Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (69 page)

Gherwan attempted one last appeal. Looking at Rogan, he said: ‘I know you; we met briefly on a campaign, and I believe you to be a man of sound reason. Surely, you know what’s happening here.’ He flashed his eyes towards Marcia, aware that somehow she had influenced Rogan earlier. ‘Do not let others cloud your judgment, speak to your Lord. Try to persuade him on this.’

Rogan, uncomfortable, remained silent as Marcia’s eyes bore into him. The guards approached Gherwan, took his arm, and started to pull him towards the door. Snatching it free, he blistered: ‘Hands off, I will go freely!’ Surrounded by the men, Gherwan and Murdoc walked from the hall.

Ffodor shooed them away with his hands. ‘Out!—Out!—Get on your way and do not return. Tell Arthur that Ffodor does not easily forgive those who do him wrong. Those who call his child a liar.’

As he was pushed through the door, Gherwan again appealed to Rogan. He turned and shouted: ‘Make him see sense, man. I know in your heart you are with us on this. Make him see sense!’

Then they were outside and  into the cold night. Their horses had been readied from them, and they left Travena bitter and frustrated.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Cunedda, Diarmait and Raedwald had lingered within the walls of Camulodunum for five days awaiting the arrival of the three Germanic chiefs. Along with Hrodgar, the captains would listen to Cunedda’s appeal for a union and provide four hundred men each if convinced. Needful of keeping the Saxons of Camulodunum on their side, Cunedda and Diarmait had agreed to the garrisoning of their main body of men outside the town.

Raedwald rested his elbows upon the sill of the window opening as he looked out at a dreary February morning. As he watched, a group of riders entered the town. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘The Jute has arrived from Cantiaci. That should be the last of them. Now we’ll get the chance to talk at last.’

Cunedda moved to the ingress and nudged Raedwald aside. ‘Yes, it must be the man they call Wigstan.’ He turned to Diarmait, his eyes betraying his intimation. ‘It’ll be good to finally get out of here.’

The expression was not lost on Diarmait, who, like Cunedda, had found his enforced proximity to Raedwald testing to say the least. The Saxon, who could count on no friends in the town, had badgered Cunedda and Diarmait to share their billet with him. During their journey to Camulodunum, the two leaders had become excessively tired of the overblown, blustering youth, so it was with no small measure of foreboding that they agreed. Since then, having done nothing to endear himself to the two hard-nosed veterans, they had grown to detest him. His invented tales of courage in combat, they recognised as pure lies, and his boastfulness over the matter of reprisal, they found distasteful; being, as they were, fathers of large families and men averse to gratuitous destruction.

‘So we need to convince four of them that this endeavor is worth their while,’ said Diarmait. ‘Wigstan, Hrodgar, Cenhelm and—and—‘ 

‘Osbeorn,’ burst in Raedwald. ‘His brother, Bealdwine, rode with my father and was the best scout this isle has ever seen, and also a fierce warrior with no equal in hand-to-hand combat.’

In spite of his reluctance to endure another of Raedwald’s diatribes, Diarmait’s interest had been sparked. ‘
Was
, you say. So I take it this Bealdwine is not in Camulodunum. What happened to him?’ 

Raedwald’s face darkened. ‘Ambushed in the forest, he was. By the coward, Dominic, no doubt. Probably sneaked up behind him—his corpse found hanging from a tree upside down some months later. They knew it was Bealdwine by his tunic; his head was missing.’

Diarmait raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You say this Bealdwine had no equal in combat?’ He gave a dry chuckle. ‘It seems he certainly found one in Dominic. Now
his
fame
has
spread, along with his other cohorts: Murdoc, Augustus and Withred. Heard of
them
, have you?’

‘Heard of them and intend to kill them all.’

Diarmait regarded Raedwald and wondered what in the name of Christ he was doing in the man’s company. Having been Guertepir’s master of the guard for some fifteen years, Diarmait had seen men come and go. Many, like the Saxon puppy who stood bristling before him, were loose in the mouth and usually loose in the bowels whenever things got tough.

Diarmait had spent his early childhood in Hibernia. When eleven years old, and one of twelve children, he had seen his father killed as he defended the herd of twenty cows that kept his family fed and free from poverty. Left to care for her brood without any means of support
,
Diarmait’s mother had no option but to send her children away. Diarmait went to live with an aunt on the isle of Britannia in the kingdom of Dyfed. The woman’s husband was a pitiless man who regularly struck Diarmait for the slightest transgression. His aunt, too terrified of the brute to intervene, had watched, impotent, as Diarmait had been forced to endure the man’s ill nature.

