I rush past the king and two of Mercia’s ealdormen. They remain mounted, King Wiglaf and, of course, Ealdormen Sigered and Muca: the two men who don’t like to risk their lives but are happy enough to urge others to the task.
A handful of the king’s especial warriors remains to protect them. One holds aloft Mercia’s banner of an eagle on a blood-red background.
Ahead and slightly down the slope, I can see where some of the ealdormen have taken command of the shield wall that’s forming up. Ealdorman Tidwulf is to the right, Ealdorman Beornoth to the left and, in the middle, Ealdorman Ælfstan has overtaken me and shouts orders to the men that are his to command.
There’s no sign of the king’s son, Wigmund. He’s remained in Tamworth with his mother, Lady Cynethryth. Right now, I think Wigmund’s the more intelligent out of the two of us, for all I’ve been happy to despise him, as have the other warriors, on the journey south.
‘Come on, men. Take your places.’ Ealdorman Sigered’s distinctive voice rises above everyone else’s, and I know I’m not alone in turning to glare at him, mounted and showing no inclination of actually entering the coming battle at all. He might be old and lined, but that’s no excuse for not taking up his shield and seax.
‘Skinny bastard should get off his arse and fight,’ one man calls to another just in front of me. The second man tuts loudly enough that everyone can hear. These are the men who have no horses to sit upon.
‘He doesn’t know his arse from his elbow,’ another calls, and they’re all laughing. I think it would have been better had Ealdorman Sigered kept his thoughts to himself rather than face such ridicule from men who will stand in the shield wall and risk their lives for the king, and for Mercia.
I wish I knew more of the men who are Wiglaf’s warriors or who owe their sword to the king’s ealdormen. I’d hoped to come to know them better while we travelled south, along Watling Street, towards Londonia. But Ealdorman Ælfstan has eagerly resumed my training, begun when he assisted me on our journey from Bardney to Tamworth and then to the border with the Welsh kingdoms. He’s determined that I should fight as well as anyone, even though my training’s being crammed into a short period of time, and some of them have laboured on it since old enough to hold a wooden sword. If I’m to stand in a shield wall, I should know how to use seax, sword and spear. Ealdorman Ælfstan says my uncle should have trained me, although there’s no malice in such a complaint. My uncle allowed me to follow my desire to become a healer, not a killer. How times have changed.
During the day, I’ve been too exhausted to speak, content to allow Brute to have his head, provided that head doesn’t take me careering through the fields being harvested by the men and women of Mercia. The damn bugger has helped himself to more than one unearthed turnip, much to the outrage of those who’ve planted and reaped the crop.
Instead, each night I’ve slept at the fire Wulfheard has chosen, ensuring I stay close enough that men such as Oswy are content to leave me alone. They resent me for being so unskilled and for winning the grudging regard of their king. Wynflæd would assure me it was all my fault for saving King Wiglaf’s life in the borderlands, fighting the Wessex warriors. When King Wiglaf was alone and unprotected, I ran to his aid when no one else saw the danger. Wulfheard lays the blame at the other warriors’ feet. Either way, I know I’m not yet enough of a warrior to have earned anyone’s respect.
‘Oswy’s an arse. He’s survived so many battles, more by luck than chance. Like Ealdorman Sigered, he’s learned which ones to fight in. But, now that King Wiglaf has gathered his ealdormen and their warriors together, he has less chance of keeping out of the thick of it.’ Wulfheard’s words are meant to reassure.
Not that every warrior has the same story as Oswy. Many of them have little more experience than I do, although they’ve been training for much of their lives. Unlike me. I’ve been training to heal and comfort, not to maim and kill. The change has come over me quickly since the summer months. I don’t truly welcome such a transformation. Not yet. But there’s no going back to who I used to be. I’m to be a warrior of Mercia. Whether I like it or not.
‘At least we know our place,’ I’ve heard more than one of them say when Brute has streaked past them and their slower mounts. I hardly think it my fault that the king gifted me such a horse. I think I’d sooner he hadn’t. But then, Wulfheard explained to me when I complained to him about it that Wiglaf is the king and he must be seen to recompense his warriors, or why would they lay down their lives for him?
The words are meant to comfort me, but, instead, they remind me of what I did on that fateful day, of my uncle’s death and of the new path my life has taken in the short amount of time that has elapsed since then. I never wanted to be a warrior, but the king forced my oath to him, and now there’s no choice. I fear I might never reconcile myself to these huge changes that have befallen me.
‘Here, boy, get in the shield wall.’ Ealdorman Tidwulf thinks to call me to his side of the coming battle.
‘Icel, I’ve a place for you here.’ Ealdorman Ælfstan’s words flow over those of Tidwulf’s, from where he stands ready to enter the shield wall, giving final instructions to his oathsworn men. For a moment, I’m torn, until Wulfheard grabs my shoulder.
‘This way, you arse. It’s better in the centre. Did no one ever teach you that?’ Only, he pauses, flashes me a tight smile of apology. ‘I’ll teach you more when this is over,’ Wulfheard promises and, depositing me between two youths who can be little older than I am, he shoulders his way to the front.
