Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (59 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Almaith walked naked through the body-littered hall. The feast had lasted three days and come to its conclusion when the last standing man had fallen to the dirt ground. Now the scene resembled the aftermath of a pitched battle, with bodies draped and limp across floor and table.

But Almaith had saved herself. Unlike the rest of them, she had placed her hand over her cup when approached by the wine bearers. Then she had watched as the assembly had become more and more raucous; more and more incapacitated; until, one by one, they had become victims of their own gluttony.

Yes; Almaith had saved herself; saved herself for the handsome merchant who now lay amongst his own vomit in a shadowy corner of the hall. Almaith’s hair—long, grey and parted down the middle—fell to either side of her pockmarked face, down as far as her lumpy, sagging hips. Her pendulous and veined breasts swayed as she picked her way through snoring bodies and headed towards the youth. Standing proud of her breasts, such was her excitement now, her well-suckled nipples (the brown areola of which spread in a saucer-sized disc around them) pulsated with every beat of her racing heart. Her stomach, like her breasts, was pendent, and hung down from her like a sagging skirt; mercifully hanging low enough to hide her genitalia.

Now she grunted with the effort of removing the heavy chair which lay upturned beside the snoring merchant. The scrape of the timber did not disturb the man who lay on his back—he was long past the point where he
could be
disturbed. Almaith knelt before him and lifted his tunic.

She hoped his penis would be susceptible to her manipulation, even though the man was clearly debilitated. She was not to be disappointed, and it did not take the man long to rise to the occasion as Almaith rolled his member between her hands, as if rubbing her palms together on the coldest of days. Salivating as the penis reached its highpoint, Almaith stooped to place it between her lips. For some moments, she sucked and gabbled to herself as she simulated copulation upon it, whilst the man
,
now in the grips of some somnolent erotica, mumbled and groaned below her.

As his grunts became louder, Almaith, who was careful not to wake him, nor generate the spurt that would soften his erection, reluctantly removed his member from her mouth. Now she straddled him and looked at the throbbing flesh below her. She fondled the erection with anticipation. Almost to climax herself now, she could stand it no longer and eased herself upon him.

Like riding a runaway horse, she bounced and gyrated, her movements becoming more exaggerated as her juices slopped from her. Her squeaks became squeals, the squeals then turned to screams as she felt the man release his warm outflow inside her. It was enough to bring on her climax. With abandon, she threw her head back to screech her pleasure to the rafters of the hall.

The release had woken the man, who to his utter dismay found that the curvy, voluptuous serving wench of his dream was in reality Guertepir’s hag of a wife. Like the horse that Almaith had made him, he bucked in revulsion when seeing Almaith bestride his thighs. But he had no need to work too hard. Deprived of her fleshy pommel—for the man had softened at once upon seeing who sat upon him—Almaith slid from him and stood up.

The man looked down at his loins; saw they slopped with her juices as well as his own. He scrambled to a sitting position and shrank away from Almaith. ‘Away from me you witch!’ He pulled his tunic down to cover his manhood, then promptly vomited upon the earthen floor of the hall.

‘
What
have we here!’ The voice boomed and came from beyond the tables. Guertipir arrived with his man, Diarmait. He took in the scene; looked at his wife who stood hunched and naked before the cowering, young merchant. He nodded to Diarmait, who removed his woolen cloak and placed it around Almaith. ‘Take her back to my rooms and make sure she takes to her bed.’

‘At once, my Lord.’ Diarmait, whose face held not one hint of surprise, led Almaith away.

Guertepir looked at the man below him. ‘Whatever I ordered from you yesterday, double it,’ he said as he extended his arm to help the man to his feet. Guertepir explained himself. ‘You’ve saved me a gruesome job, you see. Better still you’ve made her happy for a while, and as long as she’s happy her father sends me gold from Hibernia.’ Guertepir began to laugh then; the sound hysterical and cruel as he walked from the chamber.

Two days later, he sat in the same hall, but now the place was empty apart from one other man.

