‘He’ll live,’ I announce instead, using the remaining linen as a bandage against the wound. Ideally, I’d like to add a poultice of moss, honey and vinegar to the injury to ensure it stays free from the wound-rot.
‘Who gave you permission to treat him? To use my supplies of pig’s gut?’ There’s more than mockery in the words; there’s fury as well. Ecgred speaks with petulance. It’s not a good sound to hear from the lips of a grown man.
I lumber to my feet, noticing I tower over the smaller man with his blood-splattered tunic and petty eyes, his arms darkened below the elbows, no doubt with the same blood I observed earlier. He’s a man used to close work. That much is obvious. It’s impossible to determine his age. His hair is thick, brown curls running down to his neck, although he has no beard or moustache. I’d think him little older than me, apart from the lines around his eyes and the deep welts surrounding his lips. He looks furious.
He rears back, one step and then another, and I look down. I’m covered in the gore of the battlefield and wearing my byrnie and weapons belt. Even though I don’t hold any of my weapons, I must look fearsome as I tower over him. I notice then that there’s someone close by, holding a flame so that Ecgred can see what I’m doing. I focus on the flame and then close my eyes tightly, seeing its brightness against the back of my eyelids.
‘I took what was needed to heal a wounded warrior,’ I announce, unprepared to make the reply sound like an apology, opening my eyes to glare at him. ‘You were busy with the dying man when you should have been tending those who might yet live.’ I’m aware that my accent marks me as a Mercian, but Ecgred doesn’t seem to notice. I hope no one else does.
‘What?’ The word is barked.
‘The man on the table with the split guts. I take it he’s dead, or nearly so?’
‘Now, boy,’ and the word is elongated and filled with contempt, ‘you might know how to sew a wound, but the matter of whether a man will live or die is not for you to decide.’
‘So, he isn’t dead yet, then?’ I’m aware that our conversation has aroused the interest of more and more people, the dying and the not dying. Despite the darkness, I sense the scrutiny of others. I should simply bow my head and have done with this matter, but the pride in my skills won’t allow it.
‘Is he dead?’ A stern voice roars over the heads of those absorbed by this strange spectacle. ‘You assured me that twenty Mercian silver coins would ensure he lived?’
‘Now, my Lord Wassa.’ Ecgred turns all deferential in the blink of an eye, his words as sweet as honey. ‘These things take time, and I did advise prayer as well, which I note you’re not conducting?’
‘Dying doesn’t take time,’ I mutter. I sense the tension in Ecgred’s shoulders. What is he doing, promising to ensure someone lives when the situation is so bleak? Does he intend to lever more coins from the ealdorman? And why, I consider, must they be Mercian coins?
Now that I look more closely, the ealdorman’s face is bruised and bloodied. His left eye is almost entirely closed. When he speaks, I can see where one of his front teeth hangs by a thread, blood on his lips. He should just yank the tooth out. There’s no saving that. I sense his scrutiny and glance at him before returning my gaze to Ecgred’s shoulders.
‘So, Ecgred, will he live or die?’ the ealdorman demands once more.
‘My lord. You must allow me time for my potions to work.’
I feel my eyebrows rise on my face at the outrageous statement. Potions is it, now? I shake my head in disgust. So far, all I know about Ecgred is that he takes payment for his services, and his services always fall to the warrior who can pay the most. I’ve not seen him heal anyone yet.
‘Boy, examine Eata for me. Tell me if he’ll live.’ It’s not so much a question as a command.
I hear Brihtwold gasp from behind me, but I don’t meet his eyes or take notice of Tyrhtil’s weak restraining hand on my arm. Instead, I nod.
‘Very well, my lord. I’ll do just that.’ I try to pitch my voice to roll, as the ealdorman’s does. I don’t know if I’m at all successful.
I move around Ecgred, mindful that he purposefully blocks my path towards the workshop, although the man with him doesn’t. Only then am I assaulted by the stench of a man who’s dying in terrible pain, the light from the fire blinding me all over again. I almost stumble on the uneven stone floor, but manage to stay upright.
Eata lies stretched on the blood-strewn table. His belly wound lies open and bleeds. I can see the greyness of his innards, the twisted gut ropes which have been shoved back inside the cavity, in no sort of order. They twist and turn over one another. If the man should ever wake from his stupor, he’ll never be able to shit again. His injury isn’t even covered to keep away the flies that are drawn to the smell. I shoe them off with my hand.
