Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (9 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Egbert and his men made good progress along the ancient track. Abundant herds of deer, grazing on new, colonising shoots of growth, had kept the passageway largely clear of obstructive vegetation. Stone sets broke sporadically through the mulch, and upon this firm road, the pack ponies hauled their loads of provisions.

It was late afternoon on the fourth day of their trek when they saw signs that the forest was thinning. Around them, grew an overgrown hazel coppice. Festooned with strips of ragged, coloured cloth, the misshapen trees reared eerie and sentinel.

Wlensling, a well-built man with close-cropped ginger beard and stern expression, rode beside Egbert. His simple leather jerkin
,
cut at the shoulders, sported four lines of studs down the front. Thick arms displayed his only ostentations: two golden arm rings given to him by Osric for his courage in battle. His woollen breeches went into knee-length, fur trimmed boots. A close fitting iron helmet completed his austere appearance.

Taciturn, his voice was a low rumble. ‘It appears the land’s been shaped by human hands; see how they tie offerings onto the trees. It’s said that some Britons still worship the Christ God, but maybe they still fear the spirits of their dead.’

Egbert patted his ax. ‘They’d do well to fear this; anyone we come across from now on will feel it, that’s for sure.’

Cissa rode to join them. He pointed at the track ahead. ‘See there, the pathway’s been trampled. Who knows what’s ahead, we need to be on our toes here. There’s too few of us to tackle a big group of Britons.’

It was normal for Cissa to council heedfulness. His prudence had often served to counterbalance Egbert’s recklessness—it was the reason Osric had included him in the war band.

Egbert listened impassively to Cissa’s advice, then snickered to Wlensling. ‘Did you hear that? … he’s shitting himself again. Have you seen how he behaves after a raid? He even waits till the women have lost their fight.’

Wlensling frowned as he surveyed the woods around him. ‘That maybe so, but there’ll be no pickings for him here. We need to get this spying done and return to the comforts of the coast.’

Nursing the hope that the coppiced woodland would lead them from the forest, they pressed on. By mid-morning, the trees became sparse and they reached the village.

The huts stood abandoned and derelict. Looking at one, Egbert noticed it had lost much of its mud daubing in places, allowing the underlying wattle to stand out as if a rib cage on a rotting carcass. A line of boulders that lay in the form of a cross some distance from the huts confirmed they had nothing to fear from anything alive in the village.

Like the forest, the Saxons were silent—their ponies shuffling and grunting as they sent out billows of foggy breath into the cool, pre-noon air.

Frowning, Wlensling looked around. ‘I don’t like this place,’ he muttered. ‘It’s got a bad feel to it.’

Just as unsettled, Egbert took in the foreboding scene, but realised he could not let the men see any weakness in him. ‘It’s gloomy, I’ll give you that,’ he conceded, ‘but gloom doesn’t wield a spear, and it won’t put me in my grave. Come on, follow me, let’s delve deeper.’ He dismounted and led his pony into the clearing. The others followed with trepidation.

It was soon clear that the village had not met its ill fortune at the hands of enemies. The huts showed no signs of burning or deliberate damage—rather, they owed their sorry state to natural decay.

Cissa knelt and examined the stone cross. ‘These people fell to a pestilence or famine, I’m sure of it,’ he said. ‘They’ve been buried, so someone cared for them. Raiders would have left them to the animals.’

Wlensling looked around uneasily. ‘Then let’s get our water from the well and get out of here,’ he said. ‘Then we can get back in search of the living—this place freezes my very bones.’

Egbert pointed beyond the village boundary towards what seemed to be overgrown fields. ‘I guess that’s our direction. That would be the way they took their produce to trade.’ He heaved his bulk onto his pony. ‘That’s if any other wretches are left alive in this putrid place.’

Their track, indented by ruts baked hard by the sun, told of the passage of long-vanished ox drawn carts to and from the habitation. After a while, Wlensling dismounted and knelt by one of the furrows. ‘It seems this track was used for many years if the depths of these ruts are anything to go by. Maybe they lead to a bigger settlement—even a market.’

They continued through the early afternoon, following the tracks, but saw no living person. It was late afternoon before they heard the sound of human voices.

Two boys were at play in a tree near a small pond. The old Alder had begun to lean. One of its branches grew at right angles to its trunk and bridged the water. It was on this that the boys lay on their bellies, looking down into the green pool as they idled their day away. The reflection of a fat, bearded man had them look up.

He spoke in a tongue unknown to them.

They stared blankly at him, unable to understand.

