Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (70 page)

Wigstan the Jute, whose blond hair was slicked with goose fat and spiked upwards, glowered at him and lightly and impatiently chopped the table with the ledge of his hand, waiting for Cunedda to begin. Cenhelm and Osbeorn wore similar scowls. Cenhelm’s moustache was plaited and hung below his chin, and this he twisted between his forefinger and thumb as he took in Cunedda. Osbeorn was the brother of Bealdwine—the man killed by Dominic in the eastern forest. Osbeorn hated all Britons and, like his brother, possessed a hooked nose and narrow, animal eyes. He bore them into Cunedda now as if trying to pierce his brain.

Unperturbed, Cunedda began. ‘With or without you I will march upon Arthur and lay his lands to ruin.’ He allowed his statement a few seconds to sink in as glances became exchanged and a low muttering began. ‘Yes ... I will march with four thousand men against Arthur. If you choose not to accept the offer I am about to put to this room, we will march without you.’

‘Four thousand you say,’ Wigstan regarded him with scepticism. ‘The British tribes are too scattered to amass such a number.’ He took a quaff from his horn and belched dismissively at Cunedda.

A ripple of laughter swept the tavern. Cunedda ignored it. ‘Then you know naught of my tribe and the treaty we have already forged with Guertepir, the Hibernian king.’

‘Then you must educate me on the matter,’ said Wigstan, his smile still laced with doubt. 

‘Very well,’ said Cunedda. He began to explain the finer points of the alliance; giving specific details about numbers. The room was silent as he spoke—occasional coughs and fidgeting his only interruption.

Towards the end, he introduced Diarmait to the assembly. ‘This man can vouch for everything I have told you,’ Cunedda said. ‘He is Guertepir’s man and is the captain of his army. He speaks not your tongue but will answer any question through me.’

‘What do you want from us,’ interjected Osbeorn suddenly. ‘Why do Britons—people who we have driven into the dust and a people I hate with every sinew of my body—come to us now for help.’ His eyes blazed at Cunedda, demanding an answer.

‘Quite simple, Saxon lord,’ said Cunedda. ‘We want two thousand of your men to join us to ensure there‘s no doubt over the outcome of the forthcoming war with Arthur. For that you get what Arthur has kept from you till now: southwestern Britannia and its ports.’

Cunedda let his words sink in as the room erupted with conversation. Hrodgar, who already knew some of the details, removed his dagger and banged its hilt upon the scarred planking before him. ‘Quiet!—QUIET!’ His cry went unheeded so he climbed up on the table and again screamed for order. His voice was lost amongst the furore. Cunedda joined Hrodgar on the table. He raised his arms beseechingly above his head. Slowly, the room fell to silence again.

‘Yes—yes,’ he shouted. ‘You will get ALL the southwestern lands and ALL the gold that lies therein, and I have been told the Britons dig it in cartloads from the very earth beneath their feet.’

Cunedda jumped down and sat beside Diarmait again. ‘Let them exhaust their zest,’ he said above a new outburst of noise. ‘I told you these people liked gold—will do anything to get their hands on it—listen to the noise they make, does it not tell you I was right all along.’

Diarmait coldly eyed the Saxon leaders who were having their own vigorous conversation. He gave a slight nod towards them. ‘That may be so, but they will be difficult to control, let alone their men.’

Slowly and with a stubborn, rhythmic persistence
,
Hrodgar began to bang on the table. The place fell to a stuttering silence.

Cenhelm, who had worn a contemplative frown and twirled his moustache throughout most of the uproar, now stood and directly addressed Diarmait. ‘Like me’—Cenhelm wafted his hands across his torso; an invitation for Diarmait to take in his gold-bedecked person—‘Guertepir has a fondness for gold. What’s to stop him marching his men into the southwest and taking it for himself?’

