Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (58 page)

PROLOGUE

Fifth century Britannia was no place to be in mid-winter. Hanging like a rain-sodden canopy over the bleak winter fields, the sky offered a begrudging gloom, even at the zenith of day. Thin and searching winds further compounded the misery of the incarcerated, deterring all but the hardiest peasant from wandering too far from the relative shelter of draughty huts.

Occasionally, a fall of snow would serve to lift the spirits of the people—the deluge elevating the land from its grey mundaneness to a sparkling, white optimism. Yet the joy of the covering was usually short-lived, as a quick melt or stubborn freeze would often follow.

A thaw meant ankle-deep slush, which soaked into the leather boots of those lucky enough to own footwear. Others, mainly children and the destitute (and there were many of these), braved the conditions barefoot whenever need demanded they search for firewood or  descend into dark root cellars.

Yet, if the snow lingered, this too would bring its own hardship. On these occasions, much of the land became impossible to traverse; leaving folk with little to do but stare at the frozen fields from wind-whispered doorways.

As such, the midwinter feast was much anticipated. After starting on midwinter’s day, the celebrations would last for seven days and provide the peasants with a modicum of respite from the smothering stranglehold of winter.

Bevan welcomed a recently arrived group from a neighbouring village. He knew them all well; knew everyone, in fact, who had assembled for the feast. In all, the populations of four villages had come to make merry. Twenty in number, the latest arrival
s
had dragge
d
a stout log for the winter burn, creating with it a wet furrow across the fallow fields.

To make the feasting area attractive and welcoming was the next undertaking. Evergreens, such as holly, adorned many hut doorways, over which mistletoe (fashioned to make kissing-boughs) had been placed. Much anticipated by the younger villagers, these had often served to spark into life the latent fancies of many a youth.

Clement weather, for now, blessed the gathering, and the log soon began to steam as the kindling’s yellow flames danced below it, exorcising its dampness. A ring of rough log benches encircled the central fire and upon these, sixty villagers sat and luxuriated in the spreading warmth.

A second fire roasted a haunch of venison; and, already, Bevan and his sons had started to carve slices from it. Loaded on to pewter plates, the portions found their way to the waiting and salivating feasters. Most had provided several barrels of mead—the recipes of the fermentations being a source of pride and friendly rivalry. The quicker any particular mead could make a fellow fall on to his arse (and make no mistake; many a villager would do
just
that) the better it was deemed to be.

It did not take long this night for the feast to become merry and animated. Already, the gaiety had intensified, as adults, fuelled by the mead, began to jest and revel in the light of the square. Around them, thrilled children—their excitement heightened to near frenzy by the jollification—skittered and dashed between the tables.

Corran, a jovial barrel of a man, his usual ruddy complexion now intensified to crimson thanks to the toasting flames and gut-warming mead, banged his empty drinking-horn on the table in a demand for attention.

‘A song!’ he shouted. ‘A song to do this feast proud—performed by me, the greatest songster in all of Britannia.’ He accompanied the boast with an extravagant, hat-doffing bow.

The crowd cheered as Corran stood on the mead table. Another man, wielding a homemade wooden flute, was quick to join him. In a rumbling bass of a voice, Corran started to sing, nodding towards the flautist, who soon took up the tune.

‘The winter’s yolk, doth freeze my loins,

The seasons frosts doth make me shiver,

Oh, how I yearn for summer’s breeze

To set my cod into a quiver.’

Hoots of laughter from the men, and peals of shocked screams from the women now drowned out Corran, who, with thumbs tucked under his belt and chest thrust forward, ploughed straight into the second verse.

‘I warm my arse by the fire’s glow,

Keep head bone-dry ‘neath woolen hood,

And when I see my true love’s bumps,

My cod is warmed by rush of blood.’

This time, the gathering—a people starved of joy and mirth since the dark onset of winter—positively erupted. Throughout the uproar, Corran allowed himself a comical, lewd smile of contemplation. His wife could only throw her apron upwards to cover her face as her table neighbours slapped the timber in fits of laughter. Corran began the third verse.

My tunic comes down to my knees,

And up my legs I feel a breeze,

But worry not, for soon I’ll feel,

The sweet, smooth skin…’

After hanging on his every word, Corran’s audience were stunned to silence as his voice faded away; their concern deepening when beholding his alarmed mid-distance stare. Like he, they looked beyond the glow of the fire, where, defined as a series of dark shadows against the frosty sky, stood a great host of men.

CHAPTER ONE

Cunedda ap Edern had spent his entire life (some twenty-seven years) on the eastern fringe of Britannia in the wild land between the Roman walls of Antonine and Hadrian. His people—the
Votadini
—had earned the protection of Rome when, decades earlier, Cunedda’s grandfather, Padarn Beisrudd, had agreed to keep the region free of hostile Pictish and Hibernian occupation.