Cissa, who had learned a few words of the British tongue from Withred, rode to Egbert’s side and asked in British, ‘Village?’

The larger of the boys nodded when hearing the word. Cissa adopted a shrugging, questioning posture. Again, he asked, ‘Village?’

The boys shimmied off the tree and sidled towards the riders. Egbert dismounted and pointed to one of the tracks leading away from them. ‘Village?’ he asked, emulating Cissa.

The larger boy nodded his head and pointed to another track leading from the pond. The path contoured around a small grassy hill before disappearing from sight. Egbert patted the boy on the head and smiled at him before mounting his pony. Nodding knowingly at Cissa, he took to the path.

When Egbert crested the grassy hill, he turned to the following riders, his smile all-conquering. They joined him and saw the reason for his rapture. The scene below was one of an undulating patchwork of long rectangular fields situated in a huge clearing of the forest. Like water on a swelling sea, golden cereal crops rippled in the breeze presenting a far from wild landscape.

Triumphant and laughing, Egbert turned to Wlensling ‘Now we
can
return you gruff bastard; look at that, even your miserable face must crack a grin.’

Wlensling indeed allowed himself a rare smile. ‘Yes, it’s a sight that’s for sure. Now we can get back. Osric will be delighted when he hears of this.’ 

As Wlensling made to leave, Egbert grabbed his arm and looked at him squarely. ‘Where are you going, man?’ he asked as if puzzled. ‘We’re forgetting our manners.’ He nodded towards the contoured track they had ascended a short while ago. ‘We’ve not thanked the lads for their information … they deserve a reward.’ He withdrew his ax and wheeled his pony around. At a trot, he headed towards the boys.

CHAPTER TWELVE

After putting the bear to flight, Dominic had managed to bring down a deer in the woods. This, he roasted on a makeshift spit back at the camp. After eating their fill, the fugitives sat in the warmth of the fire comforted by its ochre glow in the dimming evening.

Murdoc looked worried as he spoke quietly to Dominic. ‘We’re too near to them. They’ll surely hunt game and wander close.’

‘Yes we’re in danger even here,’ agreed Dominic, ‘and we need to keep on our toes, though I still think this is the safest place providing the young ones stay up the tree.’ He peered into the gloom, scrutinizing the shrubbery for signs of disturbance. ‘The bear still worries me, though. Maybe one of us needs to stay here with the others.’ He pondered the options a while. ‘It would be better if you stayed with them while I go and keep my eye on the camp.’ He took an arrow from the hide quiver that lay at his feet, squinting as he looked along its shaft and examined its trueness. ‘Don’t forget they can’t be allowed to return with any news of other souls to slaughter. Perhaps we can delay the inevitable, who knows? Anyway, I’ll leave in the morning and see what I can do.’

‘Maybe you can get the woman and old man out,’ said Murdoc. ‘It grieves me to see them under the yoke of the bastards.’

Dominic replaced the arrow in the quiver. ‘My thoughts too,’ he said, ‘but they’re useful to them, so we need not be too hasty.’

Next day Dominic watched as the Saxons left the encampment in small groups leaving just one man to guard the area. His concern grew when two of them passed close and headed to the vicinity of the tree platform.

He considered following them, but confident Murdoc would be aloft and out of sight with the children, he decided instead to sit and watch the camp. One man remained to guard the captives. Dominic pondered whether to kill him, but uncertain when the others would return, decided the deed could wait.

The woman walked to the edge of the clearing but returned to the cooking fire when the guard called her back. She had come close enough to show herself to Dominic, and he guessed her age to be no more than twenty years. Her blonde hair was matted and dirty, defeating the efforts of the bronze clips to hold it in place, so that it hung long and untidily around her face. Despite her unkempt appearance, he could see that underneath the grime her face was fine-boned and pretty. He imagined how radiant it would look when smiling and happy. As she walked away, Dominic noticed how her slender figure moved with a grace and dignity that seemed defiant of the hardships she had endured.

The old man and young woman continued to salt the meat during the remainder of an uneventful day. The produce was taken to the underground store. The guard, who spoke the Celtic tongue, communicated occasionally to the pair. To Dominic’s surprise, the man’s tone seemed mild and relaxed as he addressed them.

In the late afternoon the others began to return from the forest, most of them empty handed. Dominic was careful to remain hidden. Just one of the men had made a kill, and the group ate boar that evening, cooked over the open fire.

It was after this meal, just before dusk, that a heated discussion broke out between two of the Saxons. One was the man who had guarded the captives that day. After a while, he walked into the hut leaving the other men around the campfire.