But Eata’s not going to wake. Already his skin is turning yellow. I lift one of his eyelids and see the buttery shade there as well. If Wynflæd were here, she might have been able to cure the yellow disease, but the slit belly and trailing innards make it impossible for Eata to wake again.
I’m mindful that Ealdorman Wassa is inside the workshop. His warrior’s bulk fills the doorway, while Ecgred has been excluded by his choice of position. I’m also aware that Ecgred doesn’t work alone. He has two slaves, both of them shackled around naked feet, one of them a man, the other a woman.
The man was outside, holding the flame to light the way for Ecgred. Now they both labour in front of the fire and beside a table, where small shoots are cut into smaller pieces and fed into the pots hanging over the flames. I amble over to look at them, unsurprised when both shy away from my interest. They carry the bruises and welts of a wicked owner on their skin, their clothes ragged for all they’re not dirty. I pity them, even as I appreciate that the man, with skin the colour of Ecgred’s hair, might know what he’s doing.
The pieces of wild carrot are certainly well prepared, and the garlic is separated so that the higher potency leaves are cut even smaller than the milder parts of the leaves. I offer a smile but am rewarded with nothing but a flash of terror from warm green eyes.
Into one of the pots, the female slave places a random collection of objects. Some I know have healing qualities, some I know that don’t. And why, I think, have four small stones been added to the mixture? They won’t be edible.
‘Well?’ the ealdorman demands, recalling me to my task, his voice rough, even as his tongue plays with the loose tooth.
‘He’ll die. I’m sorry. There’s nothing that can be done. The wound has pierced his gut. It won’t heal, and if he wakes and eats, the shit will simply stay inside him. That’ll kill him if the wound-rot doesn’t.’
‘Now, my lord…’ Ecgred is all puffed-up wounded pride once more as he forces his way into the workshop, eyes flashing with dark malice. ‘Would you sooner believe this… this “child” or me?’
‘This “child” as you call him has stood in our shield wall, defending Londinium from the bastard Mercians. He saves the life of a good Wessex warrior without payment while you haggle and extract the best price from those who can afford more than they should. You promise false hope.’ Ealdorman Wassa’s eyes are fixed on the prone figure, whose chest rises and falls, but slowly, and laboured. The smell of the dying man is noxious, the herbs in the cauldron doing little to drive the stench away. His voice is filled with barely suppressed rage.
I try to make my escape. I’ve drawn more than enough attention to myself, and Ealdorman Wassa has reminded me that in healing Tyrhtil, all I’ve done is ensure a man who should have died on the slaughter field will live to fight my Mercians again. What will Wulfheard say when he hears of this? What will my oathsworn lord, King Wiglaf, say?
‘Stay there,’ the ealdorman instructs me, even though he’s not moved his scrutiny away from the dying man.
I pause in the act of escaping. In the doorway, Brihtwold waits for me, his head constantly turning from what’s happening inside to what’s occurring outside. I meet the eyes of the slave who cuts the roots. His eyes are hard. There’s no sympathy to be found there for my current predicament.
‘You’ll stay here. Treat those who can be saved. Ecgred and I need to have a conversation. For now, you have complete command of the resources in this workshop. Ecgred?’ The ealdorman strides away once more but pauses at the doorway and looks at me. ‘Ensure my man has a good death. I’d not have my brother suffer unduly from his injury. He’s a good Wessex man. He should have died on the battlefield, not here, in this hovel.’
A heavy silence fills the space left behind by the ealdorman’s departure. I think that Ecgred will begin to scold me. But his name drifts back through the black doorway, and he hurries to follow the ealdorman, cold eyes appraising me with disgust, as he shouts instructions in a language I don’t understand to the two slaves.
Both of them immediately stop what they’re doing, shuffling away with the soft clunk of their chains and then out of the workshop as well. The ealdorman didn’t demand the slaves help me, and Ecgred has instructed them not to do so. Not that I mind. If I can’t speak to them in their tongue, they can hardly help me.
When the four of them are gone, Brihtwold enters the workshop, eyes wild with fear and confusion both.