Guertepir petulantly jabbed his finger into the knotty wooden table before him. ‘
Do not
tell me I can no longer spend on feasts and entertainment, it’s not what I want to hear.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Kelwin, the guardian of Guertepir’s purse, ‘but if you carry on as you are, you won’t have a pot to piss in this time next year.’

‘And what of my reserves, man. The last time I looked my vaults were stuffed with gold.’

Kelwin threw up his hands in frustration. ‘The last time I saw you in the vaults was
three years ago
. Since then you have thrown lavish feasts nearly every night.’ As he looked at his master, Kelwin realised that maybe the question of his finances was academic to say the least. If he continued the way he was going he would be dead within the year, anyway
.
Up close, 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. He, Kelwin, liked a drink as much as any man, but knew when to stop—when to respect his body—unlike Guertepir who had no such resolve.

‘What about the gold from Hibernia,’ asked Guertepir, frowning. ‘My wife’s father is rich … he has more cattle than any man I know. He still sends me gold, that I do know; the ships carrying it come in regularly.’

‘Yes they arrive here and the gold is taken straight to the vaults, but I’m afraid it is your only major income and it’s not enough. The feasts you throw cost much, far more than comes in. Quite simply, my Lord, demand is outstripping supply at the moment.’

‘So you’re telling me to cut down on the feasting; the enjoyment; the entertaining?’

‘Either that or increase your revenue,’ said Kelwin.

Guertepir’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And how would I do that?’ he asked. ‘It would be no good taxing the people round here, because just like me, as you so eloquently put it,
they don’t have a pot to piss in
.’

‘How you gain your funds is your own business, my Lord, but one thing I do know is this: the price for cattle is high in Hibernia at the moment, and your father in law would buy as many heads as you could supply to him. Remember, you send me to him occasionally to keep him on your side. He always yearns to increase his herd, and so his standing in the community. I believe it’s important over there in that waste land.’

‘I think you forget that my grandfather came from that
waste land,’
rumbled Guertipir
; ‘
driven out by th
e
Uí Liatháin bastards, he was. And
I
still consider myself Hibernian, so hold your tongue on the matter of my homeland or I’ll have it served up as an appetiser at my next feast.’ Guertipir sighed, looked at Kelwin, sighed again. ‘Increase revenue … sell cattle … good in theory, but I
have
no cattle to sell, save the small herd of white longhorns that crop and tidy the castle lawns.’

‘Yes, most of your vast herd are already sold to pay off your debts.’ Kelwin nodded sagely, his expression telling Guertepir:
You
see; it’s
exactly what I’ve been telling you; your extravagance has left you high and dry.

The truth of it only fuelled Guertepir’s anger. ‘Hell and fury!’ he exploded, ‘what am I supposed to do, then; things have to be paid for!’ He twiddled his fingers at Kelwin, inviting a response. ‘Come on then, man; your supposed to be my advisor on these matters; advise me.’

‘If you were to head northwards along the western coast you will see fields full of cattle,’ said Kelwin. ‘All the way up to Deva.’

‘You’re suggesting I
steal
livestock?’ asked Guertepir with some incredulity.

Kelwin shrugged. ‘I’m suggesting no such thing, my Lord. I’m merely pointing out the desperateness of your situation. One thing’s for sure, though: the British leave the herds unguarded. Unlike your fellow Hibernians, they are complacent on the subject of cattle thievery.’

Guertepir had resumed his drumming of the table. He stared long and hard at Kelwin, chewing on his lip as he considered the covert proposal. Eventually, he made to dismiss him. Now businesslike, he said: ‘Leave me now, and send me Diarmait; I have much to discuss with him.’

CHAPTER THREE

Aquae Sulis had been the jewel in the crown of Roman occupation for four centuries.

Millennia earlier, the Brythons (a folk who attributed much power and magic to water) had been the first to discover the mineral springs bubbling from the earth. Furthermore, they had found the water to be hot and stone-green in colour, and this had considerably elevated the importance of the place.

