I suck in much-needed air to still my rapidly beating heart. I finally look down at my shield hand, seeing that Wulfheard has taken my Mercian shield and replaced it with a hated Wessex one of white and black. I fumble for my seax, and realise it too has been taken from me. The blade at my belt is unfamiliar to me. I swallow, terror almost making me piss myself, as I stagger out of the way of the few remaining retreating men as others rush to place the bars in place to keep the double gateway closed against the Mercians outrage.
All is chaos. There are shrieks and moans of pain and fear, and, above it all, no one voice rises to take command.
I eye the gateway. It’s firmly closed, two pieces of wood already slid into place across it to ensure the Mercians can’t force it open, although they hammer on it. To either side, the stone wall extends upwards at least the height of four men. There’s no hope that I can escape that way.
I can’t believe what Wulfheard has done to me. Tears of terror threaten to run down my bloodied and bruised cheeks as I lift my helm from my head, snatching the stinking linen cap away as well. The wind rustles my hair, bringing with it the smell of sweat and other less pleasant aromas.
I’m not alone in seeming to be stunned by what’s happening. A man lies spread out before me, his face bleaching white, his black beard and red lips gleaming too brightly. Further down his body, a significant slash through his byrnie reveals his slit belly. His eyes are almost rolled back into his head. I know he stands little chance of surviving, especially when there’s no one rushing to his aid.
Beside him, a youth no older than I sits and sobs, blood pouring through his fingers where he holds them tight at the top of his left arm. That, I think, is a wound he might live through if he’s lucky.
And there are more and more wounded and dying. The scene is so pitiful, it horrifies me, and I hate the Wessex bastards.
‘Help me.’ The cry from the youth rouses me from my stupor.
I stagger to his side when it seems no one is coming to aid him. Those men who are hale are moving away from the secure gateway. From the far side, I can hear the frustrated cries of the Mercians. I don’t recognise any one voice, but I would certainly sooner be with them than here, inside a Wessex enclave.
I bend to meet the youth’s eyes. They’re green but flecked with pain, snot smearing with blood that he must have rubbed over his face from his wound. I can see where his skin turns even paler. He’s losing too much blood.
‘You need to staunch the bleeding,’ I advise him, my words soft so that he doesn’t seem to hear them, not above his moaning and weeping.
I sigh heavily and bend to rip a piece of cloth from the tunic of a man lying dead closer to the gateway. I can see where boots have left an imprint on his face, even as he lies facing upwards, his eyes forever open but seeing nothing – poor sod.
A clatter against the gateway has me jumping aside, my heart pounding, even though the men out there are my allies.
‘Here, let me help you.’ I hasten back to the youth, keen to provide support before he too tumbles to lie in the churned mud of the roadway.
‘What?’ he asks, not seeming to note me. His single word sounds different to the way the Mercians speak, similar to the way the Wessex warrior spoke who tried to pretend he was a Mercian. I note it but can do nothing to mask the way I speak. I know no other way.
‘Let me help you,’ I say more loudly. ‘If we stop the bleeding and bind your wound, you should survive, but we need to do it immediately.’
He continues to misunderstand what I’m saying to him. I imagine he’s in shock from his wound and Wessex’s catastrophic failure to beat back the Mercians.
With practised ease, I thread the linen around the top of his arm and then tie it tightly, binding the two strands, end over end, so that they won’t come loose, and the flow of blood immediately turns to a trickle.
‘That hurts.’ Sullen words greet my action.
‘Better that than bleeding to death,’ I retort, already reaching for my knife to cut aside what remains of his tunic lower down his arm. It’s sodden with blood. The rest of the tunic is a dull red, but it’s almost black below his wound.
‘What are you doing?’ His elongated words are edged with fear.
‘Cutting your tunic. The wound needs to be cleaned and bound. It might even need stitches.’ At my words, his eyes narrow, and he licks his lips. I can smell how much he needs to drink just from his breath on my face. But I have no water, and I don’t know where to get any. I’ve never visited the fort before.
‘How do you know that?’ he asks.
I shrug my shoulders. ‘I know how to heal better than I know how to kill.’ I speak without thought and silently curse my loose tongue. I need to be careful what I say and to whom I say it.
‘I’ve not seen you before,’ he presses, eyes narrowed with pain and suspicion.
‘I’ve not seen you either,’ I snap. ‘Now, do you want my assistance or not? I’m happy to help that poor sod there,’ and I indicate the man with the slit belly.