‘Sorry,’ he whispers.
I shake my head. It’s not his fault. If Ecgred had been any sort of healer, it wouldn’t have mattered that he’d taken the pig’s gut and the linens. Wynflæd wouldn’t have objected. She’d probably have been pleased to have some help. Although, well, she would have been critical when the task was completed. She’s never happy unless everything is done the way she wants it done, and no one can perform even the simplest of tasks as well as she can.
‘Right.’ I breathe in deeply. This wasn’t what Wulfheard intended for me to do. There are at least thirty wounded warriors outside the door in the darkness, and I have to heal them as best I can to enable them to battle the Mercians once more. Of that, I’m sure. ‘Can you help me?’ I ask Brihtwold.
‘With what?’ His eyes are fearful.
‘With fetching water, feeding the fire and just by being here?’ I explain. I can’t do all of this alone. Just as I can’t win the fort for Mercia alone. At least here, I stand half a chance of knowing what to do.
‘Yes, I suppose. I know where the well is.’
‘Good, I need as much water as you can bring me. While you’re doing that, I’ll examine the wounded, see who needs assistance first.’
My eyes are taking in the shelves. I’m perplexed. There are jars and jars filled with the roots and dried leaves of healing herbs, yet Ecgred hasn’t even begun making a poultice to keep the wound-rot away for Eata. Doesn’t he know what he’s doing?
‘How’s your arm?’ I ask.
Brihtwold grimaces. ‘It hurts.’
‘Right, sit. You can’t help me if you’re in pain. Show me.’
Brihtwold reveals his arm. The deep wound greets me, but it is one that stopped bleeding a long time ago. It seems the bandage I tied above the injury has at least prevented him from dying of blood loss.
‘This’ll hurt, as I need to clean it and pack it with moss and honey. But then it should knit together.’
Brihtwold licks his cracked lips as I speak, but nods. I appreciate how young he is. He doesn’t have the build of Tyhrtil, and not even of my childhood friend Edwin when I last saw him. But Brihtwold’s stood in the shield wall and watched men he knows breathe their last. His black hair is thick and shaggy, the pretence of a moustache playing above his lips. I can imagine he sees something similar when he looks at me. We’re both youths playing at being men.
Quickly, I walk to the shelves and stores, finding the items I need by lifting lids, sniffing jars and generally making a mess of the tidy workbench. I don’t detect the work of Ecgred here. If he can’t be bothered to wash the blood away from his hands, he’s not going to take the time to prepare and correctly store a selection of herbs. This is the work of the slaves.
‘This will hurt,’ I remind Brihtwold when I’m content I have what I need. Holding a cloth to the wound, I carefully wipe away the mud and grime that’s intermingled with the congealing blood. Brihtwold hisses through his lips but doesn’t shudder away and I’m satisfied that I’ve done what I can for him, the sharp smell of vinegar making my eyes water. It’s good stuff. A pity Ecgred doesn’t seem to know its purpose. ‘Do you mainly use your left or right hand?’ I ask.
‘Right,’ Brihtwold answers quickly, looking at where I tie a piece of cloth in place around the honey and vinegar-soaked moss.
‘Good, then don’t use your left for anything for the time being, certainly not for carrying anything heavy. I’ll recheck it tomorrow.’
Happy, Brihtwold ambles away, taking a bucket in his right hand. I watch him and then clear the worktop where the one slave had been cutting the herbs, being careful to return the correct leaves to the correct brown jar. Then I stir the mixture in the blackened pot and raise a full ladle to my lips. It’s a grey and murky brew and smells of nothing I recognise. I lift the entire pot, unsurprised it weighs so much when it has stones in it, and take it outside. I pause then, looking for somewhere to leave the fluid. I pour it away into the open sewer that I think has been used for such things for many long years and which runs along the side of the building, cut into the stone-lined ground and, itself, lined with flat stones. This, like the walls and the bits of road I can see, is ancient, but has endured.
In the distance, the hulking menace of the walls can be felt. I shiver at the realisation of where I am and what I’m doing.
When I return to the workshop, Brihtwold has already brought me two full buckets of water. I slosh some of one into the empty pot. It sizzles, and I sniff, inhaling a strange scent.
