Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (82 page)

Upon Guertepir’s signal, Osbeorn actions were rapid and practiced. Bared-teethed, he flashed a look of hatred at Dominic as he cut Murdoc’s throat. With fluidity, he was quickly upon his horse and away, dragging Murdoc’s dying body behind him.

He had gone but thirty strides when two arrows smashed through the links of his hauberk and entered the meat of his upper back. He fell backwards over the rump of his horse and on to Murdoc, causing the beast to falter and halt.

With bows loaded and ready to use again, Dominic and Tomas ran to the tangle of bodies behind the horse. By now, a detachment of Arthur’s cavalry, having seen the disparity in numbers below, had ridden down the hill. A standoff ensued. Dominic and Tomas occupied the ground between as they crouched to attend to Murdoc. A stirring and mumbled incoherence came from Osbeorn, prompting Tomas to slick his dagger across his throat. The Saxon bled out and died quickly.

Though he still lived, Murdoc’s eyes rolled in oblivion as Dominic rammed his hand into the outpouring of blood pulsating from his throat. He pleaded with Murdoc as he worked on him. ‘No you don’t; you do not die on me; you keep with it, man … I saved your leg when you broke it, now I can save your neck … come, come, Mur, you do not get away from me so easily.’

Tomas had already begun to weep. As well as his own loss, his heart went out to Dominic—a man he loved dearly. He knew what Murdoc meant to Dominic, and Murdoc had just died before him.

No blood came from Murdoc’s neck now. Dominic removed his hand. The flow had stopped. His friend lay glassy eyed and unmoving. Dominic looked up to the sky, his face pained and twisted as he screamed his grief and anger into the air above him.

After a while, Tomas, sobbing also, shook him. ‘Dom, we must be gone. We need to get his body up the hill and away from this awful place.’

Dominic, his face a mask of mucus and tears, could only gaze at Murdoc’s lifeless form. ‘I must go to Martha,’ he said. ‘She’s working in the field kitchens. I must be the one to tell her. Though, how I’ll find the strength to do it, I do not know.’

After the slaying of Osbeorn, Hrodgar had shouted his obscenities at Ziu—the God of the sky. ‘How could he recline there and watch while one of his own was taken,’ he seethed, as a group of Osbeorn’s men went to retrieve his body.

‘Because war is war and people get killed,’ said Wigstan. ‘At least he didn’t die a straw death on his pallet, like a woman or a crone. Now he marches in the fields of barley with Woden as his chief.’

Hrodgar shot Wigstan a dismissive half glance as he continued to brood. ‘And his six hundred men, all sworn and loyal to him. Who will they march with now? What if they decide to pack up and leave now he’s not here to lead them?’

‘No; they’re ready for battle, they won’t go home,’ said the Jute. ‘They desire land and gold, because most of them don’t have a pot to piss in; besides … they’re mostly shield bearers; they can fit in with the rest.’

As Osbeorn’s body was carried upon a bier at shoulder height, Hrodgar turned to Guertepir. ‘Now, will you listen?’ he said. ‘First the tents are burnt to cinders, then one of our fiercest and most dreaded chiefs is murdered. You poke your stick into a niche of vipers and seem content to let them strike without retaliation. It’s time for
us
to attack, can’t you see that. We must crush the life out of the snake. We need to move, man; I’m sick of telling you.’

‘Move—yes—when the time comes, but not now,’ said Guertepir with strained patience. ‘He will come down to us before this day is out, mark my words. And are your men ready if he does?’

‘Of course they’re ready,’ said Hrodgar. ‘They’ve been ready for days; though it’s little wonder they’re still here.’

Guertepir laughed at the absurdity of such a notion. ‘But they
won’t
go home will they Hrodgar. Not when they’re having such fun whoring and drinking. Which reminds me; you need to make sure they’re in a fit state—‘

‘
A man would see the chiefs
!’ A messenger had arrived. All turned to him. With the man was Cutha the escapee. Guertepir went to him and stood far too close for Cutha’s liking. ‘Well?’ asked Guertepir, hands on hips, as he scowled at him. ‘What have you to say man?’

Cutha knelt and removed his cap, wringing it in his hands in a comical display of obeisance. ‘This lord,’ he said, keeping his eyes low. ‘I escaped from Arthur’s capture last night and was told news which may be useful to you.’