‘Sorry, sorry. Please, help me. I don’t want to die. I didn’t even want to be here, but as one of the king’s warriors, I had no choice. Those Mercians are proper bastards, aren’t they? The ealdorman said it would be easy to kill ’em all. He said they didn’t know how to fight.’ Guiltily, my patient looks around to see if he’s been overheard. I recognise his worry.
‘They were lethal,’ I admit, unsure what else I can say. I’m wary of stating something that’ll give me away as a Mercian. With the bottom of his sleeve cut away, I purse my lips and eye the wound. It’s deep, but not long. It’s bled a lot, and yet, it should be easy enough to sew together, only I don’t have anything with me to do that.
‘Will it heal?’ the lad asks me, trying not to look at it.
‘Yes, if I can stitch it, and the wound-rot stays away.’
‘We need to go to old Ecgred,’ the lad states.
I nod because I don’t know who Ecgred is or even where he might be.
He makes to stand, only to tumble backwards. I jump to stop him from falling on the dead man. He looks down when I’ve righted him, and a thin wail leaves his lips.
‘Dealwine.’ And he crashes to the ground beside the dead man. I would pull him away, but he’s in no danger for the time being. The blood flowing from his wound has slowed to a dribble. Provided we get him to this Ecgred soon, he’ll live.
I eye the belly-slit man with mild interest, then gaze all around me. The wooden gate is set into the two sides of the wall, extending into the fort itself. These same walls form a section of the walls. I turn in a slow circle, head tilted back so that I can see as much as possible, noting that the wall runs as far as I can see, no doubt, as Wulfheard told me, all the way to the River Thames. My heart beats too loudly in my chest, and for a moment, I struggle to find enough air to breathe.
Wulfheard has thrust me into the heart of an enemy encampment, and I have no idea how to escape from somewhere with such impressive walls and such a huge gate.
The belly-slit man grunts and comes awake, howling with the pain of his wound. I meet his dull eyes, and he attempts to sit upright, only to crash back to the slick ground.
‘Will I die?’ he demands from me, the words edged with fury, his accent similar to the lad I’ve already helped.
‘If you lie there and no one aids you, then yes.’ There’s no kindness to my words. Sometimes, it’s a kindness to be honest, and not promise false hope.
‘Get me to Ecgred,’ he demands.
Again, I don’t know who this Ecgred is, and I certainly don’t know where to find him.
The lad continues to sob over the still body of Dealwine. Few people linger beside the wooden gateway. There are a handful of Wessex warriors, the men looking as though they’ve not fought in the battle. I assume they must be the gate wardens, but I don’t know for sure. They look nervous enough as the Mercians crash against the gateway from the far side. The Mercians don’t have a ram, I know that, and so they won’t make any progress. But the battle fury must have a hold of them, and they won’t give up, even with such an insurmountable obstacle. I hope Wulfheard doesn’t expect me to take on the seven Wessex warriors alone. I can’t think that was what he meant.
Then the lad looks at me, just before his gaze slips to the slit-bellied man.
‘Tyrhtil,’ he gasps. ‘Dealwine is dead,’ he moans to the dying man.
‘Aye, and I’ll be soon if you don’t get me to Ecgred.’
Only now does the youth notice Tyrhtil’s wounds.
‘Help him, as you did me,’ he demands angrily, facing me once more from where he still kneels on the floor.
I shake my head. ‘I can’t. Not here. There’s nothing to clean the wound or pack it.’ I indicate the space in which we stand. There’s little to be seen other than the dead and dying and the few remaining guardsmen.
‘Then get him to Ecgred.’
The repetition of the words frustrates me. I don’t know who Ecgred is, and even if I did, do I want to help the belly-slit wounded Wessex warrior? He looks like a fierce man, one used to winning his battles. If he does live, it’ll only be to fight another battle against the Mercians. In those battles, he might well cause the death of those about whom I care.
‘How?’ I ask instead of denying the request, hoping such will end the demands.
‘He needs carrying. Get some of the garrison. They’ll have access to something to carry him on.’
‘You go,’ I immediately retort. I don’t know where to go.
‘Hurry up, Brihtwold,’ Tyrhtil commands him, although his voice wavers on the final word.
And Brihtwold does just that. Although he’s still weak from blood loss, Brihtwold veers along the wall and disappears from sight where the wall seems to buckle in on itself.
I remain standing, unsure what to do with myself. In all honesty, I can’t help the wounded Tyrhtil. Anything I do now will merely become undone when he’s moved to wherever Ecgred might be.
‘I don’t recognise you,’ Tyrhtil wheezes through hollow cheeks. Sweat beads his face.
