Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (64 page)

Emrys was in no doubt what to do as he rode towards Wilburh. Arthur’s edict on the matter of Saxons caught within the confines of British habitation was quite clear: his instruction called for immediate execution.

As Flint heeled his horse into a gallop along the track that led to the forest, Emrys turned his attention t
o
Wilburh. The Saxon had taken advantage of Emrys’ slight hesitancy and fled up the track. Unconcerned, Emrys goaded his horse into a quick trot.

As he ran, Wilburh nursed the vague hope that the Briton behind might have compassion in his soul, so turned to beg for his mercy, but a grey blur accompanied by the hiss of cold steel through even colder air, was his last sensation before his clean decapitation.

Emrys dismounted and picked up the head just as Flint returned from up trail. Strung together and tied to the back of his saddle, bounced three more heads—Eldstan’s, Baldward’s and Dudda’s.

‘No mercy,’ Flint quoted Arthur verbatim, ‘for any Saxon found in the protectorate in the vicinity of a homestead.’

‘No mercy,’ concurred Emrys as he lifted Wilburh’s head for Flint to see.

After studying the head for a moment, a look of alarm slid over Flint’s features.

‘The child,’ he said.

‘The hut,’ said Emrys.

Both ran down the track to the hut and were able to get there before the child could enter. Emrys picked her up as Flint went in. Moments later he emerged, his face set pale and grim. ‘Take the child to the wagon,’ he said as Cara buried her head into Emrys’ shoulder. He dropped his voice so it was barely above a whisper. ‘Looks like we’ve got another orphan for Augustus and Modlen to look after.’ His haunted look and shake of the head told Emrys all he needed to know.

Raedwald shivered as nighttime found him still in the ditch. In fear of pursuit, he had crouched hidden for half of the day, but had worried needlessly. Unknown to him, Flint had assumed the hole in the hut wall was due to natural decay rather than forced exit, having seen many such huts whilst on the trail.

Raedwald decided to move under cover of darkness and take his rests during the day until he reached the concealment of the forest again. Then he would make for Norwic and find a ship to take him to Saxony. He still had the necklace and it still hung with many semi-precious stones, one of which would pay for his passage home.

For three days and nights, an increasingly weakening Raedwald stuck to his plan: stumbling throughout the nights, drinking water from the muddy puddles which lay everywhere, and sleeping fitfully by day. He was lost, he knew that now; knew he should have reached the forest days ago.

As the fourth day dawned, he at last saw the trees before him. Unbeknown to him, it was the wrong forest—the western Dobunni forest—yet a desperate Raedwald entered it with hope, convincing himself he had found the eastern woods. Close to collapse, he squelched through puddles of silver rain, occasionally falling to his knees to drink from them as his strength ebbed away. By midday, he feared he would die. His belly was hollow and his energy depleted. Kneeling against a gnarled and ancient ash, he fell immediately to sleep, his contorted, slavering face pressed against the grey bark.

‘Whaa—‘ He awoke with a start when kicked from the tree.

‘Why have you entered this forest?’

A man dressed as a hunter and carrying a stout stick had delivered the question in Celtic.

Raedwald sat on the forest floor and blinked away his confusion as he looked upwards to the man. Behind the man stood two others, similarly attired.

‘I ... I ... do not understand your language,’ uttered Raedwald. ‘I am not of these—‘

On hearing his tongue, the men became noisy and animated, drowning out the rest of his reply. They looked down on him—their faces betraying anger.

They dragged him upwards. Raedwald guessed his end was near when a tensioned bow was thrust a finger’s width from his face. He winced as he awaited the arrow’s delivery, but the first man was to stay the archer’s arm.

Again, a lively discourse ranged between the men, and Raedwald sensed they had different ideas about how to deal with him. Eventually, he was dragged away from the tree and his arms bound behind him. One of the men went to his pack and removed a piece of dried salmo
n
from it. He thrust the fish into Raedwald’s mouth.

Three days passed as Raedwald was pushed before the men, firstly through the forest then along the stony roads of the cleared land beyond. Midway through the morning of the fourth day the ringfort came into view. Spread beyond it was the grey sea. Raedwald now knew that he was on the wrong side of Britannia.