Its aura had not been lost upon the Romans. Pagans themselves, they at once recognised the divine significance of the shrine. Consequently, they had transformed it from a boiling, gravel-ringed pool, sited within a forest, to a temple dedicated to their Goddess, Minerva. A huge stone caldarium had been built to hold the emerging water, and this enabled them to actually immerse themselves within its holy embrace. Next to this huge, hot pool, they had built both a warm and cold pool—the tepidarium and frigidarium. The complex had been a magnet to pilgrims who had worshipped at the shrine of the Goddess Sulis (also identified as Minerva by the Romans). Inside the defensive walls of the town, they had also built many dwellings—these to service the needs of the pilgrims who visited what had become the most important site in the Roman world.

After the Roman withdrawal of Britannia, the town had fallen into disrepair, and seemed to be heading the same way of many such towns, which had been stripped of their stone and timber, and almost vanished from the landscape. But Aquae Sulis lay just sixty miles from Arthur’s stronghold of Brythonfort, and Arthur had been aware of its importance and beauty since his childhood. He knew the town was worth saving, and for eight years had been responsible for its restoration.

He had garrisoned a small force of his knights at Aquae Sulis—their role being to protect the artisans and workers who laboured there. Cleared of their accumulated silt, the baths had been restored to their former glory, and now brimmed with stone-green water. The buildings, too, had been returned to their habitable former state, and Arthur had made sure they were equipped for permanent habitation now; an improvement on the occasional pilgrim use of before.

The final task was now underway: the rebuilding of the stone walls. Much of the material had been lost over the decades; the stone being prized and desirable for many uses; but now the walls had been built to their original specification and the town once again had a curtain wall to protect it.

The garrison of knights was under the captaincy of Erec, a weapon’s instructor from Brythonfort. Along with his wife, Morgana, he had spent his last eight years living between Brythonfort and Aquae Sulis. With little to threaten them (the Saxons knew better than to travel anywhere near Arthur’s lands), life had been quiet for Erec and his knights, who had often relieved their tedium by mucking in with the labourers if there was a ditch to be cleared or a stone to be shifted, and this willingness to help had served to break down the barriers between the artisans and military men.

It was in one of the renovated buildings (a wine tavern) in the narrow, main street of Aquae Sulis, that Pwyll the labourer now sat. Never the brightest of men, Pwyll was a loner who always put in a hard day’s toil for his master. Honest yet diffident, Pwyll kept his own company and looked forward to the end of each day, and the cup—or two—of wine which he considered a just reward for his labours.

Now as he sat by the fire, rubbing the winter chill from his hands, he was happy to note that apart from the tavern keeper he was the room’s only occupant, and this suited him just fine. Today, he would not be relentlessly teased; would not have his slow speech and languid movements mocked.

But Pwyll’s tranquility was not to last. He flinched as the door opened and two men bustled into the tavern. Worse still, and to his utter dismay, Pwyll knew one of the men; knew him as Hal: a sneering bully. Pwyll turned away from them. Hunched and anonymous, he faced the fire, quietly cursing the Gods for sending Hal into this wine tavern ... on this day ... at this time. Quickly, he sipped at his wine. Maybe he could slip out unnoticed; after all, he could hear them preoccupied with the tavern keeper; could hear them laugh their clever laughs as they waited for the man to fill their cups.

After draining his own cup, Pwyll had almost reached the door when Hal’s lickspittle companion—a man named Menw—spotted him. His nudge and smile to Hal said,
Look what we’ve got here
!

Immediately, Hal hurried to the door and blocked Pwyll’s exit.

‘No you don’t; you don’t leave without me buying you a drink my challenged friend.’ Hal’s pinched face was resolute, his narrow eyes cold, as he stared at Pwyll. Soon, though, the thin line of his mouth began to twitch, as the hint of a smile turned up its corners. The smirk soon became a mocking grin and, in an act of faux bonhomie, he draped his arm over Pwyll’s shoulders and turned with him towards the tavern keeper. ‘A large cup of your best Gaul wine for my thirsty friend, barkeeper!’ he shouted.

