I sleep like the dead of Mercia, which I soon might be if my deceit is discovered. I’m exhausted, and I simply stop between treating one man and another. I’m aware of activity around me, of the two slaves tending to the ills of the warriors, but that fades away to nothing. Even the drumming of seax and shield from beyond the walls doesn’t wake me. Nothing does, until I startle awake at some point, much, much later.
The sound of a knife cutting something into small pieces on a wooden board, and the crackle of the fire, makes me believe I’m sleeping in Wynflæd’s workshop. It’s still daylight outside. I can tell from the light streaming in through the open doorway.
‘What happened?’ I ask, recalled to where I am.
It’s Tyrhtil who answers. He’s standing in the doorway, blocking out the natural light. ‘The Mercians are attacking the market settlement. They have the gateway surrounded at the fort. The other four entrances through the walls are blocked up and have been for much longer than we’ve held the fort. We’re trapped apart from where the River Thames flows past the settlement, and that gate only gives out on to the river.’
I strain to hear now, and I can, just faintly, the sound of seax beating shield, but it’s coming from much further away than before.
‘The gate held, the walls as well, although for how long, I can’t say.’ Tyrhtil sounds neither worried nor pleased by the revelation.
I’m surprised to see him standing. I expected him to be lying down, allowing his wounds time to heal, but perhaps the slaves have given him something to numb the pain so much he feels hale although he’s not.
‘Ealdorman Wassa mourns the death of his brother. The Wessex warriors haven’t even stirred from their beds today.’
I can’t tell whether that’s a criticism or not. I don’t know Tyrhtil well enough to say either way.
‘The ealdorman wants to see you,’ Brihtwold informs me next.
I rub my eyes, yawn, pat my empty belly, and dread fills me. I don’t know what to say to the ealdorman.
The two slaves have finally stilled their labours. The woman sleeps in the back room while the male one keeps a guard. I sense that this is often necessary from their poses. The male slave carries a lethal-looking wooden stick, the end weighted with iron. The thought upsets me, even as I realise that Ecgred hasn’t been seen since the ealdorman spoke to me last night.
‘Where’s Ecgred?’ I ask, even while Brihtwold attempts to hurry me. He seems much restored, and I note his bandage has been changed. There’s no sign of blood leaking from it.
‘With the ealdorman.’
‘Huh.’ I’m not sure what I think of that. It can’t be good that Ecgred is with the ealdorman and that the ealdorman has summoned me.
Having swilled water into my parched mouth and thrust my hands into warm water to slide some of the residual muck from them, I follow Brihtwold through the abandoned settlement, but not towards the fort in the north. It all seems quite orderly, even as I appreciate how much stone is missing from the old buildings and how turf roofs have been placed over long-standing walls by the Wessex warriors or others who’ve thought to find safety behind the steep walls.
I know Londinium is ancient. Wulfheard told me as much. He also said that, once, the local settlement of Wall, where Cenfrith, Edwin and I spent the night when fleeing from Tamworth, would have looked like Londinium because the same people built it. I know he must have been exaggerating. Wall is little more than a handful of abandoned buildings on the side of a road, a pile of hastily collected pieces of masonry. It can never have looked like Londinium. But Wulfheard refused to confirm it was teasing. That makes me think he might have been right.
Brihtwold is quiet as we walk. I’m too busy trying not to gawp to speak. This place isn’t at all like Tamworth; although it shares similarities – the wide river in the distance is one of them. Although, well, Tamworth has not one river, but two, the Anker and the Tame, running around it to the south. Londinium has the River Thames in the distance. Yet, I can also hear the sound of water moving more closely. I must assume there’s another river, or stream, running through the settlement. And, of course, although I can’t see it from here, there’s the River Fleet that divides the fort from the market settlement, a river wide enough to need a wooden bridge to crest it.
And then we come to a stop. In front of me, there’s a structure I can hardly comprehend. All around it are smaller piles of stones, no doubt the remains of other buildings. Beneath my feet, I walk on gravel and tufted grasses. Lifting my feet to peer down, I question whether the whole place was once laid with stone upon which to walk? I pause, gaze around me. In the distance, almost further than the entire settlement of Tamworth, are hints of more walls, more random pieces of white stone, discarded and abandoned. I don’t see any crops or greenery, only shrivelled weeds and little else. If I were to live here, where would I grow my food? Where would Wynflæd harvest her herbs from? The place is dusty and barren, just as Wulfheard told me.
