Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (41 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

After reaching Brythonfort, Augustus had come under the care of the herbs woman, Rozen.

After removing his shirt to reveal his bruise-ridden torso, Rozen gasped and insisted he lay down at once.

Augustus watched as she brought in a ceramic jar. ‘A salve made from the common daisy,’ said Rozen in response to Augustus’ questioning look. ‘The daisy heads are infused in olive oil for several days.’ She moved to sit beside Augustus. She put her hand into the jar and scooped out a glop of amber syrup. ‘This is what’s left after the flower heads are removed. It will heal your bruises and also sooth the pain within.’

Augustus fought the impulse to wince as Rozen began to work the salve into his skin. ‘It’s good you can heal me, Roz,’ he said. ‘I need to ride tomorrow or the day after. We head to the west coast to find a boat to Hibernia.’

Rozen laughed as if Augustus had just made the most ridiculous statement she had ever heard. ‘These injuries will not heal in two days,’ she said, ‘… rather two months or more. You are going nowhere, Gus, for if you do, you will certainly die.’

‘And he will be no use to me or these boys if he does,’ said Modlen, as she entered the room with Art and Ula.

Modlen, too, gasped as she observed her husband’s torso. Glistening now with the salve, the contusions seemed angrier than ever. Augustus raised his arm. She took it and kissed it tenderly, the look in her eyes leaving him in no doubt that he would be remaining at Brythonfort.

After Dominic’s group had returned to Brythonfort without the children, Govan and Nila had been devastated. Later, though, Dominic had been able to give them hope when telling them the search would continue in Hibernia.

Dominic’s group had met with Arthur, and together they had thought long and hard about the best way to get the children back. To take an armed force across the sea was out of the question. Arthur had argued that such an action would be fraught with problems, not the least of which would be the resupply of provisions and weapons. Logistically, he had argued, it would be unfeasible. Eventually, it had been agreed that just four men—Dominic, Flint, Murdoc and Withred—would seek out the captors of the children and approach them directly.

Posing as agents of Griff, they would verify their legitimacy by attempting to procure business for him. They would also ask if the quality of goods had been up to Griff’s usual high standards. In this way, they hoped to gain information on the children; find their whereabouts; learn of their condition; seek the opportunity to flee with them back to the port and over the sea. First, though, they had to find who held them. 

Eight further days were to pass, before Dominic, Withred, Flint and Murdoc, overlooked the pristine and glistening Hibernian Sea on the western peninsular of Dyfed.

To seek the assistance of the Hibernian exile, Guertepir, was their intent. Below them lay his ringfort—its ramparts towering above the shoreline. A steep track ran downwards and away from them to the ringfort’s one entrance.

‘I hope these riders are friendly,’ Dominic said, as he observed a group of twelve men moving up the track towards them.

‘Depends what mood Guertepir’s in,’ said Flint. ‘He’s grown into a whimsical bastard by all accounts, prone to sudden changes of temper.’

‘He should be used to Britons by now,’ said Withred. ‘After all, he himself is second generation. It could be argued he’s British himself.’

‘Don’t you be saying that to him,’ Dominic said with mild alarm. ‘He’s proud of his Hibernian linage—his great grandfather, Eochiad, was a renowned king who came here in exile—so don’t you ever suggest to him he’s anything other than Hibernian.’

And what of Saxons … or Angles in my case?’ What are his feelings towards Germanic people?’ asked Withred.

‘He used to kill them for Rome,’ Dominic said, ’so it would be better if you leave the talking to me.’

The riders reached them. ‘What is your business with the Desi folk?’ asked the lead rider.

‘To speak with your chief a while,’ Dominic said. ‘It concerns business over the water. Tell him that Dominic, the Roman scout, has returned to speak with him.’

The rider, Diarmait, looked them over and concluded that the men before him, just four in number, could be no possible threat.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Follow me, and surrender your weapons at the gate.’ He wheeled his horse around and trotted back down the hill. Dominic looked at Withred, then shrugged and followed Diarmait down the hill.

