The Red And Savage Tongue (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (4 page)

     Simon’s relief was palpable.
‘I thought past rain might have washed the path away, but it still holds. Be careful and stay close to me.’

     The clay path was
slimy and their progress along it was slow and laboured. Only inches wide in some places, it twisted down the side of the incline. As they started to move, and in mortal fear of falling, Martha and Simon grabbed wildly at the sparse vegetation that grew from the sheer wall of clay beside them.

     A shouting from above
had them stop dead in their tracks. They looked up to see the invaders peering over the edge of the bluff. The men had spotted them and stood on the other side of the first gorse obstruction, unsure of how to make further progress.

     A heated discussion
ensued between them, and at least one member of the group, who pointed back the way they had come, seemed intent on either giving up the chase or finding another way to the valley bottom. His two companions were having none of it, and after much gesticulation, the largest of the three clambered over the edge of the drop and attempted to gain purchase with his feet upon the slippery clay.

     Simon looked at Martha’s worried face and smiled knowingly.
‘Don’t fret,’ he reassured her, ‘he won’t make it. My main worry was him following our route. He’s gone the wrong way so he’s buggered now.’ 

     Martha look
ed at Simon and for the first time felt they might escape. Her trust and admiration for the old man’s single mindedness had grown as events had unfolded.

     Meanwhile the Saxon kicked the toes of his leather boots hard into the unyielding layer of clay
, and slowly made progress down to a narrow ledge, ten feet below his companions. He looked towards them, and Martha recoiled as she recognised him as one of the men who had looked lustfully into the hut during her capture. This time his eyes shone with a triumphant ridicule as he sensed that he was about to capture a woman who he had relished and anticipated earlier in the day. He shouted at Martha, mockingly grabbing his groin and beckoning her towards him. However, this was to prove to be his undoing as his feet slipped from the ledge. He began to slide slowly down the incline towards the point where it ended and became a vertical drop of fifty rock-strewn feet.

    
He shouted to the men above him. One of them, in response, lay flat on the edge of the cliff, offering his arm at full stretch in an effort to reach him. The effort proved futile as his reach fell short, and the stricken man continued his slide down the slope.

    
Martha and Simon looked on as the man scrambled frantically to gain purchase in the greasy clay. He looked pleadingly at the nearest person, Martha, who stared impassively at him as he fell screaming over the cliff to plummet in a flesh-shredding, bone-breaking fall to the valley floor.

     The two remaining men shrank instinctively from the edge of the cliff after witnessing this. The one who had been arguing earlier for a return to the village, waved his arm in frustration towards Martha and Simon, and turned from the cliff face to retrace his steps back through the gorse. His companion stepped to the edge of the drop and looked down into the depths at the other man’s broken and lifeless
body. He shouted at Martha and Simon, and as a last act of defiance threw a rock at them before turning to follow the other man.

     The rock missed by some distance and Simon turned to Martha and nodded in the direction of the dead man.
‘We’ve only a slightly better chance of getting down unscathed than he had. This year’s rain has worn the path to almost nothing in places. We’ve to be very careful or we’ll end up like him.’

     Martha was trembling with the effort of trying to stand on the four-inch ledge of clay. She looked at Simon.
‘Then let’s get it over with. I need to rest soon, and I don’t care if I do it in this life or the next.’

     Simon looked pained as he covered her shaking hand with his.
‘I too lost everything back there, and I fear they’ll strike ever deeper into our lands, but for now we’ve
survived
, and may yet get the chance to warn others.’    

    
‘Then let’s get down off this cliff while we still have the strength,’ said Martha wearily.

     Three hours later, they stood in the gloomy, narrow valley bottom. Here, the stream ran listlessly after the recent drought. Nearby, they found the body of the raider who had fallen earlier. The bloody, twisted carcass had come to rest near the streams edge. A terrible rage flared up inside Martha at the sight of the dead man,
and Simon had to restrain her from committing further injury upon his broken body.

