Taking my battered Wessex shield, with its wyvern on it, I follow Brihtwold’s path inside the fort. Before me, more walls reach high above my head, but there’s also a smaller door, much smaller than the gateway that led inside the walls. A Wessex warrior is on guard. He bleeds from a scratch on his pale, narrow face and leans heavily on his spear, as though he might fall at any moment. On seeing the wyvern shield, he merely raises his chin and allows me inside without even asking who I am.
Beyond the small aged wooden door, that can no doubt be more easily defended than the huge gateway if it comes to a fight, I feel the confines of a building with more than one floor above my head. Immediately, I enter what looks like a large hall, with a fire raging at the centre of the hearth, despite the heat of the day. There are abandoned tables with jugs and cups, and I eagerly walk towards one, desperate to slake my raging thirst. My tongue feels drier than Wynflæd’s desiccated mushrooms. I keep expecting someone to call out a caution to me, but nothing happens. My feet move over the much-buckled wooden floorboards noisily. I drop the enemy shield to the floor with a loud bang, slosh water into a wooden beaker and swill it around my parched mouth.
It hardly has any impact, so I hoist the entire jug and greedily drink directly from it. I feel water run down my beardless chin, but I don’t stop drinking, even though it’s not very cold or even particularly fresh. It has the hint of mud about it, but I don’t care.
I’m unsure what this room is and why there’s no one inside it. What was the guard at the door guarding? Uncertain of what to do, I move towards a door to my right. I pass into another small room, but at least it’s easy to determine its use, for shields and spears are stacked up inside the wall. There aren’t that many weapons and shields in there, not now. No doubt, it was full before the battle. Those that remain are in poor condition, streaked with old rust. I can see why they were left behind.
Through the next door, the ancient hinges making the door jump unevenly, I enter yet another room. I feel a gust of wind disturb the stale air and make my way outside. Here, I seem to be in the middle of the fort. There are stone walls all around me, reaching far above my head. They look strong and hale, although lichen and moss cover them in some places. The scent of damp is overwhelming. There are places inside the fort where the sun must never touch the ground. At its centre there are a collection of tangled weeds with only a splash of once-green grass.
Finally, I encounter some other people, a great deal of them. The Wessex warriors stand high on the defences built on top of the walls. There’s a flurry of activity directly in front of me. Men and young lads rush that way, while someone shouts orders with the crack of authority. Perhaps, my opponents haven’t given up on defeating Mercia just yet.
Curiosity guides my steps. I forge a path up the many stone steps leading to the precipice. Puffing with the effort, my calves complaining at the unfamiliar movement of lifting first one foot high and then another, I alight on the viewing platform. I can finally look out over the slaughter field. And it’s a slaughter field.
The ravens and crows have already descended to feast on the dead and dying. Without much success, I see a feeble arm batting aside a jet-black raven. The arm falls lifelessly to the floor as the raven jumps on the body, gorging on the grey and pink flesh that’s all that’s left of the man’s neck. I hope he was a Wessex warrior. I shouldn’t like to think of a Mercian dying in such a way.
But it’s what’s happening amongst the Mercian forces that intrigues me. I expect to see them preparing to attack the gateway that would give access inside the fort. To see them forming up with their shield wall once more, perhaps even hacking down some of the few trees close by that could serve as rams to batter through the aged wood of the gateway, but I’m entirely wrong.
In the distance, where I left my horse when this battle began, a collection of bodies lies prone on the exposed field where crops once grew. The Mercians tasked with caring for the horses and feeding the warriors bend to check the fallen are indeed slain. Some small distance away, others work to erect tents and canvases for the Mercians to shelter beneath. The horses are out of sight, perhaps held to the far side of the slope we ventured down during the battle. Others stand in what I take to be a war council, the king’s banner fluttering above their heads.
I take comfort from seeing the familiar emblem of Mercia’s eagle flapping in the breeze. I could only wish I was there, and not here, surrounded by my enemy, should I say or do the wrong thing. Despite the fact I breathe easier now that I’ve recovered from the steep climb up the steps, my heart still thuds too loudly in my chest. If the air wasn’t so clear up here, I might struggle to suck in enough to breathe.