Guertepir sat in his hall beside his woman. Thick, steel-grey hair hung to his shoulders, a centre parting ensuring that it fell to either side of his face. Curiously, his wife’s hair matched his own in colour and length, so that from a distance they resembled gender-opposite twins.

Up close, though, their difference was obvious. Guertepir’s face was blotched with drink; his enlarged, porous nose riddled with rosacea. Thick, self-indulgent lips were lavender in colour, hinting at an inner disease.

Almaith, his wife, also possessed a red face; in her case resulting from the powdery rouge she applied liberally to cover her pitted, grey skin. Her eyes were bovine and dull.

‘Bring them in,’ said Guertepir to Diarmait. ‘Dominic visits you say. Let me see the wild shitbag with my own eyes.’

Soon, Dominic, Flint, Murdoc and Withred stood before him. Guertepir took a quaff from his ever-present cup of wine, seemingly more interested in it than them. ‘Best thing the Romans did for this isle, leaving us with this,’ he said, as he lifted and admired his cup. ‘Get mine from Gaul. Finest there is.’ He signaled to a nearby retainer to fill four more cups. ‘Drink your fill,’ said Guertepir, waving his fingers at the cups, ‘while I take a look at you.’

Dominic nodded his thanks, then lifted his cup to Guertepir. ‘Your health, my lord.’

‘You’ve not changed much, Dom,’ said Guertepir, a thin smile playing on his lips as he appraised him. ‘Still an ugly scarred bastard.’ He looked at Murdoc and Flint. ‘Bet you wished you had the looks and youth of these two. Arthur’s men are you?’

Flint spoke. ‘Yes, we both live at Brythonfort with Arthur.’ He looked towards Murdoc. ‘My friend here was dispossessed by the Saxons and ended up at Brythonfort as a refugee.’

Guertepir grimaced, seemingly pained with the effort of having to listen to Flint’s words. He looked at them and nodded his comprehension, before turning his attention to Withred. Almaith had also noticed him and grabbed Guertepir hand. Guertepir pulled it away.

Withred’s head was still shaven; his beard now grown to his chest. Craggy and brutal, his face bore the scars of many battles. 

‘Hell and suffering, what have we here?’ said Guertepir, ‘A man who actually sends fear into my wife … not an easy feat,
that
, I’ll tell you.’ Seemingly amazed, he looked at Dominic then back to Withred. ‘I never thought any man could outdo Dominic in ugliness. What’s your name, man?’

‘I am Withred of the Angle people.’

‘Ah, a man from across the Oceanus Germanicus,’ said Guertepir, seemingly unperturbed. ‘You ride with Dominic so I take it you are on the side of the Britons?’

‘Indeed my lord,’ bowed Withred.

Guertepir cackled with laughter and looked at his wife. ‘Who would have thought such a beast would possess such a silver tongue and fine manners. Usually beasts only
howl
as my sword enters their bowels.’

Almaith, who seemed to prefer to communicate only with gestures, merely smiled and licked her lips—seemingly attracted now to Withred.

‘Well, I’ve taken a look at you and I like what I see … so to speak,’ said Guertepir. He looked directly at Dominic, his tone darkening.  ‘Now perhaps you can tell me what you are doing riding through my lands. The Romans are long gone and I no longer kill Saxons for them.’ He looked at Withred. ‘That’s as long as they don’t get
too
near.’

‘We seek only information and a boat to Hibernia,’ Dominic said.

‘
Only
information,
only
a boat,’ said Guertepir. ‘You make it sound as if you’re asking merely for another cup of wine.’ He regarded Dominic a while. ‘
Continue
then,’ he said with some impatience, his interest now evoked. ‘Tell me why I should help you?’

Beginning with the abduction of Elowen, Maewyn and Mule, he told Guertepir of their futile pursuit to Norwic and their discovery that a cattle lord in Hibernia had bought the children. ‘Knowing as we do, that you still have contact and knowledge of what goes on in Hibernia, we thought you would be the man to help us move further on this matter,’ concluded Dominic.