By now, Diarmait viewed the world with cynicism and bitterness and his demeanor became taciturn and grim. His life as a virtual slave on his uncle’s smallholding continued loveless and arduous. Five years passed and Diarmait grew into a loose-limbed, athletic adolescent. One day, after a minor lapse, his uncle struck him across the head with a knotted cord. Diarmait realised he could take no more and a crimson rage had flooded him.

His aunt’s screaming had filtered into his consciousness ending his frenzy, but it was too late. Diarmait’s uncle lay dead on the ground, his body battered and his head crushed flat from Diarmait’s stamping. Pushing his aunt away and rebuking her for allowing his abuse to continue for so long, he had stumbled, confused yet strangely fulfilled, from the homestead. For a year, he survived by earning food for labour, his wanderings taking him ever closer to Guertepir’s ringfort. There, he found a position as a herdsman, where his impressive physique and cold eyes grabbed the attention of Coirpre—the captain of Guertepir’s guard. Guertepir had then seen his potential, and like all prospective recruits, Diarmait went straight to Guertepir’s wife, Almaith. Diarmait emerged after three days—his virginity a distant memory. He had passed his first test.

Five more years were to pass, and Diarmait got used to killing Saxons for Rome as he roamed Dyfed routing out rebels. His prowess soon caught the eye of Guertepir with whom he rode. On one bleak March day, after a messy and difficult engagement with a determined Saxon raiding party, Coirpre had fallen. Diarmait’s actions that day—having turned defeat into victory as he savagely defended Guertepir—had earned him his promotion to the captain of Guertepir’s guard.

Grim and uncompromising, Diarmait had been shaped by his life. Little wonder he was singularly unimpressed by the Saxon youth before him now. His tone was an amalgam of scepticism and light ridicule as he addressed Raedwald. ‘Kill this Dominic would you. And how would you do it? I believe he is—‘

Hrodgar entered the hut, saving Diarmait the agony of having to listen to Raedwald’s fanciful response. Brusquely, he snapped: ‘To the alehouse—now!—the three of you. We are ready to consider your proposal. Tell the others what you have told me and you may get our support on this.’ He stood at the door as, first, Cunedda, then Diarmait, went by him. In response to Hrodgar’s glower, Diarmait let his gaze linger upon him a moment. He had killed many like him when in the employ of Rome—had seen the glitter of egotism fade from their eyes as they bled out.

A slight twitch of Hrodgar’s face and an intensification of his stare dared Diarmait to say what was on his mind. But the Hibernian would not be drawn. Instead, he gave Hrodgar a dismissive smile.

Lastly, Raedwald came to Hrodgar. Placing a gold-encircled arm across the doorway, Hrodgar stopped the youth in his tracks. ‘You’ve done well to remain in possession of your cock and balls after stealing the horses,’ he said with a twist to his lip. He nodded towards Cunedda and Diarmait who waited outside the hut. ‘It’s lucky you’ve got those two looking after you; by Woden it is!’

Raedwald looked to Diarmait for support, but the Hibernian seemed happy to let Raedwald squirm and sort the situation out for himself.

‘See,’ said Hrodgar with a lopsided half-grin, ‘even your fellow lodgers have had enough of you.’

At that very moment, Raedwald decided he would dearly love to kill Hrodgar. Instead, he said: ‘I think it would be better if we went to the meeting.’ He fought to keep the tremor out of his voice. ‘The sooner we can get on the trail, the sooner I can prove myself to you.’

Hrodgar said nothing, merely looked through Raedwald. He let his gaze linger a while, then dropped his arm. Giving a mocking, little grunt of a laugh, he waved Raedwald past him.

Three days earlier Will had entered Camulodunum with some trepidation. At first, he feared he would stand out in the Saxon stronghold but the worry proved groundless. A good scattering of opportunist Britons, ready to trade with the Saxons, now resided in the bustling town, so one more native did not register with anyone.

As he looked around, he saw the decaying bones of the former Roman stronghold. Courtyards, once resplendent with mosaics, now lay cracked and decaying. Fallen roofs, ruinous towers and the dilapidated gatehouse hinted at the town’s past splendor. Everywhere, old brick structures pushed brokenly from the ground. Overlaying all of this was the indelible, pragmatic stamp of Saxony. Plank-built, thatched houses, noisy, clanging workshops and corals of ponies, spread across the broken topography of the place. At regular intervals, languid curls of smoke issued from the thatched roofs of numerous alehouses, brothels and lodging houses.