      When she calmed
, Simon led her away and coaxed her to sit down beside a tree. His voice was gentle as he said, ‘We should save our hatred and retribution for the live ones. This one can be of use to us. I’ll strip him of his cloak, and spear, and boots.’ He proceeded, and when he had finished, he threw the cloak to Martha. ‘Put this over you. Night’s not far off and we must keep moving until we’re out of sight of the crags.’

    
She threw the cloak to one side, her face twisted in disgust. ‘I’d rather freeze to death than wear that shit,’ she shuddered. ‘Throw it into the stream. Get rid of it.’

     Simon picked
up the cloak, and sighed. ‘It’s just a cloak Martha, but I’ll keep anyway … we’ve to use what we can find now.’    

    
Laying the heavy, plaid cloak on the ground, he placed the boots inside it. He wrapped the cloak around the objects, and secured the resulting coil with the leather belt, leaving a loop big enough to sling over his shoulder. He looked at Martha. ‘Come on,’ he said as he helped her to her feet, ‘just a little further then we can rest.’

     Martha stood up and nodded, and followed Simon as he carefully picked his way through the tangle of bramble and nettle, and headed for the dark interior of the forest.  

Osric, the leader of the eastern c
ampaign, joined the raiders the day after the raid on the village.  He was a tall and imposing man who wore his long, red hair braided and festooned with dyed strips of leather. A white scar that ran diagonally from the top of his ear to the corner of his mouth dissected his gaunt face; a face that bore pocked-marked testimony to a bout of smallpox in his adolescence. He had spent the previous month at his base in Camulodunum, where he had planned invasion strategy with his higher-ranking men. He had also whored and drunk ale in huge quantities. Feeling it was time he personally observed what progress had occurred, he decided to visit Withred and the recently promoted if unpredictable Egbert.

     Withred had briefed him of the previous day’s misfortunes
, and Osric had kicked the men into wakefulness after their drunken slumber. He had then proceeded to berate them, and had accused Egbert of sloppiness; threatening him with demotion should any other misdemeanors befall them.

     He later addressed the group
of men; his earlier fury now subsided; his four bodyguards standing imposingly behind him. Behind them stood a bedraggled and dejected line of women and children, bound together with neck halters and destined for the slave markets. The smouldering village, festooned with discarded corpses, completed the grim backdrop.

     Osric’s pale face was set grim and determined as he strutted in front of the men giving his briefing.
‘I‘ve decided it’s time to find more territory. We’ve exhausted all the villages in this part of the land, and our own people have moved in where we’ve emptied the land of the Britons. The campaigning season is still with us, but I intend to return to the coast with the captured Britons. Also, I’ll gather information from the field and decide on next year’s strategy.’

     He looked at Egbert. 
‘You’ll again lead the men, and travel through the forest to see what lies on the other side. Some say there are villages and towns there, and this you’ll find out and chart the route to any places we can raid. By going directly through the forest, we’ll steal a march on those who avoid it. Your route will be difficult, but the southern roads are a rutted and muddy nightmare, and those who travel on them have found the journey slow and troublesome, and ripe for ambush.

    ‘
There’s also rumoured to be a marching route through the forest, and if you find this, the journey will be far easier. Gathering slaves is our job now—they’re worth a fortune. I’ve been told the woman you let escape was a beauty and worth her weight in solid gold.’ Again, he fixed Egbert with a hard stare, and pointed towards a group of laden ponies grazing some distance away. ‘I’ve also brought weapons. After finding more villages—as I’m sure you will—a number of you will set up a weapons store to provide future raiders with whatever they need to break heads. When you’ve done this, you’ll return to me.’ 

     At this, a buzz of conversation broke out amongst the men, and Tomas, who was sitting at the rear of the group, sensed that Osric’s command was unwelcome.