Four further days were to pass as Raedwald lived on his nerves in his cell in the ringfort. On his first day, they had attempted to clean him somewhat and thrown buckets of cold water over him. Rough sacking had been his towel, and Raedwald had nursed the hope that if they wanted him clean, they wanted him alive. Later that morning the reason for their clemency became apparent when a hag of a woman entered the cell. With her were two guards who insisted he lay down and undressed. Raedwald had complied, knowing he had no choice. The woman had then told the men to leave and had lifted her dress and sat upon him. In spite of himself Raedwald had become hard and the woman had ridden him to orgasm, both hers and his.

Raedwald had flinched when the door had opened again. This time, though, it was a tall and imposing Briton who entered. The man spoke the Saxon tongue to him and asked him about Camulodunum. In particular, he inquired about his connections in the town. Raedwald had been unable to resist boasting of his importance and influence and the man had gone away pensive, yet seemingly satisfied.

Almaith was to visit him five more times during the next two days and nights. Then, on the fifth morning of his imprisonment he was taken from his cell and marched into the hall of the ringfort.

Guertepir now looked at him as if he had just crawled out of the ringfort’s cesspit. Two guards grasped Raedwald’s bound arms, immobilizing him. Guertepir waved the guards to take a step backwards.

‘That’s better,’ said Guertepir, his nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Perhaps I’ll be able to keep my wine down now.’ He looked t
o
Cunedda who was standing nearby. ‘I’ll talk to him through you. How good is your Saxon?’

‘Good enough,’ said Cunedda. ‘We did trade with Saxony when I lived above the wall. I could get by then, I can get by now.’

Guertepir nodded, satisfied, then looked Raedwald directly in the eye. ‘Cunedda tells me you have connections in Camulodunum, is that right?’

Raedwald nodded his acquiescence. ‘Yes, my father was a fearless and respected leader and this gives me standing and influence in the town.’

‘And your father was?’

‘Egbert ...  Egbert was his name.’

Guertepir pursed his lips and frowned in the manner of a man trying to remember something. ‘Nah ... never heard of him,’ he said after a moment’s contemplation. ‘But no matter ... carry on.’

‘A warlord named Hrodgar was in the town when I left and he was gathering men for a raid into the lands beyond the ancient forest.’

‘How many men?’

‘Usually between forty or fifty for a slave raid.’

Guertepir threw up his hand in exasperation as if to say
forty or fifty, what good is that?
He spoke directly to Cunedda. ‘
Two thousand
would help us, you said. That didn’t sound like two thousand to me.’

‘Keep with me on this,’ said Cunedda, who had been translating. He turned to Raedwald. ‘When we spoke the other day you said you would be able to persuade the warlords in Camulodunum to raise the quota we require for this war. Why do you now talk in such low numbers?’

‘I talk only of the numbers used on a small raid. Once you lure them with the promise of land in the southwest they’ll flock to you in droves.’

‘And you’re sure of this?’

Raedwald, who had bought himself time and possibly his life with his promise, now played his trump card. ‘Yes, but only upon my introduction. By all means, show a presence to demonstrate you’re serious, but it would be madness for a British warlord to ride into Camulodunum without Saxon endorsement ... without
my
endorsement. At the very best you would be laughed out of town, at the very worst you would never leave the town.’

‘No. It seems more likely that
you
would be laughed out of town. Look at you, covered in grime and of obvious low status.’

‘You forget, my lord, that I would have you, and’—he nodded towards the impressive Diarmait who was standing beside Guertepir—‘him beside me to boost my status.’

Guertepir, who had become impatient and hungry for news as he listened to the Germanic staccato, grabbed Cunedda’s arm. ‘Well?’ he pressed. ‘Stop gabbling in that devil’s tongue and tell me what he says.’

Cunedda looked disdainfully at Guertepir’s hand upon his sleeve. He tugged his arm away and let his gaze linger a moment longer upon him before relating his conversation with Raedwald.

When Cunedda had finished, Guertepir sighed, nodded slowly, then sighed again. ‘I just hope we are not kicking over a basket of vipers, but I will go with your plan. The extra two thousand men
will
make a difference, but that must be it: two thousand only; if more of the bastards come they’ll want everything.’

‘I’ll leave tomorrow then?’

‘Yes, and take a hundred of your men with you. Go well-armed; you must have the capability to protect yourselves; you’re riding into hostile country. But do not daub yourselves in that brash, blue dye. Remember, we need to recruit them, not scare them shitless. Diarmait will go with you with a similar number of my men.’ He looked at Raedwald. ‘Ah, yes. I’ll get him cleaned up and provide him with decent livery.’ He turned to the door and gave a little smile as Almaith walked in. ‘And no doubt my good wife will check him from top to toe to make sure he’s fit for purpose before he leaves.’