As Will sidled down a narrow, dim street, his senses were assailed by a myriad of sights and odours. The stench of human excrement and urine was everywhere, seemingly unnoticed by the bustling throngs who elbowed their way through even the smallest alleyways. To Will, a man who had spent most of his life in the languid forests, the place seemed to be nothing more than a cauldron of shouting and pushing.

A door burst open before him and a cursing harlot spilled into the street. A boot appeared from the doorway and connected firmly with the woman’s backside, sending her sprawling onto the litter-strewn floor. Instinctively, Will stooped to aid her, but the woman—spiting with rage—snatched her arm from his grasp. Mercifully, her expletive-laden Germanic outburst was lost upon him. He held up his hands, happy to demonstrate his intention to let her be.

Relieved to pass her by, he walked from the alleyway and entered one of the many eroded, bustling plazas. The place had long since lost the ambiance of a peaceful, fountain-adorned Roman backwater; now it was a boisterous collection of stalls and noisy merchants. Will winced when hearing their barking shouts, as they competed to attract the patronage of the milling crowds. Needing air and relief from the bombardment upon his every sense, he made for the open central area of the town.

Here a commotion had broken out as a body of men filed in through the gates. It was the third such arrival Will had witnessed in as many days.  A squat Saxon led the newcomers to a coral. The crowd parted as the riders passed, the smell of sweat and leather, cloying and intense.

The Saxon went to a daubed hut that seemed ready to fall down, and stood at its door. As Cunedda, then Diarmait stepped out, Will became aware a situation was beginning to develop. Shortly after, he watched as a younger, ruffled-looking man emerged.

He followed discretely, as all walked from the square and into the bowels of the town. After passing through a confusing, twisting warren of alleyways, the men reached a tavern. Above its door swung a huge drinking horn. Cut from a massive white-horned bull, the symbol removed any doubt, if indeed any still lingered in the mind of the casual passer-by, that this was
the
place to be in Camulodunum. Furthermore, a lurid phallic symbol, painted in red upon the establishment’s door, informed that ale was merely one pleasure the place had to offer.

When twenty paces from the entrance and some ten paces behind Cunedda’s entourage, Will heard the unmistakable mass-murmuring of a room packed with people. Two no-nonsense Saxons stood guard. They nodded to the squat man who led Cunedda, Diarmait and the youth towards them. Will had gone far enough. The meeting was about to happen and he would not get through the door. As the men went into the room, he turned and walked back down the alleyway—his intention now, to leave town and return to his camp half a mile away. He would wait for them to complete their business.

Hrodgar had assumed his self-appointed role as master of ceremonies and took his place at the centre of the planked tables that formed a line across the back of the room. On his right sat the three men he had sent for: Wigstan the Jute, Cenhelm the Saxon, and Osbeorn, another Saxon. On his left sat Cunedda, Diarmait and Raedwald.

For the previous five days, the feeling that something big was about to happen had swept through Camulodunum like a forest fire. The news had soon left the town and rushed through the taken lands until petering out along the coastal strips and forests. The rumours of a large envoy of British and Hibernian warriors arriving at Camulodunum had created a stir, adding to the consensus that moves were indeed afoot in Britannia.

Consequently, the alehouse was standing-room only, with many of the men forced to climb upon tables and benches to get a better view. The room now hummed with expectant, enthused conversation.

Hrodgar looked to Wigstan, Cenhelm and Osbeorn. They nodded and he stood. The sound of benches scraping against stone sounded as men climbed high to see. Hrodgar banged his fist upon his table. A tense silence fell.

‘I see here many followers of mine,’ he began. ‘Men who I know to be worthy of the task put forward by the Britons and Hibernians who have travelled to this town.’ A hush blanketed the room. ‘Also, in this alehouse, I see Wigstan’s men; Cenhelm’s men; Osbeorn’s men. No doubt you all know what this meeting is about.’

‘Raping Britons, taking their land and shitting on their turf!’ came a shout from a wag at the back of the room.

Hrodgar allowed himself a little nod and half smile as he waited for the laughter to abate. ‘Yes, that’s what it usually turns out to be,’ he continued, ‘but this man here’—he nodded towards Cunedda—‘has plans to make your toes curl.’ He extended his arm towards the Briton, inviting him to stand.

Cunedda took to his feet and looked around. Saxon expressions in the room ranged from curiosity to downright hostility. A glance downwards to the four Saxon commanders, confirmed Cunedda’s conviction that the night would not be an easy one for him. He had already worked on Hrodgar and felt he had partially convinced him of the benefits of the alliance. The other three, though, appeared anything
but
won over.