As a child, Cunedda had hero-worshipped his father, Edern, and by the time he was twelve years old, Cunedda, who by now accompanied Edern on his frequent patrols, knew every mile of the two Roman walls. Fluent in Latin, Edern would often take his son into the Roman forts and the lad became popular with those garrisoned there, many of whom were now British and foreign auxiliaries. Few Romans remained; trouble back in Rome had necessitated their withdrawal from the island. Therefore, British families, including many from the Votadini with nowhere else to go, continued to reside at the forts along the wall.

In his fifteenth year, Cunedda, who by now rode alongside his cousin, Abloyc, was involved in his first skirmish. Edern had come upon a party of Picts heading for a Votadini village near to the abandoned wall of Antonine to the north of the realm. As was the way with Picts, their group comprised of wives and children as well as warriors. The engagement was short and brutal and Cunedda had killed his first Pict that day—a lad of a similar age who ran screaming and undisciplined towards him. Cunedda felt ambivalent towards the kill. Part of him swelled with pride at his father’s subsequent endorsement, yet somewhere inside he nursed a deep sadness as he witnessed the boy’s mother shriek over his corpse.

On that day, Cunedda saw a side to Abloyc that greatly disturbed him. As was customary, Edern ordered the killing of the remaining Picts, mostly children, women and old men. The kills would be clinical and rapid–Edern having no desire to extend the misery of the survivors; his purpose being merely to eliminate the seeds of the Pictish warriors. Cunedda had witnessed such culling before, but never taken part. Expected now to participate in the executions, he dreaded the ordeal. Before he could begin, however, a wild screaming alerted him towards Abloyc, who possessed no such scruples over such cold slaughter. In fact, Abloyc, who had already killed his first infant, was holding the child’s head aloft and taunting the mother with it.

Appalled, Cunedda had stridden to Abloyc and struck him, knocking him to the ground. Abloyc, spitting with rage, went for Cunedda then, but once again found himself knocked to the ground, and this time Cunedda beat him so thoroughly that Abloyc took no part in any further killing that day. By the time Cunedda had finished with Abloyc, the rest of the killing was over, and mercifully, for that day at least, Cunedda was able to avoid a task he dreaded.

Twelve years later, his father was dead, leaving Cunedda to guard and protect the land. Abloyc, who usually rode with him, sometimes led his own patrols when the Votadini had more than one attack to deal with. Free from the restraint of Cunedda, Abloyc would give full vent to his barbarity on these occasions, and the subsequent tales of his cousin’s excesses inevitably filtered through to Cunedda, filling him with repulsion.

The Picts and Hibernians continued to be a threat, and Cunedda knew it was merely a matter of time before they swamped his land. He travelled south of the wall, came to the town of Deva, and saw that it was walled but not garrisoned. He decided that day that the town was right for his people. There, they could defend themselves. Better still, the town was just a short way from where the Hibernian threat—the Uí Liatháin clan—often made landfall on Britannia. Here, Cunedda and his people would be able to defend themselves from invasion; here they would have early warning of their approach. As for the Picts—they were welcome to the barren lands between the walls; could have the wild winds from the Oceanus Germanicus. As far as he was concerned, the elements could happily scourge their painted, bare bodies.

Cunedda had been a solid leader and his people respected him. He bade farewell to his wife; his six daughters; his seven sons; then left with a vanguard of fifteen hundred warriors. They travelled westwards along the wall of Hadrian until reaching the town of Luguvalium on the bleak western shore. The townsfolk had watched the approach of the fierce-looking Votadini (all carrying shield and spear) with some concern, but their anxiety was unfounded. Cunedda passed them by; having no wish to get embroiled in battle with them. Without even entering the town, he led his men southwards to travel the passable Roman road until reaching the Cilgwri peninsula. Here, he turned westward again until coming to the prominent road named Watling Street.

Now his men were hungry and weary after a long day’s march, and as darkness fell, Abloyc saw the light from the village.

‘Smell that,’ said Abloyc. ‘Venison if I’m not mistaken. I would happily kill the entire village to eat freshly roasted venison … by Jupiter, I would.’

Cunedda perused his captain, aware he would do
exactly
that if left to his own devices. ‘Not the wisest thing to do, Abloyc: make enemies of our neighbours, seeing how we hope to settle not six miles from here.’

‘Still it would get us ready to deal with the Uí Liatháin bastards when they make landfall,’ said Abloyc as he continued to gaze at the glowing village. ‘Gods’ know; my arms are aching and stiff; a bit of sword-play would loosen them.’ In emphasis, Abloyc kneaded the knot out of his shoulder.