The ealdorman has decided to set his camp inside the remains of a vast building, consisting of more than one level, although little of the upper floor remains. It must once have formed some ceremonial purpose for the giants who roamed this land, although what it might have been used for is beyond me. Why would anyone need a building so vast if not for ceremony, like the king’s hall or the wooden church in Tamworth? It might well accommodate everyone who lives in Tamworth, Repton and Lichfield, and there’d still be room for more people.
There’s a forest of stone plinths guiding us towards the smell of campfires, with some immobile figures on them, all missing arms, or legs, or feet or even heads, their whiteness attesting to being made from some sort of priceless stone. To me, they look so similar to the bodies of the dead that, for a moment, I can’t quite decipher the intent behind them. And Brihtwold is no help. I can hardly ask what this place is because I should already know.
I expected the ealdorman to be inside the fort, but he’s not. The smell of good wood being burnt drifts from inside the building, and I shudder, fear temporarily making me want to bolt in the opposite direction.
Finally, Brihtwold stops and looks back at me, where I stand, trying not to be overawed by all I’m being shown. Brihtwold’s expression surprises me. It’s as though he sees me for the first time, perhaps realising I can be no older than him.
‘The ealdorman isn’t alone,’ he admits hesitantly. I’m unsure why.
He says nothing further, moving slowly up five wide stone steps, where he nods to the two door wardens standing with their spears and shields, and walks inside the open maw of the building. I feel my forehead furrow and then rush to join him. I don’t want to anger the ealdorman any further.
Once inside, I stop and peer around. I feel on more familiar ground here. This is little more than an ealdorman’s hall, with his warriors sitting or standing, talking or sleeping, servants rushing to feed people and a small raised dais at the end where Ealdormen Wassa sits talking with another man. I can see that the wood of the dais is fresh. This is a new addition. The only real difference I note is that the roof of this building isn’t made of thatch and wooden struts but, instead, of the same stone, blackened in places by years of fires being lit beneath it. I appreciate then why the door to the building remains open. It’s smoky inside. The stone ceiling offers no means for the dancing smoke to escape.
No one watches me as I pass through the collection of eating and drinking men. Although the sight of the black and white wyvern shields worries me, I hold out hope that this is merely an opportunity for the ealdorman to thank me for saving his warriors.
Of course, I’m entirely wrong.
‘It’s the king’s son,’ Brihtwold eventually informs me as I see the other man watching me from the dais. He’s younger than the ealdorman. His clothes are some of the finest I’ve ever seen, and his weapons belt carries not just a seax but two of them. On his tunic, I can see the emblem of the wyvern, depicted in glittering stones in the candlelight. He has a full head of dirty-blond hair and the traces of a beard and moustache on cheek and chin. A long nose dominates his face, almost too long, and when he turns to the side, it extends far beyond his chin. Behind him, in the shadows from the fire and candles, his shadow is all nose and little else.
‘What does he want?’ I demand. Suddenly, I’m aware once more of what I am. I’m a Mercian, in the heart of a Wessex encampment. One wrong word and I could be put to death for being a traitor. I swallow. My tongue tastes foul, and my eyes itch with exhaustion. I wish I’d thought to bring my gloves with me. I’m all too conscious of the mark on my hand from where I healed my uncle using my heated blade. If someone looked at it, they might well determine it carries the sigil of Mercia’s eagle. It’s either easier or more challenging to decipher depending on the light. I can only hope no one will recognise it in the smoke-filled hall.
‘Icel.’ Ealdorman Wassa’s greeting is warm enough as Brihtwold and I stand before the dais, for all his words are slurred. I would suggest he’s spent much of his time drinking to dull his sorrow at the death of his brother. And, perhaps, at the amount of Mercian coin he paid to Ecgred to cure a man who was already more than half dead.
‘My lord.’ I bow low, and so does Brihtwold, although an impatient hand bids us rise.
‘I wished to thank you for your labours with the wounded.’
‘My lord.’ I’m conscious that my words don’t sound the same as Ealdorman Wassa’s, and so I don’t want to risk saying too much. I’m just waiting for him to realise my true heritage.
‘The ætheling, Lord Æthelwulf, the king of Kent, also wishes to know you. It seems that Ecgred has been making some complaints.’
Ah, I think, now he gets to the heart of the matter.
‘My lord?’ The words are all the response I make as I again bow to Lord Æthelwulf. I’m curious to see what sort of man Æthelwulf is. I imagine he has his father’s fierceness.
