informed the others of the situation as it stood. Ahead was a scene of abandonment and retreat. They had gone—pure and simple. The Saxons had cut their losses and gone.

   Withred joined Dominic to assist Augustus to his feet. The big man placed his arms around their shoulders as they knelt beside him. Slowly and with much effort, they were able to stand and pull him upright.

‘It’s my ribs that give me the most pain,’ he groaned. ‘Jesus, I never thought anything could hurt like this.’

Eventually, and after much endeavor, they were able to get him upon a horse. Dominic knew it was the only way to move him. Walking was out of the question. He was too weak … too injured.

Wan and gaunt, Augustus leaned over in his saddle attempting to ease the pain in his ribs. Dominic rode closely beside him, ready to assist if the need arose, as they made their way back to Murdoc and the boys.

The sun dipped below the flat canopy of grey, radiating a fan of orange light from the low sky as they struck camp. Night was near, and soon a crackling fire burned in the bracken hollow.

Lifted from his horse by Withred and Flint, Augustus lay surrounded by a generous pile of bracken. The boys, Art and Ula, sat beside him, naturally drawn to a man they had already started to regard with affection. Although weak, he spoke with them awhile before falling into a fevered sleep.

‘It’s good that he sleeps,’ said Murdoc, who gingerly touched his own blood-crusted nose. ‘I’ll never sleep, though, not with this throbbing in my nose. The bastard broke it with his shield.’

‘The bastard who broke it will sleep well,’ Dominic said as he attended to Murdoc’s nose causing him to jump with pain, ‘…sleep forever
he
will, thanks to Augustus.’

Dominic twisted Murdoc’s nose, causing him to howl. ‘Shh! You’ll awaken Gus,’ Dominic said, trying not to laugh. ‘That’s one nose straightened. Add that to the broken leg I fixed for you last year and you owe me quite a debt. And Martha will thank me for restoring your handsome face to its full glory.’

Murdoc rubbed his nose and squinted painfully through his blackened eyes at Dominic. He remembered one of Dominic’s Roman curses and thought it appropriate. ‘Jupiter’s cock, that hurt,’ he muttered. He continued to rub his nose awhile. ‘What’s the plan now that Gus is injured?’

Dominic had thought about it. He knew the others were more than happy to trust to his judgment. ‘We carry on through the forest,’ he said as he poked a stick into the fire, promoting a fresh combustion of flames. ‘Five days will see us at Aebbeduna. Once there, Flint’s merchant friend will help us resupply. Then another five days along a safer
,
westerly road will see us back at Brythonfort.’

‘And then we look to get to Hibernia and find my cousin and brothers,’ stated Flint.

Dominic looked over to the snoring and injured Augustus. ‘Some of us will go,’ he confirmed, ‘though I reckon our party will be one man short.’

The next day they threaded their way through rough ground until coming to the route cleared by the Romans—the track that cut through the old forest. This was familiar ground to Dominic, and they were able to make quicker progress upon its stony and straight surface. Augustus bore his hardship and pain without complaint as he sat gaunt with pain, slumped in his saddle, every jolt of his horse causing his injured ribs to grind.

Two further days brought them to Dominic’s old camp. Here, nothing seemed to have changed since he had left it more than a year gone. Much had happened here the previous year, most of it experienced by all in the party apart from Flint.

Flint had heard many of the tales connected with the camp, and Dominic and the others were more than happy to feed his enthusiasm as Flint asked about the events that until now he had only heard as stories around the fires at Brythonfort on dark evenings. Now real images displaced his imaginings as Dominic pointed out the collapsed pits where vicious traps had been set for the Saxons.

They did not linger at the camp, and three further days of travel passed before they came to Augustus’ old village. The two old elms still stood at the gateway of the now-abandoned settlement. Here, a year earlier, two ox carts had blocked the way, as a valiant effort had halted the progress of the Saxon warlord, Osric, and his raiding party.

With the aid of Dominic, Murdoc, Withred and Tomas, Augustus and his fellow villagers had defeated Osric and his men, but in doing so, the village had lost most of its men of fighting or farming age—Augustus and two of his brothers being the only three survivors of this group. Seriously depleted of the work force needed to farm the land or further defend it, the decision to leave and move to Brythonfort had followed.

Augustus, who was having one of his better days, sat astride his horse next to Dominic as they sadly surveyed the abandoned and crumbling buildings. ‘I expected others to have moved in by now,’ he said.

‘No … they’re a superstitious folk are the Saxons,’ Dominic said. ‘They attribute evil to the woods. More so now, I’ll bet. The tale of what happened here must have circulated throughout their ale houses.’