‘No, we don’t kill children; how many times must I repeat myself on the matter,’ said Cunedda, eying Abloyc with some disdain. ‘Save your swordplay for the Hibernians when we meet them. If you wish to loosen your shoulders you can spar with me anytime you want.’

Abloyc threw Cunedda a sardonic half-smile. ‘I think not Cunedda; the last time I
sparred
with you I ended up with a bloody head.’

‘Well if you insist on going at it hammer and tongue what am I supposed to do,’ said Cunedda. ‘My father always taught me to fight fire with fire.’

‘All the same, I’d rather loosen my limbs on them,’ said Abloyc as he nodded towards the villagers who were near enough now to see. Before Cunedda could reprove him again, Abloyc added: ‘But I am aware you will not allow such sport, so I will hold my sword for now.’

When Corran stopped singing, Bevan looked with the others towards the gathering of men at the village edge. His mind leapt to the Saxon threat; to the scourge that had already torn across much of the south-east. But why did they merely stand and stare at them; why had they not attacked. A nervous murmuring circulated around the table. Then, a noise from behind had Bevan turn. It was Corran. He was down from the table and beside him.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Corran. ‘Hope they go away? … Invite them to the feast?’ 

‘We wait for now. We have but one deer; that would nowhere near feed them, anyway.’

Their dilemma evaporated when
,
close enough for Bevan to see them in detail, two of the men walked into the brand-light of the clearing. They were imposing men, and Bevan guessed them both to be taller than any man at the feast. One man wore his hair long and braided. The other had a shaven head; his only facial hair being a blonde, chin beard. Both had faces studded with gold; the precious metal piercing their nostrils, earlobes and upper lips.

Still stunned to silence, Bevan and Corran waited as the larger of the two men—the braided one—approached him. The man looked at Bevan, then at the gathering of silent people who sat at the tables. By now, parents had retrieved boisterous young, and many of the bairns now sat on their mothers’ laps, wide-eyed and expectant.

‘You feast well; the harvest and livestock must have been kind to you this year,’ said Cunedda as he swept his hand towards the gathering.

Bevan was relieved to hear the man talk in his own British tongue. At least they were not Saxon, which explained why the men had hesitated at the edge of the clearing; why they had not cut their throats. ‘This is the produce of several villages,’ began Bevan. ‘Tonight is the start of midwinter as you doubtless know, and the feast here serves to both celebrate the solstice and help us forget its hardship for a few days.’

Cunedda nodded his comprehension to Bevan. ‘We know about the winter feast, indeed celebrate it ourselves back home. Like you, we are native to this isle, and doubtless, like you, we lived well with the Romans when they walked the land.’ Cunedda could feel the fear; could even
smell
it in the confines of the clearing. Behind him, stood his men—their sinister spear-burdened profile a dark shadow against the starlit sky. He shouted now towards the tables, intent on assuaging the anxiety of those who sat in trepidation. ‘Worry not, we are not here to cause you harm!’ He looked to Bevan again as a relieved murmur drifted from the tables. ‘If you would see fit to give us water we will be on our way.’

Before Bevan could reply, the other man—the bald and bearded one—stepped beside Cunedda. He nodded towards the spit, where the venison had cooked to perfection. His voice held a hint of assertion. ‘And maybe you could see fit to carve me a slice off that roast that so teases my nostrils. My belly aches with hunger after a long day on the trail.’

Bevan studied the man and liked not what he saw. Unlike the braided man, this fellow had cold eyes; humourless they were and bore into him like dagger blades. The man was daring him to refuse his request; Bevan did not doubt that.

But fortunately for Bevan, Cunedda had the measure of the situation, and before the headsman could agree to Abloyc’s request (which he undoubtedly would do, for Cunedda could see that the Briton before him was not a stupid man) Cunedda stepped in. ‘That will not be necessary, good fellow. My friend here,’—he gave Abloyc a sharp stare—‘my friend here is never full; his belly always craves food. I can see that you have many mouths to feed, so if you would be good enough to get the water for us we will be on our way.’

‘Of course.’ Bevan was relieved and happy to busy himself, if not only to step away from the other who now glowered at him. Cunedda signalled towards his men at the edge of the village and some of them stepped forward with goat-hide water pouches.

With Corran’s help, Bevan took the pouches to the village water supply and proceeded to fill them. When they had done, Cunedda’s men took the water.

Cunedda made to leave. ‘We go now to Deva,’ he told Bevan. ‘There we intend to stay, so we are to become your neighbours.’

Bevan considered this. He looked at the braided man and felt the power—
the sheer presence
—he radiated. How the man was accustomed to using his power (for he was undoubtedly the leader), or how he would use it in the future, Bevan could only guess. However, the other man genuinely troubled him, because Bevan had seen enough of the world to recognise a black soul when he saw one.