I need boiling water to treat the wounds. ‘Take this outside, and empty it again,’ I ask Brihtwold. He moves to do as I ask without questioning me as I find another cauldron and pour all the remaining water in it.
When Brihtwold returns, I add more water and, satisfied it no longer stinks of something I don’t recognise, I begin to add the herbs I need to make a healing salve – dandelion, wild carrot, yarrow and woodruff, while I hunt for agrimony amongst the other jars.
‘Can you get me some more water?’ I ask Brihtwold when I alight on agrimony and betony.
Again, he does as I ask without questioning me and despite how late it must be by now. The stars are out, the moon offering more light than the fires and brands that flicker outside. My thoughts turn to the Mercian camp. Does Wulfheard worry about me? I doubt it. But I can’t imagine he thinks I’m employing myself in such a way.
I eye the well-stocked shelves, the cobweb threads hanging down from one of the shelves, and the jar of precious honey beside it. I can smell the sweetness. Next, I look for more pig’s gut and, having found it, I lay it to one side, searching for a smaller bowl. I place the pig’s gut into that and then spoon some boiling water into it. I eye the fire. It’s not as warm as it should be, but Brihtwold has already returned with more water and now he works to add wood and pieces of dried dung to the flames. They leap high, blue and hot, and I smirk at him.
‘Thank you.’
‘Who do you want first?’
‘I don’t know. I should see how badly wounded the men are.’
He nods as I wash my hands and arms with the too hot water, making my fingers glow pinkly. I hiss at the pain, but better to have clean hands than filthy ones.
Outside, hopeful eyes meet my appearance. I know I’m far from done with my duties. But I don’t have any choice, having given away my skills at healing. Once more, I consider King Wiglaf and Wulfheard and what they’d say to me about my current actions. It wouldn’t please them.
I move through the men, noting cuts and deeper wounds, eyeing warriors who can hardly focus on me when I bend before them and others who can’t even sit up. Brihtwold follows with a brand to light my path. Three of the men are dead. I can do nothing for them. It’s evident where they’ve bled to death, the skin bleached white. I shake my head. Surely, someone knew to staunch the wound, to cut off the blood supply, but it seems not.
‘I’ll take him first,’ and I point to a man with his hand clamped over his shoulder. A spearhead is wedged there, the wooden pole long since broken off. He’s done well to keep the missile where it is.
Brihtwold helps the slight man inside, offering him a shoulder on the other side of the wound. I move ahead of them, already thinking about what I need to do. And then there’s a loud chink, of metal on the uneven stone floor, and I meet the eyes of the brown-skinned slave. He eyes me, licks his lips, and begins to move around the workshop as though I’m not there. I watch him, unsure what he means to do, but he collects linens and small wooden bowls, and by the time my patient is lying down, I appreciate he means to help me.
I think I’ve probably found the reason for Ecgred’s skills, and it’s not his knowledge. No, Ecgred can do nothing without the aid of his slave.
Between the two of us, and without words, with Brihtwold to hand to keep the fire blazing, we work to ease the missile free from the man’s shoulder, to staunch the bleeding and to sew the wound tightly closed. I wish I knew the slave man’s name. Then, I begin to make a poultice, only to have one handed to me. I sniff it, detecting the sweetness of honey, and smile my thanks. He nods and points towards the body of our patient. The man stinks of the battlefield but is bright and alert. He’s hardly complained about how painful it must have been to have the spear removed and the heat of a blade applied to his skin to cauterise the wound.
‘You’ll need to keep this clean and dry,’ I inform our patient. ‘If it bleeds more than a trickle, come back here. If it begins to smell of shit, come back here. But come back every day for a new binding.’
‘My thanks,’ he mumbles. I can tell from the state of his boots and trews that he’s not a wealthy man. If it had come down to payment, he’d have been last on Ecgred’s list, which is nonsense, as he’ll heal quickly from such a wound.
‘I’ll take the man with the slit calf,’ I say to Brihtwold as he helps the spear-free man outside.
‘Aye, I’ll get him.’ Brihtwold disappears into the darkness.
I’m startled when I see the female slave beside the fire, carefully feeding small slithers of wood to the heart of the flames, stirring a pot as she does so. I take note of her shackled ankles, anger replacing my exhaustion. She meets my eyes defiantly from a slender face, hair obscured by a serviceable piece of cloth, so that I can’t tell whether it’s long or short. Beneath her dress, I can visualise the sharp angles of her hips. I feel that she should be eating the roots she prepares, not using them to heal others.