Pwyll frowned and looked at the door. ‘No ... thank you … but no. I’ve had my fill and have a heavy day at the quarry tomorrow. I must be gone from here.’

Hal looked positively wounded. ‘
No!
my friend. How can you deprive me of your eloquence this night.’ He nodded towards Menw. ‘Surely you would not leave me to spend my leisure with that cock-brain.’

Menw considered Hal’s slight towards him, but soon realised the joke was on the dimwit and not him. After giving a broken-toothed grin he waited in anticipation.

Hal guided Pwyll to the counter where the tavern keeper, who by now was far from happy with affairs, waited with a full cup of wine. Hal slid a coin across the counter, picked up the cup and offered it to Pwyll. His tone had now lost its affected geniality. ‘Come, drink up and let’s hear no more of your nonsense about working in quarries.’

Slacked mouthed and dreading whatever Hal had in store for him, Pwyll took the cup. He raised it to his lips and looked nervously at his tormentor who sternly nodded for him to continue. Pwyll took a mouthful of the wine. He swallowed it with difficulty as if swallowing sawdust. Four more such gulps emptied the cup, then three more cups followed as Hal and Menw waited in icy silence to witness Pwyll’s inebriation. But Pwyll held his drink well that night ... remained sober ... too terrified anyway to be effected by the wine.

Far from pleased, Hal decided to move things along; decided it was time to hasten Pwyll’s humiliation. He pursed his lips in mock contemplation as he nodded towards Pwyll’s crotch. ‘Is it true what they say?’ he asked.

Pwyll looked puzzled—a frown creasing his troubled face. Self-consciously, he placed his wine cup on the counter and dropped his hands to his crotch. ‘W-w-hat
do
they say?’ he asked.

Hal turned to Menw and shot him a glance which said:
Listen to this; you’re about to wet yourself.
He turned back to Pwyll, nodding again towards his crotch. ‘They say this: that the Gods compensate for what’s deficient between a dullard’s ears by blessing him with an abundance between his legs.’

Pwyll had no idea what
compensate
or
abundance
or
deficient
meant, but he
did
know he was in trouble now. He knew Hal; knew what he liked to do.
Worse still, the other man had started to laugh and that would only make things worse ... would encourage Hal.

Hal moved close to Pwyll; so close that Pwyll could smell his wine-tainted breath. Without touching him, Hal walked him towards the corner of the tavern, forcing Pwyll to walk backwards until reaching the lime-rendered wall.

Hal was still nose-to-nose with Pwyll, whose own breath now left him in panicky gasps. Over his shoulder, Hal gave Menw his instructions. ‘It’s no good doing this without an audience. Get some women in here off the street; they need to know what they’ve been missing.’

The sound of a door opening came to Pwyll as Menw left the tavern, but all Pwyll could see for now was Hal’s face. His tormentor wore a lizard smile; a smile that did not reach his eyes.

‘It would be better if you let me go now,’ said Pwyll, determined not to let the tears that threatened to break from him become visible. He did not want Hal to see them; did not want to give him more reason to mock him.

‘And why’s that?’ asked Hal, his smile lingering as his gaze flickered down towards Pwyll crotch again. ‘Why
should
I let you go? If I did that we would never know if the Gods were telling the truth.’

‘I just want to do my day’s work for my master, then have my wine at the end of each day. I do not understand what you said about the Gods. If you let me go now …’ The door opened causing a rush of cold air into the room. Female voices accompanied the gust. ‘…if you let me go I can get to my bed and rest for the morrow.’

Pwyll’s eyes stung as he realised that Hal hadn’t the slightest intention of letting him go. His tormentor saw the surfacing tears and was inwardly satisfied; tears were his currency ... what he strove to achieve. He grasped Pwyll cheeks with his right hand (the first time he had actually laid hands upon him during the entire ordeal), causing his cheeks to compress and his mouth to pucker like a bloated fish. ‘Of course you can get to your bed, my challenged friend. As soon as I’ve de-bagged you, you can leave.’