‘Ecgred says you don’t know what you’re doing, and equally, that you’ve stolen his slaves.’
I don’t think this a matter for the ealdorman and the king’s son, but what do I know?
‘His slaves assisted me, yes. I couldn’t steal them, for I don’t speak their tongue.’ Only now do I realise that Ecgred sits beside Lord Æthelwulf, half in the shadows. He gives himself away by gasping with fury at my words. ‘I’ll tend no others if that’s your wish. Ecgred is welcome to return to his workshop. I would, however, suggest that he not accept payment in Mercian coin from the men.’ I speak coolly, surprising myself with the ferocity of my wrath.
I feel Brihtwold startle beside me. Perhaps I do a poor job, or perhaps, in my anger, I betray my Mercian accent. I’ve no doubt already said too much. Why, I consider, did I think to stress Ecgred’s demand that the coins must be Mercian? Only then do I realise a fundamental reason why King Ecgberht holds Londonia’s mint. Does the Wessex king not have moneyers of his own? Is the Mercian coinage still prized above his, even now? Or is it merely about the trade undertaken in Lundenwic?
‘Very well,’ Lord Æthelwulf concedes after a brief pause, in which he flashes a perplexed look at Ecgred. Maybe he too has realised there’s something strange happening. Lord Æthelwulf turns to watch me intently, but there’s no flicker of anger on his face. ‘Ecgred, return to your workshop, treat the men, and don’t take Mercian coins from them. I’ll ensure you’re recompensed for your labours.’ The stress on Mercian isn’t missed by any of us there.
I bow again, thinking the matter done with, but it seems not.
‘And you, tell me, from where do you hail? Someone as skilled as you should have come to my attention before now.’
This is what I’ve been dreading. I know Wessex poorly. There’s only one option available to me.
‘From the kingdom of Kent, my lord.’ I keep my head as low as possible. I don’t want Lord Æthelwulf to get too close a look at me. I fear he’ll see my Mercian heritage written into every line of my face, as though having a scruffy black beard makes me Mercian. I know it’s foolish, and yet, I can’t help but think it. After all, Brihtwold has a black beard and moustache as well, and he’s undoubtedly from Wessex.
‘From where, exactly?’ Æthelwulf presses me. I can see his eyes gleaming. Of course, he’s been named the king of Kent by his father. No doubt he thinks to know everyone in that kingdom and doesn’t recognise me.
‘From a small settlement a day’s ride south of Canterbury.’ I offer half a smile, although it’s an effort. Wulfheard had told me of Canterbury when it belonged to Mercia. I’m once more grateful to him, even though most of the time I think he tells me facts I’ll never need to know. I think he does it to bore me, not assist me. I’m not about to say to Wulfheard he might have saved my life. Not when he’s the one that’s placed it in such a perilous situation. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here, so I wouldn’t be relying on his unwanted teachings to ensure I know as much about Mercia as he does.
‘And who taught you such skills?’
‘An old woman in our settlement.’ I don’t want to name Wynflæd because I’m aware she and King Ecgberht were known to one another, but all of a sudden, I can’t think of a single woman’s name. I know I’m being too vague. Yet, Lord Æthelwulf doesn’t press the point, although a silence hangs between us for just a moment too long.
‘And you came to Londonia?’
‘With the warriors of Kent,’ I reply quickly. I wish I’d thought to ask Brihtwold from where he came. Or really, any of the men, but I didn’t, and now I can feel my legs trembling. I’m sure they must know that I lie. I don’t even know the name of the ealdorman there, if there even is one now that Lord Æthelwulf rules Kent for his father.
‘And you’ll continue to fight for the kingdom of Wessex against the Mercian scourge?’
‘Of course, my lord,’ I reply to the ealdorman this time, as he asks the question. He flicks his fingers at me, and I bow once more and move aside, grateful to be dismissed even as Ecgred glares at me from beside the ætheling. I have an overwhelming urge to run from this place, to be away from the knowing gaze of all three men. I rub my hands, one inside the other, and feel the edges of the scar seared into my skin. I must keep the palm of my hand away from the sight of anyone. I need to reclaim my gloves.
My legs are still shaking, and my mouth is dry, but I walk from the grand building, now turned into an ealdorman’s hall, desperate to be away from the ætheling and the ealdorman. I need to leave this place. As soon as possible. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to become distracted from Wulfheard’s set task.