Cunedda translated Cenhelm’s question. Diarmait had his answer ready. ‘Yes, I cannot deny it, my master covets gold also, but the prize he seeks is not the southwest; his army would be stretched too far; he already rules most of the western peninsular and that is enough for him. What my master wants is Aquae Sulis, for there he intends to set up a pleasure palace for his wife.’

Cenhelm absently fingered the golden torque at his neck. ‘I hear the town is crammed with treasure. It would be worth the grind of the campaign just to see the place.’ He turned his attention to Cunedda. ‘And what of you, Briton? You, who are prepared to ride against your own people. Why would you do such a thing if not to obtain more land for your tribe?’

‘My ambitions do not extend to Arthur’s province,’ Cunedda said. ‘I seek alliance with Guertepir and the freedom to patrol
his
lands—territory that provides landfall for my enemies.  That’s my reason for standing here tonight. As I speak, Votadini people are on the move to Deva and the surrounding country—that is our new home. Guertepir’s friendship ensures we will be protected from the raiders of Hibernia.’

‘So let me get this right,
’
came in Osbeorn. ’All you want is Aquae Sulis and the security of the country north of it. And for that we get to scourge Arthur’s lands until we come to the sea.’

‘Yes—two thousand of your best men when added to our four thousand should be enough to overcome Arthur and his allies.

Exasperated, Osbeorn threw up his hands. ‘Two thousand! Two thousand! You keep mentioning two thousand! Why not ask for four thousand and get this finished with quickly?’

Because you’re Saxons and would want everything—Aquae Sulis, Northern Britannia the western peninsular—everything!—should you match us in numbers,
thought Cunedda
.
He and Diarmait had already spoken to Hrodgar over the matter, and found him to be an unlikely if arrogant ally. So he decided to let the Saxon answer. ‘Hrodgar,’ Cunedda invited. ‘Perhaps you can explain this to Osbeorn.’

All turned to him.

‘I asked you here, Osbeorn,’ said Hrodgar, ‘along with Wigstan and Cenhelm, because I know the number of men you can call upon. And—yes—with my warriors that comes to the two thousand men the Briton and Hibernian need.’

‘But why such a
specific number
?’ pressed Osbeorn.

‘Are you listening to me, man,’ said Hrodgar, his patience waning. ‘If it’s just the four of us we get a bigger share of the taken lands, and the four of us can only muster two thousand men between us. Think of it, we will be able to quarter the kingdom. If we bring in more chiefs our tracts are bound to shrink in size.’

‘And no need to worry about your northern border,’ burst in Cunedda. ‘Guertepir and my Votadini will keep it free from unwanted invaders. If they approach you they must travel through our lands as well.’

Hrodgar nodded his endorsement. ‘Yes, I know it seems an unlikely alliance; I was also doubtful the first time these people approached me, but the more I’ve thought about it the more sense it makes. We want different things—they want security in the north and west, we want Arthur’s lands and beyond. Oh, and listen to this’—Hrodgar looked directly at Osbeorn—‘you get to meet Dominic; the man who removed your brother’s head and let him bleed out like a stuck swine.’

Osbeorn blanched at the name, such was the depth of his hatred for Dominic. ‘You mean he rides with Arthur?’ he muttered icily.

‘Scouts for him, mainly, but he’ll certainly be on the field of battle—wolf’s hat and all—so he’ll be hard to miss.’

‘Six hundred of my men—Gedriht, Geoguth, and Duguth. Also whoever I can raise from the fyrd; as soon as I can get them here, they’re yours,’ said Osbeorn. ‘The chance to slowly skin that wretched coward alive is worth it alone.’

‘And I will raise about four hundred,’ shouted Hrodgar, enthused now. ‘We’re half way there already.’

Whoops and shouts broke out in the room as followers of Hrodgar and Osbeorn, who had pushed to the front as they strained to hear the debate, became boisterous. Bare chested and riding upon the shoulders of companions, many of the younger men—the Geoguths—now punched at the air as they shouted their encouragement to the crowd.