‘
No you can’t do that to him
.’
The woman’s protestation gave Pwyll no hope; laced as it was with humour. She didn’t mean it. He could tell. She said it merely because it was what she was supposed to say. She wanted her show—a show he would soon provide.

Hal still stood in front of Pwyll, his hand now removed from his face. Now it rested flat against his chest, pushing him against the wall. Hal turned his head to look over his shoulder at the woman who had spoken. He could see she was no older than twenty. She lingered with another of a similar age. Both had been walking home when Menw had persuaded them to enter the wine tavern with his offer.
‘Just a moment of your time, girls.
I promise you a sight you will never forget,’
he had told them.

The other woman—the one who had remained silent up to now—shuffled uncomfortably and frowned at her friend. But her companion just nodded at her, a small smile playing on her face.
No, let’s stay a while,
perhaps we can see what he has to show us
, was the consensus of the smile.

Pwyll slammed himself back against the wall and clutched at the waistband of his hose as Hal turned on him.

Hal nodded to Menw and exploded into action. ‘NOW … WITH ME!’ He made a grab for Pwyll’s tunic, his intention to pull it upwards over his head, but Pwyll dropped to the floor and curled into a ball.

Menw fell on him and pulled him on to his back, but Pwyll brought his knees up. Whimpering with raw fear now, he bunched his body into a tight cocoon. Hal knelt beside him and began to pummel his fist into his thighs. Angry and breathless, he punched him repeatedly. ‘Straighten out ... you retard ... or we’ll strip you completely ... make you walk home bare-bollocked.’

The two girls stood frozen, hands to mouths in shock, not knowing whether to laugh or cry now the show had started in earnest.

An uneasy frown creased the tavern keeper’s face. He knew he should do something—this could not be right—but what
could
he do? The men before him would probably do the same to
him
if he interfered; they were much younger and stronger than he. If he left to get help, the thing would be over with before he got back. They were about to humiliate Pwyll (a simple man, but a man he liked); humiliate him so badly he would never be able to show his face in Aquae Sulis again. He could see that Pwyll’s strength was waning—could see that Pwyll was crying now, as Menw lay across his knees, pinning them straight.

Gasping and clench-teethed from the struggle, Hal knelt over him. He looked to the girls as he rummaged up Pwyll’s tunic and searched for the top of the hose which Pwyll still clung to. He callously bent Pwyll’s finger back from the hose and shot the girls a quick glance. ‘I swear this has been worth your wait—‘ he finally got his hands around the hose rim which circled Pwyll’s waist and got ready to tug hard—‘just look at…’

The door opened and Augustus walked in.

Put in charge of the local quarry by Arthur, he was Pwyll’s master and had decided to join him for a late drink, knowing, as he did, that Pwyll would be in the wine tavern at the end of his day. Augusrus knew the man was unobtrusive and preferred his own company, but Augustus always sought to draw him out of himself—to offer him friendship.

The tavern keeper had flinched when the giant Briton had entered, because then he knew things were about to happen. He knew all about Augustus—
who didn’t?
Knew he was genial and friendly; also knew he was formidable. The rumours of what he had done in Norwic—how he had defended himself, bare handed, against two killing dogs and an armed warrior of renown—had elevated the man to legendary status. Like all tales it been exaggerated in the re-telling, and when Arthur had seconded Augustus to Aquae Sulis to help with the town’s renovation, the sight of him had actually stopped people in the streets. Soon though, folk were to discover that
‘big Gus’
(as he was known) was a man of the people; a man who waved away any suggestion he was in any way special. In particular, he would go out of his way to befriend the so-called
lesser men—
men such as Pwyll. But the tavern keeper
knew
that Augustus was special; special in the way that any room he walked into was immediately enhanced and made more interesting by his booming personality and aura.