Hrodgar, Wigstan and Cenhelm, their curiosity now pricked, went to Guertepir’s side
.
Guertepir, irritated by the man’s slow disposition, snapped: ‘Come then, spit it out, before I have you taken away and whipped for wasting my time.’

Cutha flicked a nervous look up towards the towering chiefs, then gulped and told his tale.

When he had finished Wigstan and the Saxon chiefs were elated. ‘
Now
will you go to war,’ said Wigstan to Guertepir, who had become solemn upon hearing the news. ‘Because, believe me Guertepir, if you ignore what you’ve just heard you are not the tactician I thought you were. Arthur has three thousand men only, and is biding his time waiting for reinforcements. Can you believe that … he was less inclined to fight than you were, and little wonder.’

Guertepir sighed and waved Cutha away. He regarded the three Saxon chiefs: Hrodgar, stocky and brooding, Wigstan with flamboyantly spiked hair and glittering blue eyes, and Cenhelm, a lover of gold and a man bedecked by his obsession. All three now bristled with expectation. A stoic sigh came from Guertepir as he turned to his man, Diarmait. ‘Prepare for war,’ he said. ‘Tell Cunedda to ready his men, also. It seems we’ve no choice but to go up that shit-kicking hill today.’

A sombre mood infused Arthur’s camp upon hearing of the death of Murdoc. Dominic’s dreaded task had been to tell Martha, and she had collapsed with grief when he had finally imparted his news. A frantic night had already passed for her after Murdoc had not shown, but she had clung to the hope that he may have got himself lost in the dark.

Arthur, who had accompanied Dominic, managed to persuade Martha to journey home to Brythonfort, away from the impending clouds of war. Martha, who was desperate to get back to Ceola—Murdoc’s little girl and her own daughter in every way but birth—had soon departed.

Looking for solace, Dominic had gone to Nila, who shared a wagon with Augustus’ wife, Modlen, and Brindley’s widow, Sarah. The three had earlier said goodbye to Martha and started, along with a host of other cooks, to prepare breakfast for the masses on Badon Hill.

Nila’s eyes were full of empathy as she hugged Dominic. A deep sadness was upon him—a wretchedness she had never seen before. She wanted the old Dominic back—the cocky but likeable ranger.

Dominic found it difficult to meet Nila’s gaze such was the complexity of his emotions. It was their first meeting since his proclamation of love towards her. Now, in his present state, he knew he was capable of saying something he might regret later.

‘He was the first to die and won’t be the last,’ was the best he could manage as he finally looked into Nila’s brimming eyes. ‘Before this is done, we must all be prepared to lose someone we love—’

‘As I love you,’ said Nila with a sudden simplicity.

Taken aback, Dominic’s words were clumsy. ‘Like a brother, is that what you’re saying Nila? You love me as a brother?’

Nila’s smile bordered on the sad, her look conveying the thought,
Oh, you silly, silly man, do I have to write it down on a tablet of wax for you.
‘No Dom,’ she said after a pause, ‘I don’t love you as a brother, I love you as a man.’

She came to him then and left Dominic in no doubt of the nature of her love. They kissed, and wept, and laughed, and in that moment they forgot about the brooding evil that lurked three miles away.

‘What a day it’s been,’ said Dominic as he finally made to say his goodbye. ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry; I’ll probably end up doing both before the sun sets.’

‘As will I,’ said Nila as she kissed him again. ‘But come … this is the fourth time we’ve attempted to let each other go. Now you really need to get back to Arthur.’

Dominic slid his hand away and walked with a newfound lightness of step back towards the waiting crest of Badon hill.

Augustus in particular had taken the news of Murdoc’s demise badly. His men (the shield bearers) were standing behind the ridge ready to form into their set unit should the call for action come. They viewed Augustus (a man they had become fiercely loyal towards as the days had passed) with concern that morning. Gone was his exuberance. He seemed faded to them now, and they knew why. As he walked along the line, many of them exchanged clumsy words of condolence with him. These, he accepted with grace and gratitude.

Also waiting to go to war, and mixed with Augustus’ men, were the Angle shields under the leadership of Smala. Many of these, like the Britons, were inexperienced and anxious. Smala, for his part, also engendered a loyalty from his men. They readily accepted his tough leadership, regarding the stout Angle chief as both fair and fearless.

