A thunderous sound, louder even than a Mercian oak being felled to provide sturdy support for a new hall or workshop, reverberates through my body. My heart thuds in my ears, the noise quicker than a herd of horses spurred to the gallop.
The two shield walls have met. I know that, and so do the men in front of me who are ready for whatever might happen next. They’re braced, broad backs facing me, the murmur of their prayers or wails of terror a counterpart to the clash of shields and weapons.
But I don’t include Frithwine and Garwulf in that. The pair continue to taunt one another where they stand to the rear of the engagement, as though they’re about to drink in a tavern, not fight for their lives. They’re not battle-ready, even now. Frithwine’s shield is upside down on the floor by his feet, the strap entirely out of reach, hidden in the depths of the soil. Garwulf has removed his helm and examines it to ensure it’s not as bashed as Frithwine’s. His gloved finger pokes at the iron of his helm as though he expects to see it come through the iron.
‘Get in position,’ I urge them.
To the far side of the pair, there are more seasoned men, eyes forward. Their bodies already ebb and flow as they begin their dance to the death, mirroring the progress of the front-facing line of shields. A sudden retreat or advance won’t catch them unawares.
‘Bugger off,’ Frithwine sneers. ‘You’re not the bloody battle commander.’
‘And neither are you.’ This comes from one of the warriors. Blazing eyes settle on the boys. I want to call them men, but they’re acting like children. Even I know that. ‘Now, get in line. This is going to get bloody quickly.’
Already, I can sense something occurring at the front. My thoughts turn to Wulfheard. I don’t want anything to happen to him. Apart from Ealdorman Ælfstan, he’s about the only person, other than Wynflæd, who seems to care about me now that my uncle is dead, and I’m alone, with no family to my name.
Before Garwulf can argue with the man, the Mercian warriors surge once more. I’m part of it. I’ve no one to protect me to the left or right, so I move closer to the man to my left. He turns terror-filled eyes my way that bulge from behind his helm. He takes no comfort in my presence. I don’t take it personally.
Looking down, I catch sight of a discarded seax, the sharp edge buried in the crushed wheat of the field, blood glistening on the blade. I follow the handle of the seax higher and grimace. A dripping finger clings to the bone handle, but nothing else.
I think to bend and retrieve the seax, but Frithwine beats me to it. He smirks, forcing me aside in his eagerness to grip it so that I overbalance and fight to stay upright without dropping my shield to the ground.
‘Our first battle treasure,’ Frithwine gloats to Garwulf, his back to the men of the shield wall, only to shriek, the sound piercing above the duller tones and grunts of the battle. The damn fool hasn’t seen the severed finger. The seax flies through the air, just landing shy of my foot. A little closer and I’d be skewered in place as surely as the trampled wheat. ‘Did you see that?’ Frithwine demands of his ally, pointing to the discarded finger.
But there’s no time for a reply. As quickly as the men advanced, they’re suddenly retracing those steps – one foot and then another. I wish I’d grabbed the hastily flung seax because someone’s going to sever their foot on the upturned blade.
But Frithwine, with his back to the retreat, doesn’t realise what’s happening.
I watch, my cry of warning too late, as one of the Mercians crashes into Frithwine. The boy has no chance to move, his foot trapped in place by the weight of the Mercian.
Frithwine thuds to the earth. I catch sight of his pale face beneath the dark stalks, fearful, as not one but two men stamp over him. Garwulf throws himself at the two Mercians. They turn, fear making them stab out without thought, and Garwulf earns himself a deep gash on his right arm for his efforts, but Frithwine remains trapped.
Frithwine’s screams cover all sound. I can’t hear anything from the battle line. I can’t make out the echo of any commands from Ealdorman Ælfstan. I know there’s only one thing to be done.
Hastily, I shove my shoulders against the men of the shield wall who are crushing Frithwine, forcing them forwards so that they’re compressed against those compelled to retreat. I’m aware that, in doing so, the Mercian warriors move uneasily.
‘Get him,’ I huff to Garwulf, shoulders straining against the weight of not just two men, but every single warrior who thinks to withdraw. I won’t be able to halt the men for longer than a moment or two. If Garwulf doesn’t hurry, Frithwine will be entirely crushed beneath Mercian boots.
Desperately, Garwulf grabs hold of Frithwine beneath his armpits, pulling him away rather than letting him regain his feet. Angry cries of fear and frustration reach my ears. I’m just waiting for the king or the ealdormen to realise what’s happening. Any goodwill I might have earned in my actions that saved the king will evaporate soon enough because I’m putting Frithwine’s life above that of Mercia’s success.
As soon as Frithwine’s free, I stagger clear, allowing the Mercians to take their five steps backwards, for the unstable line of men to reform in almost neat rows.
I don’t expect any thanks. I don’t get it either. Frithwine continues to wail, prone on the crushed wheat, although at least three horse lengths behind the line of attack. I don’t risk looking at him. I know he’ll be bruised and muddied. Bloody arsehole. Even I know not to turn my back on the damn shield wall.
‘Advance.’ No sooner have the uneven lines reformed than the Mercians once more press the advantage. Footprints have churned the ground beneath my feet. There are more and more abandoned weapons, often seaxes knocked from the hands of warriors by shields crashing together or suddenly sundering apart. The crop is entirely ruined, flattened to the earth, just as surely as Frithwine would have been.
I take my place beside my ally once more.