‘What they doin’?’ an aged man asks the people around him, his Wessex accent pronounced. I notice then that the Wessex warriors, all of them, are focused, not on the Mercian camp, but on what the Mercian warriors are doing.
I turn and watch them with intrigue. They’ve moved aside from the high walls of the fort, out of reach of anyone who might think to throw spears or stones at their heads. Now they’re heading towards a slit in the landscape. I can tell that it’s somewhat boggy, men walking with exaggerated care towards a surging river and a thin slither of a wooden bridge that crests it, pieces of stone at either end of its length. Behind that river, I can see the market settlement. It’s not quiet there, but no one rushes from between the collection of wattle and daub buildings to stop the Mercians. That surprises me as I see a Wessex banner flying.
‘They’re cutting us off from Lundenwic,’ a brisk voice informs, his words bringing a groan of dismay from those who watch the events unfolding. Not that they deny his words. It’s almost as though there’s a collective acceptance.
‘But the king’s inside Lundenwic,’ another announces eventually. His voice ripples with concern. He didn’t need to say that. The sight of the Wessex king’s banner is enough to know that these warriors are separated from their king.
I catch sight of the earlier encampment. It’s not overrun just yet, but it has been mostly abandoned.
‘And what are we doing?’ a mocking voice adds to the general unease.
‘Watching ’em,’ the brisk voice continues.
I’m bending forward, looking along the almost silent line of men, trying to get a look at who speaks. I’ve a feeling it must be whoever commands here. And in that case, it’s the man who ordered the wooden gateway sealed against the Mercians.
‘We should be out there, hunting the buggers down,’ a derisive voice chastises.
Now the brisk-voiced man turns. He’s a grey beard, straggles of silver and white hair showing beneath his elaborate helm. His byrnie is bedecked with Wessex’s wyvern, and it looks to be twice as thick as any other byrnie I’ve seen. Yet, the man hasn’t watched the battle from this lofty station. That much is obvious. No, he’s been in the middle of the fight. His trews are sheeted in maroon, and there’s a rip above the left knee, from which a trickle of blood can be seen.
‘So, you suggest that I open the gate and allow the Mercians inside?’ he demands to know. His words are edged with fury. ‘They outnumber us, and King Ecgberht and his warriors can’t get to us from inside Lundenwic with the Mercians taking the bridge over the River Fleet. We have half their number, maybe less than that. We’re lucky to have made it inside the fort.’
‘We should be attacking them from here then, using the advantage of height to kill them all.’
‘And you can throw a spear that far, can you? We don’t have enough archers or arrows. But you can waste our good spears if you want. But you’ll be helping the enemy if you do that.’
‘We can’t just stand here and watch!’ There’s a shriek of outrage from someone else.
The Mercians continue to check the dead and nearly dead on the elongated slaughter field, I see, as one man is stabbed through the chest when he tries to attack a Mercian. At the roar of outrage that greets the action, the Mercian stands, drops his trews and shows his naked arse to the Wessex warriors.
I admire the stones of the man, but then, he’s out of danger where he is. And so are his stones.
Before relacing his trews, the Mercian adds further insult by pissing on the dead Wessex warrior. I shiver with unease as, inside the fort, the men howl as though wolves on a full moon. I hate our opponents, but I’m not sure the Mercian warrior does the right thing with his actions.
‘We need to get out there,’ an outraged voice demands, and others take up the cry as well. Seaxes flash beneath the glowing sun, and more than one yelp greets the actions. The damn fools are wounding their allies with their thoughtless actions.
‘We can’t do anything. Not at the moment. King Ecgberht will come to our aid. I’m sure of it.’ But the ealdorman, I assume he’s an ealdorman, sounds far from sure. From the way the men react, I don’t think they believe it either. And still, they stand and watch the Mercians as they take control of the bridge that both divides and joins the twin parts of Londonia together.
