We retreat two steps. We need to regain the advantage. I can no longer see around me. All that’s visible is the shield I hold in front of me, the men to my left and right. Above my head, flickering sunlight assures me that someone protects my back.
My chest heaves as I suck in much-needed air, but I’m not terrified any more. Neither am I convinced that the Mercians will prevail, even though I will it with every bone in my body.
A thin blade appears above my shield. I eye it coldly. It’s not long enough to reach me, not with the shield before me. I watch it, waiting for something to happen, only to feel a jabbing at my feet. Hastily, I move my feet to spread my legs. The enemy spear threads through them. Damn the Wessex warrior. He thought to distract me with the seax. But, I consider, if he holds the seax, and the shield, then who’s in command of the spear?
I don’t have a spear. I’ve not yet mastered the art, and in all honesty there was little expectation that I’d find myself at the front of the shield wall. But others do have spears with which to poke at the enemy.
‘Hold still,’ a gruff voice calls from behind me.
I do as I’m told. Once more something moves close to my feet, but this time, it’s a Mercian who thinks to impale a Wessex warrior. I prefer it that way.
I’m straining to hold the shield. Our foe is strong and fearless. Everywhere I look along the shield wall, I can see spears, seaxes and swords trying to cut my fellow Mercians.
The man to my right grimaces at me. I recognise him from Tamworth. Cearl bleeds from a deep cut to his chin. His eyes are wild, glowing with the fire of pain and revenge combined. He shifts his shoulder against the shield to enable him to reach for a seax from his weapons belt. With it, he batters aside the probing weapon working its way quickly between the guard and that of the man next to him.
I risk a glance and meet the leering face of Wulfheard.
He startles on seeing me, his mouth opening as though to berate me for not heeding his words to stay at the back, but once more the shield wall shifts. And it does so suddenly that I fall, the weight against my shield disappearing between one breath and the next.
Refusing to release my hold on the Mercian shield, it crashes to the floor with me, taking my weight, while all around me my comrades surge onwards. I bend my head low, seeking out the enemy through the legs of the rampaging Mercians, but they’ve run off into the distance, to where the menacing walls of ancient Londinium are so much closer than before. In their wake, the Mercians sense victory.
I get kicked, knocked into, pushed over, and still, I sit, huddled on the shield with my knees beneath me. My seax is stuck in the ground, driven there by my weight. I grip it when I see no one else means to run me down, but my weapon is stuck firmly in the solid brown earth.
‘Leave it,’ a voice commands.
I turn to meet the eyes of Ealdorman Sigered. I’m staggered to find him in the midst of the slaughter field, but it only makes me aware just how far the Mercian warriors have run.
‘Get up and join the rest of the warriors.’ There’s no kindness in the voice. It brokers no argument. I’m tempted to ignore it. After all, surely he should be in the thick of the fighting. But the ealdorman speaks to me from the back of his black horse, forelock a shimmering silver, and I scramble to my knees, picking up the shield at the same time.
I run on. My knees and feet pump beneath me, while my eyes scour the battlefield. There are dead and dying men spread out on the earth or huddled around their injuries, pitiable moans filling the air. There’s an abandoned cart, and then another two, and I take it that we’re racing through the line that the Wessex warriors thought to hold against our advance.
My eyes flash from the ground to the ongoing confrontation in front of us and then to the wall that’s coming ever closer – the towering walls of the ancient settlement.
There’s a mass of swelling men ahead, the sound of hooves behind me getting nearer.
I struggle to keep going. My arms shake with the exertions of holding my shield. My breath is harsh because there’s no moisture to be found in my throat. To my untrained eye, it also seems as though the fighting has become evermore frantic and bloody.
‘Damn bastards,’ I hear Ealdorman Sigered call to another rider, the thud of hooves driving me onwards. There are more and more abandoned pieces of equipment to fall over. No doubt items deemed too weak for war against the Mercians. And all of them could trip me if I don’t keep looking.
‘Surround the shield wall.’ The cry comes from far behind. I only just hear the words. I doubt any of the Mercians in front of me hear them, let alone heed them.
‘That way, damn you.’ Ealdorman Sigered is beside me, tapping me on the shoulder with his spear and indicating where he wants me to go with its point. It’s hard to tell where he’s directing me. The sun is too bright overhead, as though shards stab at my vision. My eyes tear, and I can hardly bear to look where he indicates. All the same, head down, I change my trajectory, hoping that I’ll be able to see soon enough.
I cut through the edge of the warring men. I can hear Mercians calling to one another, demanding more room, while others rumble to let them through. I squint into the distance. I have an idea of where Ealdorman Sigered is sending me. And, indeed, others are following my lead. Ahead, too far in the distance for me to hope to catch, some of the Wessex warriors are scuttling towards a huge gateway in the stone wall of Londinium. I know then that our foe thinks to hide behind the fastness of stone built up high. I understand why Ealdorman Sigered is keen to have me rush this way and prevent the Wessex warriors from retreating behind the walls that will prove impenetrable for the Mercians.
Yet, he, with his horse, might stand a chance of reaching the gateway. I don’t. And neither do many of the Mercians, although those under the command of Ealdorman Beornoth are already much, much closer.
I hurry my steps. Sweat flows freely down my back. I can feel my slick feet slipping inside my boots. The ground rises and then lowers, my knees jolting with the abrupt change.