‘You should have bloody left the idiot,’ he denounces me, but there’s no venom in his voice. That’s because the intensity of the battle is increasing. One step forward, another back. The men have to stay alert, watchful of what’s happening because it’s impossible to see around the backs of the Mercians on the front of the shield wall.
The sound of screaming and shrieking fills the air, just as much as the dull thud of weapons hitting the wood of the shields does.
I look down and just avoid standing on the staring eyes of the first of the dead. I don’t know his name. He has a seax thrust through one of his open eyes, his helm nowhere to be seen, his tongue greying where it sticks out of his mouth, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth to pool onto the dark earth.
The man who shouted at Frithwine and Garwulf stands on the dead man, his foot crashing through the thickened byrnie and into the man’s chest. I taste vomit once more. He kicks his foot clear, perhaps not even realising what he’s done. Hastily, I bend to drag the dead man away, hooking my hands beneath his shoulders and pulling with all of my strength. My shoulders, already tested from rescuing Frithwine, scream at this latest outrage. The man’s booted feet stick on an outcrop of wheat that hasn’t been trampled. I growl deep in my throat.
‘Bloody hell,’ I grunt, wrestling with the body until it finally comes free and I can drag it once more.
I don’t know where Frithwine’s gone, but Garwulf stands to the right of me when I retake my place. His eyes are fearful, his helm firmly wedged in place as he watches me reproachfully.
I look down. There’s another body, and then a man who yet lives, screaming as he makes his way towards the back of the fighting on hands and knees, his face constantly knocked by the knees and feet of those who yet fight. His helm is missing. His dark hair’s slick with sweat or blood, and his eyes are wild.
My gloved hands are slick with the blood of the dead. I bend and wipe them on the still-standing wheat, which caused me all the problems.
The wounded man continues to crawl away. For every time his knee moves, the Mercians travel forwards, revealing more and more of the dead, as though a crop of bodies has replaced that of the ruined wheat. And then I startle.
There are more than just Mercian dead. I can tell from sigils that flash on byrnies and tunics, on the iron amulets that show the Wessex wyvern around necks.
‘Make sure the Wessex bastards are dead,’ I roar to the man beside me who was so quick to call me a damn fool.
He stares at me, lips open in shock.
I’m already bending low, rushing towards the next man who thinks to escape from the crush. He has no helm or hair, the back of his head stained red. I rotate him to a cry of alarm. I scour him, looking for something that tells me if he’s Mercian or from Wessex. Some sign of the Mercian eagle sigil. Some sign of the Wessex one.
‘Mercian,’ he calls, but his words roll and are thick with a distinctly un-Mercian accent. I’ve never heard it before.
‘Tell me, who’s your queen?’ I demand, chin high, prepared to give him a chance while I can. Eyes narrowed in thought, his hand bunches at his waist. I thrust my seax through his chest before he can take a swipe at me with his blade. Blood gushes from the wound. I retch at the sharp scent of the slaughterhouse.
The dying man watches me, acceptance on his face. I lower my other hand to pull his eyes shut. It brings me no pleasure to kill my enemy in such a way, but at least he’s dead and no longer a threat.
‘Wessex scum,’ I hear someone shriek, but my eyes are on the next man crawling through the crop. He’s on his elbows, using one leg to propel him forward while the other one drags uselessly behind. I narrow my eyes. I’m sure I recognise him. I’m convinced he’s a Mercian, even as Garwulf menaces perilously close with his seax.
‘Mercian,’ the man gasps, his accent evident.
Then I recognise him. It’s Oswy, one of the men who thought to ridicule me.
I could allow Garwulf to kill him, but while the man hates me, he’s a proud Mercian and one of her warriors.
‘Leave him. He’s Mercian. I vouch for him,’ I call, expecting and receiving a pointed look from where Garwulf stands, ready, seax in hand.
Others have realised the danger. Men bend to check on the dead, nearly dead, and those who yet live. The smell of blood, piss and fear fill my nose. I grimace, grateful to have been left at the rear of the advancing line. There’s no time for dread here. I must strike and react, ensure that our enemy is unable to launch a sneak attack on the defenceless backs of the Mercians.
Oswy glowers at me. I meet his gaze evenly, breathing heavily.
‘Would you rather be bloody dead?’ I demand.
He has a purpling eye, his helm lost somewhere in the melee, but what hobbles him is a deep gash to his lower leg, his trews dark with blood. When he tries to stand, pushing up from the twisted crops, he collapses once more with the thud of his weight and the jangle of his weapons.
‘Come here.’ I go to his side. The shield wall has stayed immobile for the last few moments. I risk stooping and giving him my shoulder to aid him. He’s not alone. There are other wounded too. They all bleed from one wound or another.
A handful of the men and women from the baggage train move amongst them. A roar of triumph or pain ripples through the air every so often. The warriors wince at the sound, but those helping them don’t even seem to notice. They don’t flinch at the cries or even gaze fearfully at what’s happening only so far in front of them. I think they’re braver than I am.
I eye them, noting that some do seem to know what they’re doing. They clean wounds and bind them. They offer potions to ease the men’s suffering and even hold the hands of those who have only moments yet to live. Wynflæd would be proud to see so many of them following the lessons she’s taught them in how to save a life on the slaughter field.
I swallow down my unease as I deposit Oswy on the ground.
‘Get back,’ Oswy grouses at me, but there’s half a thanks in the words, more than I received from Frithwine.
I spare Oswy another thought. I hope he lives and I see him once more. The hope is both for my survival, and his. I admit that.