In the distance, my attention is once more drawn to King Wiglaf’s maroon banner flashing in the intermittent breeze. I consider whether he knows what Wulfheard has done. I ponder whether he’d even care about what Wulfheard has done, and then I look towards the market settlement.
From here, I can see how exposed it is. It lacks the walls of the fort, even if those walls have seen better days. It’s exposed to the north, to the east as well. I can also see the glittering menace of the River Thames to the south, but I can’t imagine Wiglaf ordering an attack from there. Wulfheard made it clear that the river is always an enemy and never an ally, promising safety along the water’s edge, even as sucking mud tries to claim the lives of unwary inhabitants of the settlement.
But the Mercians haven’t begun an attack on Lundenwic, despite its evident weaknesses. From here, the size of Mercia’s forces appears enormous. I can see men and horses spread over a vast distance back up the hill we descended. Looking around, it doesn’t feel as though the fort could contain that many Wessex warriors, and so I think they must be right. They’re outnumbered and cut off from their king.
Yet Wulfheard made it clear that the Mercians want to get inside the fort, not the market settlement. How I’m supposed to bring that about, I have no idea. Not alone. Who can I turn to for aid? While the Wessex warriors might howl like a wolf pack, I’m the opposite. I’m alone. A lone wolf. The thought chills me. I must do everything for myself.
Slowly, some men begin to drift away from the vantage point. It’s clear the Mercians have stopped their attack for the day. I suppose I could find Brihtwold and ensure Tyrhtil has been tended to, but I can see my Mercian allies from here. I might not be with them, but just knowing they’re there fills me with much-needed confidence.
Slowly, the sun begins to slide from the sky in a welter of yellows and pinks, and still, I stand and watch. Campfires spring up, the Mercian dead are pulled aside from the Wessex corpses. They’re piled onto carts, and horses begin the slow task of taking them away for burial. And still, I watch. I don’t know what to do with myself. The fort is imposingly huge, and I’ve not even turned to gaze at the vastness contained by the massive walls that constitute Londinium. While the Wessex warriors might think themselves outnumbered by the Mercians, I’m overwhelmed by the number of my enemy who could kill me at any moment if they realise what I am. The pack of them could easily overwhelm a solitary figure.
Only as full darkness coats the view do I turn aside from my high point. I’ve not realised, but there are only a few men there, and they wear cloaks in preparation of standing the night watch. The rest of the warriors have taken themselves away, perhaps to eat, sleep, or mourn. But what should I do?
‘Ah, there you are.’ Brihtwold appears before me, his words breathless and his face pale in the deepening gloom. ‘I’ve been looking for you. You said you’d help Tyrhtil.’
‘Hasn’t Ecgred tended to him?’ I speak irritably. My situation is becoming more and more evident to me. I’m stuck in an enemy encampment, all alone. Perhaps I should just fling myself from this high wall and have done with it. At least my death would be at my hand then.
‘No, Ealdorman Wassa takes up all his efforts. I think Tyrhtil will die if you don’t help him.’ His words are filled with urgency.
I sigh. This isn’t what I planned on doing, but then, I didn’t expect to be inside a fort filled with Wessex warriors while my few allies are on the opposite side of the enormous stone walls.
‘Take me to him,’ I concede. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I make no guarantee. How’s your arm?’
‘It still needs stitching,’ Brihtwold informs me.
I shake my head at the actions of this Ecgred. He’s not a very good healer, to judge by what I’m hearing. Wynflæd wouldn’t accept him inside her workshop as an equal. She’d dismiss him until he could prove his worth to her, by actually tending to the wounded. The thought reminds me of my home at Tamworth and the smell of her workshop. I’d wish myself there, if only wishes could make it possible. It would be better than being here, alone, inside a Wessex stronghold.
Brihtwold leads me down the steep steps and back into the building attached to the fort, and I assume towards the room with the hearth. But no, immediately, I’m taken outside again and along a path paved with pieces of stone. It’s surprisingly flat beneath my tired feet. I appreciate that this must be an old road, made by the men who ruled this land before Wiglaf was king, in fact before even the legendary Penda was king of Mercia. The men and women who built these walls must also have constructed roads. I wish there were more light with which to see.