With deep-felt sadness, they stood by several mounds of stone that marked the graves of those who had died defending the village. Augustus’ own brother, Samuel, lay amongst them. That night they took the shelter of an abandoned hut as the sky darkened.

The next morning they awoke to a thin grey drizzle. ‘Today should get us to Aebbeduna,’ said Augustus, flinching as Withred and Murdoc helped him into his saddle. ‘When we had surplus to trade, which wasn’t often, it took us a day to get to the market there.’

An uncomfortable day’s travel through heavy rain brought them, wet and fatigued, to Aebbeduna. Here, the merchant, Wilfred—a man well known to Flint from his trading links to Brythonfort—took them in and gave them hot food and lodgings. Comfortable that night, they rested well, and were out of their beds early the next day to take their leave.

Flint was the last to say goodbye and give his thanks to Wilfred. As the others waited on the road, he embraced him. ‘Last time we were here you said you expected Aebbeduna to fall to the Saxons,’ said Flint, perplexed. ‘It’s a year ago now and the place still seems prosperous. Why no attack, Wil?’

‘
Trade
, my friend,’ said Wilfred. ‘Provide something they need; something they cannot produce themselves, and they leave you alone. It kills us to do it, but we are not raided so we swallow our pride and trade with them.’

Flint looked up the narrow street of Aebbeduna; at the workshops; at the stacks of pottery and ironware.

He nodded his understanding to Wilfred. ‘Long may it continue for you all here,’ he said. ‘Trade is important to them, that much is true. But they also look at
people
and see a profit … look at your
children
and see gold.’ He mounted his horse. ‘Goodbye for now. I hope to see you soon in Brythonfort.’ He leaned down and grasped Wilfred’s arm in one last farewell.  ‘Remember,’ he warned, as he looked intently into Wilfred’s eyes, ‘… be careful who you do business with. The fact that we are meeting in these circumstances should tell you that.’

‘I know, and I’ve listened to what you’ve said!’ shouted Wilfred, his tone rising as Flint rode away. ‘And take care of yourself on the road, so we may meet again soon at Brythonfort market!’

For five days the company travelled westwards, mainly along good roads. The organised structure of the few towns they passed had broken down since the Romans had left, and, much like Londinium, impromptu farms had sprung up within town walls, with spare ground utilised for crop and animal rearing. The villages and smallholdings along the route were still untouched by Saxon incursion.

Augustus, grey with pain, remained stoic and uncomplaining. Both of the boys, Art and Ula, rode beside him, always. The bond between the three of them had strengthened and whenever Augustus needed help or support, they were always by his side.

‘Our friend seems ever more gaunt and pained,’ said Withred to Dominic, as their horses picked their way over a pocked and rutted section of the track on the fifth morning since leaving Aebbeduna. ‘Brythonfort and a soft bed will not come too soon for him.’

Dominic looked behind to Augustus, who was slumped, as ever, in his saddle. ‘You put it well the other day when you named him a bull. Lesser men wouldn’t endure the agony caused by broken ribs stabbing through flesh and into innards. I’ve strapped him tightly, and that must help, but to have to ride a horse in his condition must be torment.’

‘Just as well that Brythonfort looms ahead, then,’ said Withred, suddenly elated as he grabbed Dominic’s arm.

Before them, a breathtaking panorama had unfolded as they emerged from a hollow in the road. An emerald and brown patchwork of strip fields carpeted the landscape. At intervals, curls of grey smoke percolated languidly into the still air in betrayal of the many farmsteads that lay within the hidden folds of land. Ahead of them on the very edge of the horizon reared Brythonfort. Like a distant whale on a swelling sea, it rose proudly and solidly—impressive, even, from five miles distant.

Dominic looked around to Augustus and the others. ‘See how the giant smiles,’ he said to Withred. ‘Long before dark, this day, he’ll be able to rest his weary bones upon his bed.’

‘He deserves it after what he’s endured,’ smiled Withred as he regarded Augustus. ‘It’s a rest for him, but not for us, eh?’

‘Not if we’re to help Govan and Flint get their loved ones back to these shores.’

‘As I thought,’ sighed Withred, ‘
Gods
, I’m weary, but still, I’m ready to go out tomorrow again if needs be … for however long it takes.’

‘At least we’ll get to rest our arses tonight on a soft surface,’ Dominic said as he rubbed and stretched his back. ‘Then we continue westwards again to the land of Dyfed and hopefully procure a boat to take us across the Hibernian sea.’