A bellow comes from where the majority of the Mercians have attempted to stop our opponents. I risk a look, only to misstep. Arms cartwheeling in the air, I keep my feet and power forward even faster.
I’ve lost sight of Frithwine and Garwulf, of Wulfheard and Ealdorman Ælfstan, but Ealdorman Sigered rides behind me. Does he think to claim a victory for himself, even after all this time?
But now there are more hooves, and I hear a familiar voice.
‘To the fort,’ King Wiglaf orders, his words louder than a winter deluge.
I redouble my efforts. Ahead, the wall is getting ready to jut outwards once more. Above my head, I can see where the wyvern standard of Wessex flies from the top of a buttress, and men are watching from behind the perceived safety of those walls.
I don’t know what to think of what I’m seeing. Perhaps it’s a fort. Maybe it’s merely where the warriors keep a half-arsed watch over Londinium. Certainly, I think it won’t be easy to crest the walls and pour inside Londinium itself.
To the right of me, where the River Fleet cuts the land between Londinium and Lundenwic, the market settlement stretches out, devoid of walls and with little means to protect itself. It’s no surprise the Wessex warriors scurry towards the walls.
And yet, I’m perplexed. If Mercia’s opponent locks itself up inside the fort, how do they plan on escaping? Or profiting from the taxes from the trading centre?
I’m forced to consider whether King Wiglaf has the numbers to attack such a vast wall.
‘To the fort,’ once more echoes over the heads of the warring men. I perceive more and more Mercians realising just what their king is telling them.
I watch as the Mercians under Ealdorman Beornoth finally meet the fleeing Wessex warriors. Guttural shrieks and cries fill the air, men limping onwards, others clutching at bloody innards as they sense that much-needed protection is so close.
The imposing Ealdorman Beornoth, leading from the front, is relentless. His shield hits men on their backs. His seax stabs down when they fall to the ground. He strides steadily onwards as though a behemoth.
The number of Wessex warriors grows ever smaller, but then more rush from the fort’s gateway, called to arms by a strident voice from inside. These men carry more shields, spears visible between them. And still, Ealdorman Beornoth advances, gouging as he goes. At least thirty Mercians surround him. They mirror his actions, and there can be only fifty Wessex warriors in the new shield wall. They allow the majority of their fallen comrades access to their protection and then begin their retreat as another barked order issues from inside the fort.
I can see more of the gateway. It holds a substantial double wooden gate built from fine Mercian oak. If that slams shut on us, it’ll be all but impossible to gain access.
I feel that Ealdorman Sigered’s advance has slowed now he realises there might be some fighting. I shake my head, hurrying to catch the rear of Ealdorman Beornoth’s men before they face the enemy, only to hear my name being called.
‘Icel, get your arse over here.’
I stop abruptly, the man behind me almost colliding with me, to stare, open-mouthed, at Wulfheard.
‘Stay by my side,’ he orders me. He’s bleeding from more places. His helm’s lost somewhere so that I can see the streaks of blood running through his hair. I still don’t believe it’s his blood.
Wulfheard lopes onwards, not seeming to tire, even though exhaustion threatens to drag me to the ground. If I could just have a drink or close my eyes, I’m sure I’d feel reinvigorated. But there’s no time for that. The Wessex warriors, well, some of them, have made it behind the solid protection of the grey walls. The Mercians howl to reach the gateway before it can slam shut, while those from Wessex inside Londinium shower them with anything they can get their hands on from the bastion above our heads.
The number of remaining foemen diminishes the closer I get to the gaping gateway. They’re going to escape. They’re going to live to fight another day, and I could howl with the fury of it all. So many men are dead or dying, and still, the victory isn’t assured.
Ealdorman Beornoth rears up before the gateway, the closest Mercian of all, using his shield against the Wessex warriors. But two of the relieving force hold him stationary with their attack so that others can make good their escape. If only I could run that little bit quicker, but I can’t. I’m almost entirely spent. Yet, somehow, the gateway into Londinium remains open, just one half of it.
Wulfheard is battling his way through the enemy shield wall that protects the retreating foemen and bars entry to the gate. His seax sends streaks of blood high into the air. He grunts softly with every impact, but it’s nothing compared to the cries of our opponents who bleed and fall because of his advance. So close, and yet these Wessex warriors who encounter him will not be saved. I watch on, shocked by his ferocity, by the uselessness of it all. Wulfheard and Ealdorman Beornoth will not make it in time to stop the gate from being closed to us.
Abruptly, Wulfheard’s behind me, his hands on my back, his breath fierce down my neck. He’s pushing me through the closing gap of the other half of the gate where Ealdorman Beornoth fights only one man now. Others are screaming for the Wessex warrior to run, while, overhead, a piece of masonry thuds to the floor, just missing the ealdorman’s head.
‘What?’ I gasp in horror as Wulfheard pulls my hand free and forces something else into it.
‘Get inside, lay low, find a way to open the gates for us.’ And I’m swallowed up as the remnants of the Wessex shield wall collapse around me. I’m left with no choice but to go with them or face being crushed by the Mercians howling for blood as they run ever faster, as though they can beat the inevitability of the oak doors’ final closure.
I seek out Wulfheard’s face in the mass of Mercians trying to kill me, but I don’t see him, and then I’m swept along in the rush of men desperate to find some respite at their back. The wooden doorway slams shut with such force I feel it reverberating up and down my back.