Flint now strode to Augustus and Smala on the ridge, his manner telling them that the morning was about to get interesting. ‘Get your men ready to defend the hill,’ said Flint. ‘Arthur has assembled his knights. They are’—a horn-blast from the valley below interrupted Flint mid-flow—‘they are preparing for battle. Hear that, it’s Saxon, they’re moving at last. It’s what I came to tell you. A large body of shields are marching upwards from the city.’

Augustus’ smile was grim. ‘So Dom’s plan worked. That cunning wolf has no idea of his worth to Arthur.’ He shouted to his men. ‘On your feet good stockmen and farmers of Britannia and Angeln! The time has come at last! Today you get to break Saxon heads!’

A scintillating murmur ran through the line as the men stood and took their shields. ‘Keep their minds on their task and so off their bowels,’ said Flint as he made to leave. He sniffed the air and wrinkled his nostrils. ‘Although I fear some of them have already got rid of a respectable load.’

As Hrodgar gave his cry to arms he spotted Raedwald lingering near the north wall of Aquae Sulis. After a quick word with Wigstan and Cenhelm, he rode straight to the youth.

Amidst the shouting and chaos around him, as Saxon, Hibernian and Votadini foot solders ran between groups of assembling cavalry, Hrodgar struggled to make himself heard as he grabbed Raedwald and pushed him towards the line of shields. ‘Hoping to avoid the first wave, eh, spunk spurt?’ he shouted. ‘Well you’ve just failed again; the time has come to prove yourself a man, and there’s no better way to do it than to stand at the front.’ He continued to push Raedwald, steering him towards the muster.

Raedwald, who had
indeed
intended to avoid the fighting, became agitated. Aware of the three Saxon chiefs’ ire towards him, he had spent his time since arriving at Aquae Sulis, skulking in the shadowy corners of the ransacked wine shops. He panicked now as he realised what Hrodgar was trying to do. ‘No—no! Hrodgar, I have a horse; I am to ride at the flanks with Cunedda!’

‘Whose horse, you miserable thief? Did you really think I’d forget how good you are at
stealing
horses and how your father robbed me of captaincy when I was a youth? You only live to breathe this day because of the protection of your British and Hibernian captains, though rumour has it, that even they have grown sick of you and your incessant prattle! I always intended you for the pleasure of the shieldwall—another reason you still live.’ 

He continued to push Raedwald along until they came to the gathering. Here, combatants were linking to the wall and soon they would stand six deep behind the experienced men who held the shields on the front line. The smell of man-sweat and cow dung (for the tendency to spike their hair with the glop had become popular with the men) permeated through the still air. Hrodgar pulled the fyrd (inexperienced men who had supplied their own weapons) away from the back of the line, until he reached a shield-bearing veteran at the front. Hrodgar grabbed the fellow by the crook of his elbow and yanked him backwards, then shoved Raedwald in his place. He thrust the man’s shield at him.

‘There!’ he laughed above the tumult, as Raedwald reluctantly took possession of the shield. ‘You’re in the centre of a line of eight hundred! You’ll be one of the first to fight!’

Wide-eyed with fear and intending to plea his case, Raedwald looked back to Hrodgar. But it was too late … the Saxon chieftain had gone back to his business. The line closed behind Raedwald, and soon he stood pressed and immobile within it.

Arthur sat upon Storm, his mare. Beside him, were Hereferth, Withred, Flint, Gherwan and Dominic. Around them, wheeled the entire British and Anglii cavalry—some seven hundred horse. Down in the valley, the enemy shields, amidst a blaring of horns, beating of drums, and yapping of leashed war-hounds, had advanced from the shadow of Aquae Sulis and halted at the foot of the sloping field before Badon Hill.

‘A line of eight hundred!’ shouted Flint. ‘Six deep—some five thousand men!’

Arthur’s eyes were chips of granite as he assimilated Flint’s information. He turned to look up the hill where Augustus, Smala and fifty other shield tacticians corralled the shieldwall into a semblance of order. There, Augustus and the others strolled before the men as they shouted their instructions to them. Augustus—who seemed a giant in his war regalia of studded leather jerkin and battered, plume-adorned helmet (the plume a token from his wife, Modlen)—hurled his considerable bulk at the shields, testing them for solidity. Titon barked and bounded around his heels as he did this, occasionally emulating its master as it jumped against the wall.