‘I don’t recognise you either,’ I snap once more, wishing I could think of a better reply, but I know almost nothing about Wessex. I know the king’s name and that Winchester is his capital, but I don’t know the names of places, of the ealdormen, or even of the bishops, not even the Archbishop of Canterbury. I’m sure I’ve heard Bishop Æthelweald mention him before now, but when did I need to concern myself with such matters?
‘Well, King Ecgberht called on his ealdormen to bring their warriors together for the defence of Londonia. I imagine there are others here I don’t know. We’ve got to work together to ensure that bastard Mercian upstart doesn’t take it back. We’ll all be rich from the proceeds of trade from the market.’
I open my mouth to speak but clamp it shut again. I’m not going to argue with him. I won’t say that Wulfheard told me all of Londonia’s trading takes place along the Strand and that the Strand is in the market settlement, on the other side of the River Fleet.
Perhaps Wulfheard’s wrong, although I doubt it. He knows a great deal about Londonia. He told me he was born there before moving further north to serve Mercia’s kings. He spoke of a childhood spent on the foreshore of a contrary river, likely to flood at a moment’s notice. His words weren’t fond as he spoke of the smell and stink of a tidal river that routinely revealed a grisly past.
‘But I suppose it makes strangers of good Wessex men.’ Tyrhtil sneers at me before gasping in pain and clutching once more at his belly wound.
‘Don’t put your hands on it,’ I instruct him harshly. ‘Your fingers are filthy and carry no end of corruption. It won’t heal if you infect it.’
‘You know a lot for such a young ’un,’ he retorts, although I notice his hand does move away from his wound as though burned.
‘Someone taught me,’ I offer.
‘Aye, and how to fight as well?’ he asks.
I just nod to this, biting down on my lip. I can’t think that Wulfheard thrust me inside the fort to make idle conversation with two wounded Wessex warriors. What does he expect me to do? And how quickly does he expect me to do it? Is he, even now, waiting for me on the other side of the enormous gate?
I can still hear the Mercians, but they’re shouting words of disdain at the Wessex warriors, because their weapons won’t reach. Has Wulfheard told them what he’s done? Do they all wait for me?
And then a group of four men appear, all of them dressed for war, although they show no sign of having just fought against the Mercians. Their byrnies are clean, and their weapons bear none of the stains that mine do.
‘What you done to yourself?’ the first man directs at Tyrhtil, chin jutted out.
‘A little scratch,’ Tyrhtil counters, his words strong despite how much pain he must be feeling.
‘A little scratch?’ the man replies, eyeing his bloodied tunic with unease. ‘It looks like you’re for it. You know no one heals from a belly wound like that?’
‘It’s not caught his innards.’ I speak without thought. ‘If they’re not cut, he stands a chance, just like any other wound.’
The warrior rears up before me, his heavily eyebrowed face twisted in fury at being contradicted.
‘Who the hell are you?’ His eyes rake me from my boots to my disarrayed black hair, freed from the confines of the helm.
‘Icel,’ I retort. ‘A warrior, with some healing knowledge,’ I’m stung into explaining.
‘Well, I’ve never seen you before, so I can’t see that Ecgred will appreciate you interfering or suggesting he can repair this man’s injury. Tyrhtil, you’re as good as dead. I’m telling you.’
I go to argue once more, but Brihtwold speaks instead, his words flecked with rage so that his bloodless face suffuses with crimson.
‘He’s going to live. He just needs Ecgred. Anyway, you’re not in control of who Ecgred treats and who he leaves to die. Take Tyrhtil to Ecgred, or I’m going straight to Ealdorman Wassa.’
‘And what do you think Ealdorman Wassa will do? He’ll probably demand that Tyrhtil is fed to the pigs if he even speaks with you. He’s trying to work out how the damn Mercians managed to drive us back inside the fort. Half of Wessex’s warriors are in bloody Lundenwic, and we’re stuck here, with no chance of getting to them because the Mercians have taken the bloody bridge across the River Fleet.’
‘He won’t. And I know it.’ Brihtwold, despite his slight shakiness, bristles before the man who casts doubt on my words. I notice that the two are the same height; for all, Brihtwold is half as wide as the other man.
‘Fine. It’s not like we won’t have to move him away from here anyway when he’s dead. Come on, lads, let’s shift this useless hunk of meat and then we can clear the rest of the dead away as well.’
There’s a feeble cry of terror at the words. I turn towards the sound. It seems that the collection of men I took to be dead aren’t. Not quite yet. Although, the man who cried out has a huge wound, half of his head caved in so that one eye meets mine while the other is lifeless. Such a sight makes me want to vomit to see so much grey, white and maroon on display.