Just as I’m about to take a deep breath of the smoky air from outside the hall, I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn quickly, hand already reaching for my seax.
But I spin and clap eyes on Ecgred, his small eyes piercing me as he rears back from the sharp edge of my blade.
‘So, a warrior as well as a healer,’ he hisses at me, hatred on his weaselly face, standing too close, no doubt because his eyes are weak from working in the dark and on delicate tasks all the time. Or at least, from pretending to while his slaves really do the hard work. He’s smaller than I am, and there’s no strength to him. It would be too easy to slice his fingers from the hand that touches me, and yet I don’t.
Pulling the blade away, I wait for him to say more.
‘You’ve done me out of a great deal of coin, boy.’ He speaks the final word dismissively. I might be a ‘boy’ as he calls me, but I’m proud of that.
I find a smirk on my face. ‘You call yourself a “healer”, but I know your secret.’
‘What?’ And now terror flashes in his shadow-darkened eyes.
I almost give myself away then because I don’t honestly know anything about his secrets. Or maybe I do.
‘The slaves can’t talk your language,’ he hisses at me, stepping aside as a limping warrior enters the hall through the door we stand beside. I don’t recognise him from my healing work. Perhaps it’s little more than a twisted ankle or an old wound. The scent of him is terrible. He needs to drink more and bathe more. He stinks of the charnel house.
‘The slaves don’t need to be able to talk to tell me all I need to know,’ I crow over him, going with it because I genuinely know nothing other than the fact that Ecgred is no healer. Of that, I’m sure. He relies entirely on the knowledge his slaves possess. And we’re already enemies, so what does it matter if he hates me more than he already does?
‘Watch yourself, boy,’ he leers at me.
‘And you, healer,’ I deride, and he rushes from me, through the door and off into the deepening dusk, back towards the corner of the settlement where the fort lurks and where he’ll find his workshop.
I follow, more slowly, legs still unsteady, heart beating too fast in my chest. Ecgred is a worm, but he’s a powerful one, and I’m a Mercian inside a Wessex stronghold.
I don’t turn to Brihtwold, who mirrored me in being dismissed by Ealdorman Wassa, but I can well imagine the look on his face. Instead, I stamp onwards and then pause. I don’t know my way around Londinium. I don’t know anything about this place other than the River Thames is to the south of me, and my home, Tamworth, is to the north and, for the time being, out of reach.
Brihtwold lets out a huge sigh. ‘Well, you’ve made a good enemy there. Ecgred isn’t a man to cross,’ he cautions me. ‘What with all his potions and poultices. They say that he can poison a man or woman if the coin is sufficient to take the risk.’
‘He can’t do anything.’ I dismiss the thought. Yes, some herbs will poison if given in the wrong quantities, but I don’t think Ecgred will want to take any such risk. Even if he knows which they are and can prevail upon his slave to provide the concoction. Which I doubt.
‘He can,’ Brihtwold answers hotly.
‘Who would pay the Mercian coin?’ I demand from him, noticing that his face is pale in the lowering light. I imagine he’s as terrified as I am to be summoned before the ealdorman and the king’s son. ‘I’ve upset no one but him. He won’t want to do it if there’s no profit to be made.’
Brihtwold’s eyes narrow at my words, and then he shrugs his shoulders.
‘You might be right,’ he confirms. ‘Right, we need something to eat and to get back to Tyrhtil. I wouldn’t put it beyond Ecgred to undo all the healing you’ve done.’
I wait. Brihtwold needs to lead the way because every road looks the same to me now that there’s less light by which to see.
‘This way,’ and he strides out in front.
This time, I eye my surroundings more carefully as we pass them. It might be growing darker, but the walls are ubiquitous in the distance. They surround Londinium, menacing me with their sturdiness. Tyrhtil spoke of other gates to the one at the fort, but he also said they were all blocked up, apart from the river gate. I need to find another means of escaping. And, of course, now that I’ve calmed down, I’m remembering that my purpose here is to help the Mercians get inside. It’s all well and good for me wanting to escape, but that’s not what I need to do.
I stumble on a loose stone, tripping and landing heavily on my feet, although at least upright. If such a simple thing can fell me, then how I’m supposed to aid Wulfheard and the rest of the Mercians, I really don’t know. And, in the meantime, I need a friend to assist me, even if he should be an enemy. I hurry to follow Brihtwold. Without him, I’ll quickly become lost.