The next morning, Tomas watched as two hundred men left the ringfort and took the eastern road towards Corinium. It was the first significant movement since he had arrived, and set him in a trot towards the coppice where Nairn had his camp.

As Tomas approached, Nairn knew his time to ride had come. Immediately, he was on his horse.

‘Two hundred men going eastwards. Probably an envoy; Hibernians and Votadini. Arthur needs to know, today,’ shouted Tomas as Nairn wheeled his horse towards Brythonfort.

‘And know he will,’ said Nairn as he took to the eastern track. ‘Thirty fast riders will see to that.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

The final fast horse arrived at Brythonfort just before dusk. Arthur, who had been hungry for more information since Dominic had arrived days earlier with the news of the Hibernian and Votadini allegiance, had since taken to pacing the ramparts of Brythonfort. His woman, Heledd, was beside him, and shared his look of concern as the rider rushed through the gates of the bastion. The rider ran to Arthur while his horse, panting and slick with sweat, was led to stable.

He addressed the king. ‘An envoy has left Guertepir’s, my lord; Hibernian and Votadini. Two hundred men. They travel eastwards; their road takes them towards Corinium. Further along the road will take them to Londinium.’

‘Londinium,’ mused Arthur, frowning. ‘Why would they go there, the place is falling to ruin.’ He grasped the rider by his shoulders, his eyes intense with urgency. ‘Do me one last service before you rest, and find Gherwan and ask him to call an assembly to the hall immediately.’

Arthur turned to Heledd, his hand instinctively dropping onto his sword,
Skullcleft,
as the rider left them. ‘This doesn’t bode well,’ he said. ‘They’ll pass close to Aquae Sulis but it should be safe for now—two hundred riders will not trouble a fortified town. But why Londinium?’

Heledd was thoughtful a moment. ‘Maybe the road to Londinium will take them past the town; towards another place ... Camulodunum perhaps.’

Arthur’s face took on a grave cast. ‘That’s what I feared, also,’ he said. ‘Come, we must get to the hall.’

Two hours later, the hall was full. As Arthur walked in with Heledd, the drone of conversation died to a hush. Arthur allowed Heledd to sit down, but he remained standing before his place at the table. He took in the three, huge round tables in the hall; all populated by formidable men. His captains, Flint, Gherwan and Erec, sat on his own table along with other high ranking knights. Similarly, men of mutual trade or interest had grouped together on their own tables. The artisan Robert sat with his team of craftsmen, including Simon from the eastern forest.

Dominic, too, had his long-standing friends around him: Will the tracker; Augustus (who, like Erec, had returned from Aquae Sulis); Murdoc (who sat beside his woman, Martha); and Withred, who sat brooding and dark—intimidating even to Arthur. Also sat with them was the young monk, Ingle.

Arthur looked over the impressive gathering, then began. ‘Oh, that I had six thousand men of your quality to call to arms on this day. Many of you know why we are here, so I will not go over it again. What I need from you now is your speedy action.’ He focused upon Dominic. ‘Dom, you have seen the two armies when they passed you by. What was your count?’

The heat in the hall had risen as the fire in the iron brazier had begun to dance. Dominic, sweating now, took off his wolf hat and placed it on the table before him. He swiped  a hand over his beaded face. ‘Two thousand or so went past me that day, seven hundred of them Votadini. I was at Guertepir’s ringfort last year as you know, and I reckon he has a standing army of two thousand men in his own right.’

‘And what of the Votadini? You say seven hundred of them went past. How many more—have you any idea?’

Dominic gestured towards Ingle. ‘My friend here was in Deva when the Votadini arrived, and like all monks he can count. He tells me he stood on the walls and tallied their numbers.’

Arthur turned his stern gaze towards Ingle. ‘How many, young monk?’ he asked.

As all the room looked at him (a room full of people the likes of which he had never seen before), Ingle’s mouth suddenly felt like it was full of sand. He licked dry lips and began. ‘I counted fifteen hundred, my lord. The morning they arrived ... fifteen hundred was their number ... or there abouts. Later ... two days later, I think ... one thousand of them left the town. When I escaped from the place I travelled to Segontium to get a boat back to Hibernia, but the Votadini had left a force of men there to guard the port, so I continued southwards.’