‘So tell me, fool, will he live or die?’
I don’t want to have to say, but my silence answers for the spokesman, and he cackles.
‘Daft git.’ But by now, Tyrhtil is held between the four men, using two rounded shields to carry him, and I’m grateful that he and Brihtwold will soon be gone. As soon as they are, I’ll sit with the dying man. I’ll probably end his suffering. It would be the kindest thing to do.
‘Icel, you have to come with us. Tell Ecgred what you said about Tyrhtil,’ Brihtwold urges me.
‘I’ll be along in a moment,’ I promise instead. There’s more than one bobbing head amongst the twenty or so who lie dead and dying, forgotten about by everyone. I even see a Mercian warrior amongst them. I recognise him from the battle on the borderlands. He watches me with the cold gaze of the dead. I want to close his eyes, remove the eagle shield that lies at the tip of his outstretched hand, or the Wessex warriors will do worse things to him, even though he’s beyond caring.
‘Come on,’ Brihtwold presses me. He needs to sit down, or he’ll fall.
‘I’ll find you,’ I confirm. I’m far from convinced that it’ll be the right thing for me to do, to follow the wounded. Perhaps I should stay here and work out how to open the gate. Although, well, it’s a bloody big gate with two barriers across it. I won’t be able to open it alone. I need to find another means of allowing the Mercians inside.
‘Hurry,’ Brihtwold urges me.
I stand and wait for the carping men and the groaning Tyrhtil to move aside. Only then do I go to the dying man. I kneel before him. He’s surrounded by the slickness of his body, the scent of piss and blood combining. His skin is already translucent, yet he doesn’t seem to notice how wounded he is.
‘Help me,’ he demands, his voice gruff from beneath a thick black moustache and beard, which reaches to his thin shoulders.
‘I can’t,’ I offer, sympathy in my words despite the fact he’s my enemy.
‘I just need to get to my feet,’ he argues, confused by my words.
‘You’re wounded,’ I say gently. ‘Your head.’
His left hand reaches upwards, as though not believing me. His fingers probe the wound, going deeper and deeper until he trembles. His one eye cries, his other one looking down at his nose, useless. The man’s hand comes away covered in blood and gore. He holds it before his eye and stares at it as though disbelieving what he sees.
‘What’s that?’ he demands to know, his words slow and elongated.
I swallow down my revulsion at the wound on display.
‘The matter inside your head,’ I answer truthfully.
He shivers at my words and grows belligerent.
‘I know who you are, you little Mercian whelp. I saw what that warrior did. I’m going to tell ’em who you really are, and then you’ll be just as dead as I am.’
His words make me gasp, but I’m reaching for my seax, even as I check that no one has heard what he’s said. But, with the gate shut, the Wessex warriors seem to think the battle entirely lost, even though they feel safe enough behind the stone and wood. I know what needs to be done. I was going to do it anyway.
Far too easily, for a blade as dull as the one I now carry, I slide it beneath his armpit, forcing it upwards. He doesn’t so much as notice what I’m doing as he tries to raise his voice loud enough that one of the guards will hear. But no one is coming, and he dies with a whimper. The Wessex warriors don’t even look my way to see what’s happening.
I reach over, close his one eye, and then try to do the same with the useless one, but it refuses to shut until I place a small piece of grey stone on it.
I sit back on my knees then, trembling from head to toe. I slide my seax back into my weapons belt, noting the trickle of dark fluid that drips onto the dead man’s outstretched arm. Perhaps I should follow Brihtwold and see this Ecgred, but I can’t help thinking it will place me in even greater danger.
I feel vulnerable and terrified. If Wulfheard were here, I’d kill him for the position he’s placed me in. And yet. If what the Wessex warriors said is accurate, that their numbers have been split between the two parts of Londonia, then King Ecgberht’s force is already halved. If the Mercians can just get inside the fort, then they can win, I know it, and the market settlement lies open and unprotected anyway.
On trembling legs, I make my way to the side of the dead Mercian. Although I don't know his name, I recognise him as one of Oswy’s cronies. He was a slight man, quick on his feet. It’s no surprise that he made it inside the walls before the Wessex warriors managed to close the gates.
I reach out and thrust the eagle emblem shield aside from him. It rolls away, clattering against the thick stone wall. Sunlight glints off the iron rim. I almost reclaim it, but no, I need to take the Wessex shield that Wulfheard gave me and discover the secrets of the fort. At least, I hope it has some secrets. Otherwise, I don’t know how I’ll ever escape.