As darkness fell, the men settled down to sleep, leaving the two Britons alone some distance from the main group. There were no guards posted and Dominic decided the time was now right to liberate the pair.

He stole to the edge of the clearing, stopping dead when a silhouette moved across the front of the fire. Not breathing, he watched as a shape approached the sleeping woman and pulled her to her feet. 

Awake, she struggled as the man dragged her across the open ground towards the thicker woods. Dominic knew immediately what the man had in mind. A dark rage surged within him as he thought of the dead and defiled he had found at the wrecked village.

He tensed as the woman, dragged by her hair, stumbled past him. She passed close enough for him to feel the draught of her passage. Stealthily, he followed.

Hours earlier, Martha had experienced overwhelming joy when Egbert had departed the camp. Equally elated, Simon had taken solace from the knowledge that Martha would not be forced to lie with Egbert again—at least not for the time being. That night the other men left them alone, and Martha had been able to sleep deeply.

The next day, all but one of the men had gone off in different directions in search of game. Simon was relieved that only the tall imposing man—the warrior named Withred—had stayed behind to watch them.

By late afternoon, the others had drifted back, mostly empty-handed after inept attempts to bag game. Only one man returned with a boar, and Simon cooked this on a spit. The animal provided them with a change from the smoked fish they had lived on since finding the camp.

Edwin, a man who Martha recognised as one of her pursuers from the village, had frequently leered suggestively at her as she paused during her camp duties.

He approached Withred at dusk as he tended the campfire. He nodded in the direction of Martha, who sat apart from the group of six men. ‘It seems a pity to sleep alone when Egbert’s mare is available.’

Withred gave Edwin a dismissive half glance. ‘No one touches the woman, get back to your bedroll man.’

‘But who would tell Egbert?’ persisted Edwin. ‘Certainly not the woman, she doesn’t even speak our tongue.’

‘Just leave her alone,’ said Withred with quiet authority. ‘The woman sleeps alone until Egbert returns.’
Not that I’ll allow even him to defile her again
, he thought.

Piqued, Edwin walked across the square. ‘I don’t know why you save the whore for him,’ he muttered, ‘I thought you hated the man.’

By now, the others had settled down by the fire. Withred lingered a while, watching as Edwin took to his sleeping place. When Edwin’s snores began to sound, Withred entered the comfort of the hut.

Martha was apprehensive after witnessing the disagreement between Withred and Edwin. She was aware of the nature of the exchange, so wrapped herself tightly in her blanket beside Simon, watching nervously for any movement from the men by the fire. The tall, authoritative warrior had gone out of sight and this worried her. Having spent the day with him as their guard, she had come to realise that he wished them no harm. He spoke their tongue well and seemed always mild and relaxed. If he remained in the camp, Martha felt he would protect them from the wanton cruelty second nature to many of the men. With ankles chaffed from the rope hobble tied around her ankles, she eventually drifted into an uneasy sleep.

She awoke, her eyes wide and alert, a foul smelling hand clamped at her mouth. Looking up, she saw only an outline, but knew who the hand belonged to.

Edwin’s breaths came in excited gasps as he hoisted her to her feet and wrapped a sinewy arm around her waist. Gagged and frantic, Martha looked down to Simon, but he did not stir. His sleep, as was usual after a day of constant toil, had been instant and deep. Edwin’s strength proved too much, and Martha’s struggles came to nothing as he carried her away from the earshot of the clearing and into the bushes on the far side of the track.

Throwing her to the ground, he dropped to his knees beside her just as a dark, nimble figure slid in silently from behind.

Dominic’s hand slid through Edwin’s sparse hair and pulled his head back to facilitate the slashing of his throat down to the bone. He slid the blade across, then stepped back allowing Edwin to fall to the ground. There, his body went into a brief spasm before his death came.

Dominic wiped his blade on the rough grass and cut the rope that still tied Martha’s ankles. His tone was urgent as he pulled her to her feet. ‘I’m a friend. Follow me swiftly, woman, before the others awake.’

Before Martha had time to think clearly, Dominic guided her to the shadowy interior of the forest. Then it dawned on her. She looked back towards the clearing, her face aghast. ‘Stop! My friend’s still back there! He promised he wouldn’t leave me. How can I leave
him
? Take me back … now please!’

Dominic gripped her shoulders, urgent now as he looked directly into her eyes. ‘There’s nothing we can do and he’ll be safe for now because he’s still useful to them. It would serve your friend’s cause better if we get away from here;
then
we can plan for his escape.’