I eye the two youths. They fumble with shields and seaxes, just as I do, only then the one, with little more than a sliver of fur on his top lip, sneers at me.
‘It’s him. The one they’re all talking about,’ he announces loudly to his fellow warrior. Both of them look at me as though I’m little better than horseshit on their boots.
‘It’s the boy who thought to save a king by knocking himself out,’ the other jeers, strips of blond hair visible beneath the helm he wears. It’s dented. In fact, it’s more dent than round, and I can see where it seems to lift from the top of his head.
‘You need to get that hammered out,’ I inform him. If he takes a blow to the head, that helm isn’t going to be any help. It’s more likely to pierce him than save him.
‘Oh, listen to him. It seems he knows it all.’ The two of them both laugh, the sound sharper and deadlier than blades.
I grimace. I don’t much want to stand beside the pair of them.
‘Get to the rear of the line in front.’ Ealdorman Ælfstan’s words are gruff as he continues with his instructions.
Ahead of us, we’re faced with little more than the broad backs of Mercia’s more seasoned warriors. Or if not more seasoned, then at least older than we are. These men have trained all their lives for the honour of serving their king in war.
From in front of the Mercian force, I can hear similar from the Wessex warriors. It always startles me that our enemy shares our tongue. Perhaps, I think, it would be easier if they were Raiders and spoke their harsher words.
Immediately, I move forwards, the smell of the men in front making me appreciate I’m not the only one to fear what’s coming.
Of course, the two other lads take their time in following the ealdorman’s instructions.
‘Frithwine, get in line.’ The growl comes from the man in front of me. I don’t know his name. ‘Garwulf, do the same.’
At least I know their names now. They must be brothers, I decide. They share the same querulous jaw.
I’d sooner be fighting for Ealdorman Tidwulf than stood beside these two jesters.
I wish I could see more of what’s happening in front, but it’s impossible. Even as tall as I am, I can do little more than see the tightly packed helms of those just before me.
I note that this time the numbers of Mercians are far higher than when last we fought the Wessex enemy. There are four lines of men between me and the curved edges of the shields. They glint in the gentle glow from the sun and I quickly get my head down. I don’t want to make myself an obvious target if one of the Wessex warriors should try their luck.
‘The Wessex scum will run back to Londonia soon enough,’ Frithwine jokes to his ally. Their words are high with excitement. I wish them luck with that.
‘Shields.’ King Wiglaf shouts the command from behind us all. I’d recognise his voice anywhere.
I place my feet carefully. Ahead of me, the Mercians are doing the same. However, Frithwine and Garwulf aren’t beside me. I turn my head, thinking I should say something, but stop myself. I don’t want to face any more of their ridicule. They think I don’t know what I’m doing. They should take a look at themselves.
From the far side of the shield wall, I hear a harsh cry from one of the Wessex warriors. I doubt it’s the king himself, but I might be wrong. King Ecgberht is a man I’ve never met, although I’ve seen him from a distance with his iron-grey hair, rigid back and warrior’s helm with its proud horsehair crown. I’ve no respect for him. He abandoned his wounded warriors to face the Mercians. He rode, as fast as his horse could take him, back to the perceived safety of Londonia. I do welcome him being ejected from Mercia. Perhaps, after all, I agree with Wiglaf’s decision to bring all of his warriors against the Wessex force maintaining a perilous hold on Londonia. Ecgberht of Wessex is the true enemy, even if Athelstan of the East Angles is the slayer of Mercia’s kings.
I just wish I wasn’t one of those who had to bear witness to it.
The men in front of me lurch forwards. I’m not expecting to move, and yet it makes sense. The Wessex warriors are defending what they’ve stolen. The Mercians are the ones who need to claim it back. We must take the fight to them now that they’ve made it clear there’ll be no negotiation.
We walk, or rather run, onwards, the ground threatening to trip, the long strips of summer-ripened wheat waiting to be harvested, ruined by our progress as we’ve moved aside from the passage of Watling Street.
My breath rasps in my chest, the smell of sweat seeming to bloom from the men before me. I risk looking behind, but I can’t see King Wiglaf and the two ealdormen any more. I don’t know if he’s moved away from his high peak or if we’ve gone too low to be able to see him. It’s impossible to tell as I forge a path through the brown stalks. I’ve lost sight of Frithwine and Garwulf. I do glimpse Wulfheard at the front of the shield wall through a sudden slit that opens up between the men in front. He’s not easy to misplace with his distinctive blackened helm, so unlike the rest of the warriors, whose helms shimmer with the glint of iron.
My eyes focused on where I step, I almost collide with the man in front of me, his byrnie darkened with sweaty streaks beneath his armpits.
‘Watch it,’ he growls, lips twisted as he glowers. ‘You should put your seax away if you don’t know how to fight with it.’
The words cut me. I do know how to fight with it. I’ve saved the king’s life with it, but now isn’t the time for such a conversation.
I shrug my shoulders at my contrariness. I both do and don’t want people to appreciate what I’ve accomplished on behalf of King Wiglaf.
Bugger it. I’ll just have to prove myself one more time and live up to the memory of my warrior uncle, who lived when kings fell beneath the blades of the bastard king-slayer of the East Angles.