‘
Move further,’
said Guertepir. He took a gulp of wine then looked at Dominic, his expression one of contempt. ‘I have a mind to
move
you to my dungeons for having the impertinence to march into my hall and demand my help.’

‘A request my lord, not a demand,’ Dominic said, aware that he could not afford to upset Guertepir.

Guertepir took another quaff of wine and signaled for his retainer to refill the cups of Dominic and his men. He frowned … sighed … frowned again. Finally, he said, ‘mac Garrchu bastards.’

Dominic looked perplexed and asked, ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Fincath mac Garrchu,’ said Guertepir irritably. ‘He probably has your children—the posturing bastard loves his slaves. He’s an enemy of our clan, the Desi, and because of that you’re in luck; I
will
give you my council on this matter.’

Dominic sighed, inwardly relieved. ‘I thank you for that, Guertepir,’ he said.

‘No need to thank me, you’ll die over there … know that. As for providing you with a boat, that is another matter; do you think I can just conjure a boat from the sky?’

‘First we would appreciate your advice on how to find this Fincath,’ Dominic said, aware that he must not rush the man. ‘Any talk of a boat can come later if needs be.’

The hall was draughty and Dominic noticed Almaith rub the chill out of her arms. The opportunity was not lost on him. ‘But forgive me; we would be ill-mannered guests, indeed, if we did not bring gifts for our hosts.’ He looked to Flint. ‘If you would allow my friend to leave the hall for a moment, perhaps we can address this lapse of ingratitude.’

Guertepir readily nodded his assent, eager to see his gift from Arthur.

Flint returned with two bundles of fur. He unfurled them upon the rustic table before Guertepir. Almaith gasped at the shimmering red cloaks that lay before her. Stitched from scores of squirrel skins, the cloaks were voluminous and opulent. Clasps of gold, engraved with intricate Celtic knots, ensured the cloaks would sit securely over the shoulders of the wearer.

‘Oh my, they’re so beautiful,’ said Almaith, her hand going to her mouth, her tears near.

Inscrutable as ever, Guertepir ran his hands through the silky fur. ‘You’ve moved my wife to words … even to tears, and I commend you for that. These are fine garments and I give you my thanks for them.’

‘They are the result of many kills and much needlework,’ Dominic said. ‘Months in the making, they were destined for the backs of Arthur and his woman. We thought they would look just as good on the backs of Guertepir and his lovely wife.’

Flattered by Dominic’s words, Guertepir continued to stroke the cloak. Eventually, he turned his attention to Dominic. ‘And so we come to the subject of Fincath mac Garrchu,’ he said. ‘His fort is only one day’s travel from the main port. Even a dullard could find his way there, but if you decide to approach him directly you’ll need a good story.’

He paused and looked at the four men in turn, his eyes finally returning to Dominic as he pondered their chances. He knew Dominic; knew that any scheme put together by him would be thorough.

With this in mind, he said: ‘I suppose you’ve already worked out what you’re going to do, so I’ll tell you about Hibernia.’

For the next two hours, Guertepir told them everything they would need to know about Hibernia—of how to approach Fincath, and what to avoid saying if, indeed, Fincath felt inclined to let them hold breath.

Never once did he mention a boat, always maneuvering away from the subject of travel. Eventually, tired and ready for more wine before he took to his bed, Guertepir dismissed them, granting them quarters for the night in an outlying hut away from the ringfort.

‘Lucky we got him on a
good
day,’ Dominic said with some irony, as they walked towards their quarters. ‘Now we have the information we need.’

‘But no boat yet,’ said Withred. ‘Without a boat the information is useless.’

‘Tomorrow we meet with him again,’ Dominic said, ‘… and tomorrow we need to leave and get this thing done. We can only hope he grants us the means to get across the sea.’

The next day, Guertepir’s man, Diarmait, roused them. ‘My master would have you meet him at the shore below the fort,’ he said. ‘Follow me. It’s a steep but short climb down to where he waits.’

Murdoc walked beside Dominic as they tailed the long-striding Diarmait down the hill. ‘Sounds promising,’ he said. ‘If we are to meet him by the sea, maybe he has a boat for us.’