‘How many men at the port?’ asked Arthur.

‘I would guess three hundred.’

Arthur nodded as the numbers began to make sense to him. ‘Thus, leaving seven hundred to march south with Guertepir.’ He looked again to Dominic. ‘So that’s fifteen hundred Votadini that we know about. How many more could they muster do you think?’

Dominic looked at the tabletop before him and tapped at it as he did a count in his head. ‘Not that many more,’ he said eventually. ‘He needs to guard Deva if he has relocated to the town as I suspect. So he needs to keep a goodly sized force based there permanently. Also, as we’ve just heard, he’s secured the port of Segontium, and will also need to garrison men there to hold it.’ He paused again, fingers to lips and brow wrinkled, as he did a final count. ‘Two thousand men would be my guess ... a similar force to Guertepir’s.’

‘So that’s four thousand men mobilized,’ said Arthur. ‘Two hundred of them now marching to Londinium ... and who knows? ... possibly Camulodunum after that.’

A murmur of anxious conversation infused the hall as the significance of Arthur’s remark was absorbed. Gherwan, who sat beside Arthur, attempted to speak above the noise. Arthur held up his hand until the drone abated.

He nodded for Gherwan to have his say. ‘Camulodunum,’ began Gherwan, ‘is a Saxon stronghold as we all know. You say that two hundred men now march along Akeman street?’

‘There or there abouts,’ said Arthur.

‘Too small a party to raid a town, we’ve established that, so why go to Camulodunum.’ After a moment’s contemplation, Gherwan looked at Arthur, his expression one of a dawning awareness.

Arthur gave Gherwan a nod of confirmation. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My thoughts too. They go to Camulodunum to discuss a partnership with the Saxons.’

The conversation in the hall now broke out with alacrity. Arthur allowed the tension its outlet whilst talking with Gherwan. After some moments, he banged on the table with his empty flagon, bringing the room to silence.

He looked to Dominic. ‘I need you to prepare to leave in the morning. Take Will with you and follow the gathering to Londinium. If they go beyond the town and head northeast then they can only be going to Camulodunum and we know what that means. I need one of you to get back here with the news if they do head for Camulodunum. The other can follow them into the town, then follow them wherever they go after that. As soon as their intention becomes obvious, return to Brythonfort. Fast, fresh horses will be waiting on the roads between here and Camulodunum. We need to know where they intend to strike first.’

‘What will you do if they continue towards Camulodunum?’ asked Dominic.

‘More like what I will to do
now
,’ said Arthur. ‘We have four thousand men to contend with as it stands. What their numbers will be if they look for a deal with the Saxons I can only guess. Six ... seven thousand, maybe. What their intent is, we do not know, but we must be ready. First we must raise the levy.’

‘How many men will answer it and come to Brythonfort?’

‘A thousand if we’re lucky. ‘It’s winter and that’s in our favour; the men are not needed in the fields so they’ll be available.’

‘That gives us two hundred knights and a thousand men for a shieldwall—that’s still far too few.’

‘We need to get to Travena on the rocky shore southwest,’ said Gherwan. ‘If we are threatened then so is Ffodor and his trading stronghold.’

‘How many men can he provide?’ asked Dominic.

Gherwan exchanged a telling look with Arthur. The exchange told Dominic that getting men from Ffodor would not be straightforward. ‘Four hundred cavalry, some of them charioteers,’ said Gherwan after a pause. ‘In addition he could levy maybe sixteen hundred men for the shields.

Arthur nodded resignedly, his expression neutral. ‘We can but try,’ he said. He looked to Gherwan. ‘You must leave tomorrow and travel to Travena; Ffodor has respect for you and may see sense on this.’

Withred spoke now, breaking his silence. ‘That gives us barely three thousand men, although you seem unsure if this Ffodor will come to the cause.’ He let his words hang awhile, hoping to promote an explanation from Arthur.

Arthur gave a quick glance towards Flint, who shifted uncomfortably. ‘Let’s just say there are complications with Ffodor, but hopefully nothing which cannot be resolved under the circumstances.’

Withred sensed that Arthur was holding something back, but now was not the time to press him. ‘Even if these
complication
s as you call them
are
resolved,’ continued Withred, ‘then we will still have just three thousand men against six thousand or possibly more. Are there no more tribes to the north who will help you?’