Raedwald, ever mindful that his input to the discussion would attract the wrong sort of attention from Hrodgar, had remained quiet throughout, but as the atmosphere in the room became infectious, he found himself up on his feet as he clapped in rhythm to the emergent chanting.

Hrodgar addressed Wigstan and Cenhelm, who watched as the scenes of revelry escalated. ‘Well?’ he shouted, as he fought to make himself heard. ‘Will you add to it? With the Britons, we already number five thousand, a formidable gathering you must agree, and I for one intend to go … with or without you!’

Wigstan’s ice-blue eyes glittered beneath his flamboyantly spiked hair. ‘And split the kingdom two ways instead of four ... I think not! My people have been crowded into Cantiaci for long enough, I pledge my five hundred men!’

‘And
I
pledge my
seven hundred
!’ shouted Cenhelm above the clamour. ‘The best shieldwall this island has ever seen will crush the life out of the dogs.’ Standing, he raised his arms
,
his golden armlets and wristbands dropping down to his inked biceps. He threw back his head and took in the roar.

Cunedda exchanged a glance with Diarmait as the wall of noise enveloped them. He had planted the seed and the tree had burst from the ground. Now they could plan for invasion.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dominic’s return to Brythonfort had been brief. As soon as he forwarded the news of Cunedda’s continuation to Camulodunum, Arthur had dispatched him to Corinium. Here, he would watch the northern road for troop movement from Deva. Cunedda’s man, Abloyc, would undoubtedly take the direct road through Corinium should he decide to march south.

Dominic stopped at Nila’s village. The mother of Aiden, Flint and Maewyn, she lived half a day’s ride from Brythonfort.

Eighteen months had passed since the Saxon raider, Ranulf, had burned her world down to the scorched earth and killed her husband, Bran. On the day of the raid she had been at Brythonfort visiting her son, Flint, and so had survived. Furthermore, Ranulf had stolen her children—the abduction moving Arthur to send Dominic, Augustus, Murdoc, Withred and Flint on a quest to find them. Sadly, the party returned without Aiden—the lad having drowned in Hibernia.

For many months Nila had been inconsolable, but eventually she settled into her new life as a cook for a nearby fort. Flint operated from the outpost and she was able to see him when his duties brought him back. As for her other son, Maewyn, he was now a novice monk in Hibernia.

Desiring to be within the reach of a tract of forest one day’s ride away, Dominic had moved from Brythonfort to Nila’s village. Since then, he had often spent the evenings with her around his night fire speaking at length about his quest to find her sons. He was aware of how Nila gained comfort from talking about the search; it was her way of coping with the loss of Aiden and Bran. And so he was happy to tell her all he could remember.

But one thing bothered Dominic. Except that
bother
was too mild a word—
tortured
would be nearer the mark. Dominic was tortured because he felt a deep fondness towards Nila. Indeed, he had begun to spend less time in the forests and more time in the village such was the depth of his feelings, and for Dominic this was unheard of. His first thought upon awakening and his last image before falling asleep was always sad, beautiful Nila.

The crisis threatening to rip Britannia apart had almost come as a relief to Dominic. Now he could consider matter
s
more pressing, except to Dominic nothing was more pressing than the chance to cast his eyes upon the woman who constantly inhabited his thoughts. Not that Dominic was a stranger to women.

When scouting for Rome he had become well-known throughout Britannia, from the wall of Hadrian to the southern Cantiaci coast. He knew almost every town in Roman Britain at that time and every one of them held a woman for him. Sometimes they were kind-hearted whores whom Dominic would treat well, often leaving them with as much coin as they could earn in a month. In some towns, he took up with serving wenches and women of higher status. Drawn to him by his reputation or attracted by his magnetism, these women would watch the approach of any scouting parties with anticipation, hoping the solid little woodsman rode amongst them.