The male slave has also found some good candles to light the workspace, better ones than the stinking ones that I’ve unearthed.
‘Thank you,’ I offer them both in the stillness between one warrior and another. I’m grateful for their support. ‘My name’s Icel.’
Neither of them speaks, the man’s cheeks lift a little, and I think he might speak, or smile, but he does neither.
‘Icel,’ I try once more, but when they don’t offer me their names and the woman continues to glower at me, I turn aside, preparing for the next man I need to stitch up.
And so it goes throughout the long night. Of the thirty men waiting outside the workshop while Ecgred did nothing to aid them, three are already dead. A further three are so mortally wounded, I worry they won’t survive to the morning, but I do all I can for those who waited for Ecgred to heal them, the two slaves assisting me with competence but no words, other than the occasional sibilant sentence they share with one another.
Brihtwold falls asleep at some point, his snores soft, head back against the wall, as the busy nameless slaves and I tend to the wounded and dying. We never share a word, even though I often talk so that there’s something above the silence and soft whimpers of the wounded. The brown-skinned man knows far more than I do, that much is evident when he sometimes waits for me to move aside to examine wounds and apply poultices. Yet he also stands back on more than one occasion, watching me as I work. Perhaps, I hope, I know things he doesn’t. I confess, I allow a tendril of pride to suffuse me. It keeps me going through the long, long night when I want nothing more than to curl up and sleep. Certainly, it stops me considering my predicament.
I’m yawning when a once-more awake Brihtwold tells me there’s no one waiting for my services, although Tyrhtil is calling for my aid. He’s slept outside, a cloak flung over him to keep away the chill of a later summer dawn, and he moans softly.
‘It hurts,’ he informs me.
‘It’s going to,’ is my less than sympathetic reply, tempered with exhaustion. ‘You’ve been slit from side to side across your belly. Even the smallest cut on a finger would be hurting you as it heals, let alone a bloody long thing like that. But,’ I hold up my hand to forestall his next argument, ‘I can offer you something to help you and to make you feel strong again.’
The younger slave woman has been tending to a thickening pottage all through the night. I’ve watched as she’s added item after item, perplexed on occasion, and understanding on another that the pottage is filled with items that should make the weakened men strong. Again, I worry about what Wulfheard and King Wiglaf would say to me for helping the Wessex warriors. But these are just men, not ealdormen or king’s thegns. These aren’t the men to call others to arms. They’re merely the blunt weapons.
Before I can return inside, a trail of men appears, led by Ealdorman Wassa, and I step aside. His man is dead, his brother. He never woke, and as the sun rose with the coming of a new day, his last breath left his body. Ealdorman Wassa, head bowed, with the aid of his warriors, carries the dead man away. No doubt he’ll be buried, but where, I don’t know because all I can see is stone layered upon stone. Indeed, as the sun begins to shade the day from grey to brightness, I gaze around me. Other than the workshop and the latrine ditch or drain, or whatever it is, I’ve not explored the settlement. I don’t know where anything is, other than the fort, which looms in front of me, where the sun will set, not rise.
As I eye the fort uneasily, I hear the rumble of warriors on the move from somewhere close by but outside the grey-tinged walls, covered with creeping vines and dying weeds that might well be undermining how they’re held together. I quickly appreciate that the Mercians haven’t given up their prize of gaining entry to the walled settlement. No doubt, Wulfheard has told the king that I’ll ensure they’re admitted, but I have no idea how to do that. I’ve not spent the night seeking a means to open the huge gates. No, I’ve been saving the lives of my enemy.
I look down at my nails, noting the grime that’s stuck beneath them, seeing the blood that streaks my hands, and I know I’ve done precisely the opposite of what Wulfheard would have wanted me to do.
I stifle a yawn. I’m weary, yet I won’t get time to rest, not any time soon, as those I sent away to sleep are slowly moving back towards the workshop. They come, as Tyrhtil does, to complain of pain and tell me of fresh bleeding, even as the Mercians renew their attack on the fort.
I sigh heavily. What have I done, and what am I to do?