‘There are Silures, Dubunni, Atribates,’ said Arthur, ‘but all have trade connections with Guertepir who controls the port.’

‘So Ffodor is your only option then?’

‘No, there are the Cornovii further west still, but they are a mysterious folk who keep themselves to themselves; they cannot be counted upon.’

Withred looked to Augustus who sat beside him. Augustus’ nod to him—
put it forward Withred; now’s the time—
was all the endorsement he needed.

‘I can help ... I think,’ said Withred.  ‘I may be able to get more men to fight for our cause.’             

‘More men ... from where?’ queried Arthur.

‘From my homeland ... from Angeln. There are many who wish to leave the bog and forest there; many still who would welcome new land.’

An extraordinary expression, half scepticism, half surprise, came to Arthur’s face upon hearing Withred’s proposal. ‘You’re suggesting we invite raiders to Britannia? Men who would take British villages by force and enslave its people?’

‘Except that the people I bring over would be men who until now have resisted the lure of the campaign. We could offer them the prize they desire the most: we could offer them land.’

‘But I have no land to offer.’ said Arthur perplexed. ‘Apart from the most unforgiving wilderness, all the land around here is settled and under the plough. What empty land there is—the lands of the Levels—is unpeopled and for a reason: it’s flooded for most of the year.’

‘You are forgetting about the territory above the wall,’ said Withred. ‘Dominic tells me, the Votadini who march with Guertepir come from above the wall.’ He cast a quick glance towards Ingle. ‘And Ingle reckons they intended to settle in Deva and forsake their northern lands.’

‘And so they’ll leave fields and pastures ready to settle above the wall,’ said Arthur, as Withred’s proposal started to make sense to him. ‘But why would they want such land if the Votadini are so eager to leave it?’

‘Because all land is coveted on this isle,’ said Withred. ‘Especially empty land that can be colonised quickly.’

‘So you would go to Angeln—you, a man who is seen as a traitor to his own people—and expect them to come over to the British cause?’

‘Yes, because they desire land above everything else. With respect, my lord, you do not understand what motivates the men of Angeln. They live in a land of floods and famine which even the Romans left alone.’

Arthur looked to Gherwan. ‘Help me out here. What do you think of this?’

‘That we are not in a position to refuse
any
help,’ said Gherwan simply. ‘If Guertepir’s force was to come at us now we would be finished, pure and simple.’

Arthur sighed, resigned now, and turned back to Withred. ‘It seems that we have no choice but to give this a go. How long will it take for you to put this together?’

‘Providing I can get men to come over, then I could be there and back in thirty days.’

Arthur seemed surprised. ‘So soon?’

‘Yes, twelve days or so to get from Brythonfort to Angeln, six days or so to recruit a force of men, then twelve days to get back here.’

‘And who would you take with you?’

Withred looked towards Augustus. ‘I can think of no one better than this man to accompany me, if he would consent to the journey.’

‘Why not,’ said Augustus. ‘I dwelled for thirty-five years never venturing from my village and in the last two years I have crossed the breadth of this land twice. I might as well do it a third time,
and
sail the sea as well.’ He took in Withred’s swarthy visage; his shaven head; his chest-length beard; his glittering eyes. ‘And like I once said: my friend here would make Grendel shit its pants, so I am in safe hands.’

‘You don’t look like a man who
needs
a safe pair of hands,’ smiled Arthur as he appraised Augustus’ gigantic frame. ‘The sight of the pair of you would make a
legion
of Grendels shit their pants.’

‘Then we’ll leave at first light tomorrow,’ said Withred, his voice cutting through the ripple of laughter. ‘We have no time to waste on this.’

‘That’s it then ... All will have to leave tomorrow,’ said Arthur. ‘Dominic and Will to follow Guertepir’s group; Gherwan to Travena, and Gus and Withred to Angeln.’

Now he turned his attention to Robert, Simon and the rest of the artisans who sat together nearby. ‘There’s much to do,’ he began. ‘If war indeed comes to us then we must meet it with brains as well as force. Sixty miles from here, near Calleva, there is a field where the Romans dumped their broken artillery—ballistae and the like— before they left our isle. The last time I was there, some eight years back, the field had grown through most of the weaponry and some of the wood had been taken from the field—probably to frame a hut or to use as firewood. Still, there may be enough machinery left to get an idea as to its construction. Robert—and Simon too if you’re up to it—I want you to travel to Calleva and find the field and glean what you can from whatever remains.’