     Egbert came to the front of the group, his shaggy black beard matted from days of wallowing in filth. ‘But it’s been a hard spell for us, why not finish the season in this area, then start this trek you talk of—this
march through the brambles—next year, or at the beginning of the new campaign when there’ll be ample fodder for the ponies. Surely the men deserve a rest.’

     A murmur of approval grew in support of Egbert’s challenge: the most enthusiastic endorsements coming from men who Osric knew to be supporters of Egbert.

     Osric gave Egbert a hard stare. ‘I’ll not take a full company of men through the forest next year chasing their fucking tails. We need to know that good land lies beyond that wilderness. You’ve made too many mistakes lately, so to make amends you’ll
lead the men on this mission. Withred will make sure you’re up to the job.’

    
He gave the group a cold stare and surveyed them for further dissention. Seeing none, he barked out his orders.  ‘Now I’ll hear no more arguments, get ready to leave.’ He looked at Withred, who nodded towards Tomas. ‘Ah yes,’ said Osric, reminded now. ‘Egbert … the slave will help you prepare, and he can serve you on your journey … and listen to me—no harm must come to him. His value increased when he learned our tongue, and I may yet choose to sell him.’

     Egbert let out a chesty laugh.
‘It seems you’re determined to make me lose fat, but if this is what you want, then let it be so … I’ll get ready to leave.’ He turned and walked through the group of men towards the ponies, his eyes cold and furious.

Murdoc was becoming increasingly concerned about Ceola. She
slept in a feverish torment as he pushed his way through the relentless bramble at the forest edge. He sensed she was growing weaker and realised she needed rest and food. His tongue was dry and fattened from thirst, having given the last of the water to Ceola. The sun still burned, but he knew the daylight would not last much longer. He wearily considered his options. He had to find drinkable water or they would both die. Then he would build a rough shelter for the night.

     A wolf howled in the dist
ance, interrupting his thoughts. He stopped and looked around uneasily. He was a superstitious man and his imagination became active after other twilight sounds replaced the howl. The tales of the darker side of British folklore seeped into his mind then, as the hidden, pagan side of him awakened and infused with his Christian beliefs.

     He placed Ceola gently to the floor, and crouched beside her as he heard a snort come from a short distance away. He knew there were many wild beasts in the forest, many of them attributed with mystical qualities, and as he once again heard the snort, his thoughts became irrational and panicky. He froze rigid, his breathing rapid and shallow, and cowered shivering with fear as he held Ceola close to him. As he watched, a huge stag, unaware of Murdoc and Ceola, stepped imposingly from the undergrowth,
so close they could almost touch it, and expelled an echoing roar.

    
‘By the one Christ, it’s Cernunnos,’ he whispered in awe, as he crouched low and placed his hands over Ceola’s ears to dampen the grating bellow. His main concern now became Ceola, and his courage returned. Leaving her on the leafy ground, he rose to his feet and clapped his hands together.  ‘Away with you, GO! GO!

     The stag turned its great head towards him and locked its amber gaze upon Murdoc’s penetrating green eyes. It expected a challenge
, but seeing that its adversary had no horns to entangle, merely let out an explosive grunt, before turning upon its muscular flanks and bounding into the failing light.

     Murdoc let out a slow
, steady sigh and peered intensely into the gloom where the stag had gone. Satisfied the danger was over, he picked up Ceola and brushed a stray lock of hair from her grimy forehead.

    
‘We can have a nice rest now.’ His tone was gentle and he was encouraged when she attempted a smile. ‘I’ll build a soft warm bed for my little girl.’

     With this thought in mind, he walked over to the gap in the vegetation where the stag had passed. He approached a rocky outcrop beyond the bushes, judging it a goo
d place to build a shelter. Gently, he sat Ceola against the outcrop and began to gather armfuls of bracken that grew profusely all around. He placed it against the rock face until he had formed a shoulder high stack. He found kindling and firewood—his intention to provide heat and light throughout the oncoming night.