Smoke drifts into the air, tinged with something that makes me cough. Then Brihtwold stops abruptly, bowing his head deferentially. I hasten to follow suit as a man strides past us, his face smeared with blood, his eyes white and reddened. I take him to be the ealdorman who was commanding from the walls earlier, but I can’t ask. To do so would give away the fact that I don’t know who anyone is within the fort. That would mark me as a Mercian more quickly than carrying an eagle-headed banner.
‘Bloody arsehole,’ Brihtwold mutters when he’s walking once more.
In front of us, I spy a squat stone-built building, which has men lying all around it. They’re in various stages of alertness, only visible in the dancing flames of fire leaking from inside the building and by brands which have been lit outside it. I take this to be where Ecgred practises his craft. I almost gasp. It’s a magnificent hall compared to the wattle and daub workshop where Wynflæd tends to the sick and wounded inside Tamworth. It has stone walls and a half-decent roof that only seems to sag in the far-left corner.
Brihtwold marches onwards, but I pause, eyeing the men before me. They all carry one wound or another, although most have an ally with them, bringing water to those who can drink, while others are delirious. Dirty bandages attempt to stem the bleeding from arms and legs. One man is already dead, abandoned amongst the still living, the smell of him ripe as flies flock to rest on his bloodied nostrils and inside his mouth where his tongue is no longer pink. I almost gag at the vision.
Tyrhtil is lying, still on the upturned shields, holding his belly and whimpering softly. But his eyes are alert, the pain keeping him sharp. He just needs stitching together. I consider my options. Wynflæd doesn’t believe in leaving someone in pain, not if she can help. I have a choice to make, but really, it doesn’t feel like I do.
‘Can you get gut, a needle and some hot water,’ I demand of Brihtwold.
He nods, determination in the set of his lips, and then marches into the squat building. I can hear voices coming from inside, some grumbling, others arguing. I risk standing and making my way to the door. What I see inside makes me furious.
There’s a thin man in there, his hands bloodied up to his elbows, attempting to treat someone lying on a high-up table or bed. The wood of the structure is darkened with blood close to the dying man’s belly, and the smell of his ruptured gut hangs in the air, despite the herbs burning on the fire. The man is all but dead, and yet Ecgred, I take him to be Ecgred, still treats him, his hands busy with reddened bandages and bits of abandoned gut and needle.
But it’s Ecgred’s words that boil me.
‘The coin,’ he argues with another of the warriors, who gesticulates towards a bleeding figure bent double on the floor. ‘The ealdorman gave me the coin, and so I must treat the man he bids me save. You have less than half of the coin, and so your man must wait twice as long.’
I shake my head, moving aside quickly as Brihtwold rears up before me. He carries the items I requested in his hand, which surprises me. He knows his way around Ecgred’s workshop well if he knows where the pig’s gut is stored.
‘Here, I’ll get some boiling water.’ He thrusts the items into my lifeless hands. I’ve left my Wessex shield beside Tyrhtil.
I look down at the things Brihtwold has given me. The pig’s gut is good quality; that much is evident from the smooth feel of it in my hands, the thin needle almost sharper than my seax. It’ll be easy to knit together Tyrhtil’s belly. The biggest problem will be ensuring he keeps the wound clean and doesn’t overexert himself while he heals. But then, that’s not exactly a new problem. Warriors make the worst patients. Wynflæd’s always firm on that.
‘Does he always charge?’ I mutter to Tyrhtil when I’m back beside him, kneeling to get a closer look at what I need to do. I hope he won’t think it strange that I don’t know this.
‘Yes. The highest bidder always wins, whether or not he’s likely to live. The men try to ensure they keep some coins by should they ever require him. I have the coins.’ And Tyrhtil opens his hand to show me five dull pennies, that are only a little bent, or flat on the edges. He does have the coins, but it seems not enough of them for Ecgred to tend him.