410AD came and Rome left the isle of Britannia to fight foes closer to home, leaving Dominic without a role. He returned to his village then, still a young man of twenty-two. Skilled in tracking and warfare now, Dominic was unable to settle down and often entered the ancient woods, west of Camulodunum, to set his traps. For fifteen years he endured a pastoral life, living with his widowed mother and brother, Lew. However, during Dominic’s service for Rome all the younger women in the village had married, putting a premature end to Dominic’s carnal experiences. 

One day, his brother, Lew, a man who wrestled with his own inner demons, had walked away. Dominic tracked him into the woods but lost his trail after it entered a gravel-clogged river. Fearing the worst, he returned to his distraught mother, feeling he had failed her. For months afterwards, he would search the woods as far as was safe but he never found Lew nor his trail, and finally accepted he must have perished in the old forest. His mother died and Dominic continued to struggle to see any purpose or future for him behind the drudgery of the plough. So at the age of thirty-seven he had walked away and entered the forest, never to return.

‘Dom, I didn’t expect to see you; you’re a sight for my sorry, sore eyes.’ Nila went to Dominic as he slid from his horse.

He embraced Nila. ‘I’m on my travels again, I’m afraid. I need supplies before I set out for Corinium. I’ve been sent to keep an eye on things up there.’ He stood back a step and looked at Nila.
And I needed to see you—I so much needed to see you,
he thought.

Loosely gathered in a ponytail, her dark plaits hung to one side and fell over her shoulder. She wore a simple, azure dress, tied at the waist by a plaited belt. The dress reached her ankles, and a hooded shawl of wool embraced her shoulders, keeping out the worst of the probing wind.

Beaming, she took his hands and stood back from him. ‘Make sure you come to me before you leave for Aquae Sulis, it would be nice to see you off.’

After some moments, Dominic reluctantly loosened his grasp. He self-consciously fingered the scar tissue on his face and made to turn to his hut. ‘That I’ll certainly do,’ he said. ‘As soon as I’ve got my things, I’ll see you then.’

Later, Dominic was stuffing supplies into his pony’s pannier when he sensed Nila behind him. He turned to her. In her hand, she held a small bundle tied with a strip of hemp. She gave a dismissive little shrug as Dominic glanced appreciatively at the bundle. ‘Just some bread and cheese for your journey, it was no trouble to put it together. The bread came from Brythonfort bakery this morning ... should cheer you on your way.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dominic taking the package. Afraid to meet Nila’s gaze, such was the intensity of his emotion, he looked to the ground. ‘You’re very kind, you’re …’

As his voice trailed away, Nila prompted him. ‘I’m what, Dom?’ She gave a self-conscious little laugh. ‘A witch? A burden? A pest?’ She prodded him playfully. ‘Come on ... What am I Dom?’

Dominic raised his head and met her eyes. Resolute but sad, he stumbled over his words. ‘You’re lovely, Nila … in every way, inside and out, you’re truly lovely ... that’s what you are ... since you ask.’ Then it poured from him. ‘So lovely that even though the world threatens to fall apart, I cannot get you out of my head—day or night.’ Taken aback, Nila was stunned to silence. Embarrassed and angry, Dominic threw up his hands in self-recrimination. ‘There ... I’ve said it. But what
have
I said; you still grieve and I babble nonsense at you. It was selfish of me. I am
so
sorry. I will go now and—‘

Nila placed her hand on his lips then hugged him, her warm breath against his ear. She had begun to weep. ‘Don’t you
dare
apologize to me. You spoke from your heart and your words were true. When you get back we can talk about this.’ She rubbed her sleeve across her eyes. ‘Keep safe Dom. I need you to keep safe.’

Astounded yet overjoyed by her response, and unsure of whether to hug her closer or let her go, Dominic merely stood back and took her hands again. He laughed, unable to contain his delight, as he beheld her. ‘Oh, I’ll keep safe, Nila. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll keep really safe now.’

Nila went to him then, and they embraced again, this time with less inhibition. When Dominic could finally let her go he walked elated to his horse.