Martha still looked unsure. Stubborn and immobile, she shook her head.

‘Listen!’ urged Dominic. ‘Think clearly! We have the chance of getting away, and maybe you won’t be missed till morning. I promise you I’ll return tomorrow and free your friend. Now please come quickly, woman.’

Martha paused another moment, then relented in response to Dominic’s assurance. Relieved, he smiled and took her hand.

Murdoc sprang to his feet with his bow ready when he heard movement at the foot of the tree. His apprehension melted when he heard Dominic shout from below.

‘It’s me, and I’ve brought the woman.’

Murdoc lowered the ladder.

Later, Martha told them of the raid on her village. Her tale was harrowing as she recounted the butchery of her people, her failed escape, and briefly her treatment under Egbert.

When she finished, Murdoc took her hands into his, as she began to weep.

‘Yes I know,’ he whispered as his own tears came. ‘Sometimes my own loss makes me want to jump from this platform, but we must keep alive for the people who need us; for the people we can save.’

Dominic had listened and been moved deeply by Martha’s story and Murdoc’s response. ‘Yes, we can still save many of our kin,’ he said, ‘and we start at sunrise with Simon’s rescue.’ He looked drawn as he spoke and for the first time Murdoc thought he could detect fatigue in him. Dominic continued. ‘It seems more blood must be spilt before I can get on with my life. But we need to get moving on this, the other raiders will be back before we know it and I’m planning a surprise for when they get here.’

‘They all deserve death,’ said Martha coldly. ‘But promise me I can have vengeance on the fat leader. I’ve a thousand reasons to hate him.’

‘Egbert is his name,’ said Tomas, ‘and he’s as bad as they come.’

Dominic reassured Martha. ‘We’ll deal with him when we must and he
will
pay for his crimes I can certainly promise you that. For now, though, we need to free your friend. Tomorrow, we’ll watch the camp before they set out to catch game. Once they’re in the woods we should be able to deal with them separately. Then we can take Simon from the tall guard who usually stays behind at the camp. He seems to be the one who gives the orders now this Egbert has gone.

‘Yes, he
is
a stern man and he kept the others off us as much as he could,’ said Martha. ‘It seems we owe him much’— she paused as she considered Withred—‘but maybe not his life. He rides with them so he should die with them.’

Tomas stirred uncomfortably. ‘I think you talk of Withred. I never saw him kill any other than men who attacked him. He also saved me from many beatings from Egbert.’

Dominic who had been testing the tension on his bow looked at Tomas. ‘I sense no hate in your voice, lad, when you speak of this Withred, but tomorrow will be a lot simpler if we kill as the opportunities present themselves. We’ve no time to be merciful with any of them, it will only hinder us.’

Tomas nodded. ‘I know,’ he murmured, ‘you must do as you will.’

The next morning, one hour before dawn and aided by a full moon, Dominic and Murdoc descended the tree and ran into the forest. Their route as ever was through thick undergrowth. Dominic rarely used the same passage twice, leaving Murdoc to wonder how his companion had the faintest idea of where he was going. Occasionally he would stoop to examine the floor then look around and continue through the brush. After an hour, just as the first light of day seeped into the forest, he stopped and signalled Murdoc to crouch beside him by a hazel shrub.

‘We’re next to their camp,’ he said. ‘I brought us over rough ground to be sure we wouldn’t run into them. We need to watch and predict their movements if we’re to get this done without injury.’ He parted the bush to give him a partial view of the camp. ‘It looks like they’ve found the body I left them.’

As Murdoc and Dominic watched, a breathless and agitated Deorwine, a cousin of the fallen Aelred, aroused Withred from his sleep. ‘Get out here, Withred! Edwin’s been murdered and the woman’s gone!’

Withred was up instantly and went outside to join the other men around Edwin’s body. He looked at the bled corpse and shook his head in frustration. ‘The idiot,’ he growled. ‘I told him to leave the woman alone. But how did she escape?’

‘Maybe the old one helped her,’ said Deorwine, looking towards Simon who had just awoken. ‘We should torture the truth out of him.’

There was a general murmur of agreement from the rest as they moved towards Simon.

Withred strode before them, reaching Simon first. He turned to the men and signalled them to keep their distance. Taking Simon’s wrists, he examined his hands then turned back to the men. ‘This man can have had no part in the slaying; whoever killed him would be covered in his blood.’  He pointed back towards the dead raider. ‘Look his blood is everywhere apart from on this fellow … and anyway the old man’s ankles are still bound.’