I gaze into the near distance, using the half-light to try to get a feel for the place. It doesn’t seem to me as though there’s a lack of people inside Londinium. I can see people going about their usual business, heads bent in conversation, while the smell of cooking food is rich in the air. Perhaps they’re relieved that the fighting has come to an end, for now.
‘Is there no one else who has the knowledge to heal?’ I can’t see that a settlement of this size has only one healer.
‘The women have no skills for battle wounds. Only for healing the sick and tending to pregnant women and those too frail to walk far.’ Tyrhtil gasps as he tells me this, his forehead slick with sweat. He’s in agony. ‘And they remain at home to do that. There are no breeding women here in the stronghold.’
‘There’s really no difference,’ I mutter to myself, bending to examine his injury one more time, angling myself so that the light from the workshop and the brands illuminate what I need to see. I’m not about to argue with a wounded man.
The edges of Tyrhtil’s skin are jagged. The wound wasn’t made with a sharp enough blade. It was meant to cause the most amount of torment and be the most difficult to heal. But I’ve seen Wynflæd draw together two pieces of sundered skin like this. I’ll just need to be careful. I curse the brutality of the Mercian who forged the wound even while understanding that, in war, whatever it takes to win is a necessity. I know that. I’ve killed men with no thought for them, only for my survival.
Brihtwold returns with a beaker of scalding water, a cloth over his arm as he tries not to spill it on his feet. His eyes are furtive. It would be better if Tyrhtil weren’t in such open sight of the doorway that leads into the workshop from which arguments rumble, but there’s nothing to be done about that now. Between us, we won’t be able to move Tyrhtil. He has the build of a seasoned warrior – thick with muscle, and he’ll be no help.
‘My thanks,’ I offer Brihtwold.
He thrusts two pieces of fine linen into my hand with the slightest glance over his shoulder. Brihtwold shouldn’t have the items, but then Ecgred should be healing those who might actually live. The man with the slit guts who already stinks of the slaughterhouse would be sooner left to die in peace or hurried along with some of the more deadly herbs about which Wynflæd has taught me. They’re for desperate times and to bring much-needed easement. There’s a time and a place for everything, so Wynflæd was fond of telling me.
‘This will hurt, and then I can find something to dull the pain,’ I advise Tyrhtil.
His eyes are fixed on my hands. I know what I’d be giving him in Tamworth, but I’m unsure here. Perhaps some ale to swill for the pain will suffice if nothing else. I can’t see that Brihtwold will be able to find herbs I need for something stronger. Maybe I could find them. But no, I’m not going into the workshop.
I dip one of the two cloths into the scalding water and move aside the filth and muck that’s adhered to the two lips of ripped skin. My fingers tingle with the heat of the water, my gloves discarded.
I also place the pig’s gut in hot water. It’ll glide more easily if it’s warm and supple.
With deft fingers, I begin my work. Brihtwold makes it evident that he’s not going to watch, instead talking to Tyrhtil, his back firmly to what I’m doing, although it also serves to shield us from the scrutiny of any who should emerge from Ecgred’s workshop.
It’s an effort, after all the time in the shield wall. My arms throb, and moving the needle between the skin is difficult, despite its sharpness and the pig’s gut being warm. By the time I finish, Tyrhtil has fallen silent, and even Brihtwold has run out of things to say. His low mumble has been a counterpart to my actions, allowing me to focus on them and not just on the terror I feel at having to tend such a vicious wound.
Once more, I wipe the sealed wound with the now cool water and sit upright, keen to straighten my back and ease the ache in it. Only then do I realise someone is bending over, watching me, his rank breath filling the air.
‘What are you doing, boy?’ There’s both unease and scorn in his voice.
I have an idea who observes me, but I don’t jump aside. I do catch sight of Brihtwold’s fearful face as he finally turns to look at me. I take a breath, consider what to say. I could meet my death here, tending to a dying Wessex warrior. The thought turns my stomach sour.