Brihtwold leads me back towards the fort without further mishap. I can hear nothing of any battle taking place between the Mercians and the Wessex warriors outside the walls. No doubt, it’s too dark to continue. I can smell smoke. To my mind, it comes from more than just the hearth fires inside the walls and those from the Mercian encampment outside. Maybe the market settlement burns. Maybe the Mercians have raised the bridge that provides the only access between Lundenwic and Londinium. I wish I knew, but that would mean going inside the fort once more and climbing the steep steps to look out over the surrounding countryside. I’m too tired for such as that.
Men spill all over the free ground before the fort, with the grey stone walls at their backs. Some of them laugh, some drink, some snore, and yet more are still weak with pain. Their friends help them, yet I know more could be done for them. There’s no need for them to suffer when a simple remedy could be given to them.
I cast an eye in the direction where I know Ecgred’s workshop is, but I’m not going anywhere near it. Not when the vindictive little man is likely to be there, lauding over all who seek his aid. I hope that at least the two slaves are not badly punished by him for helping me. For them, I am sorrowful. We didn’t speak, and yet I believe we worked well together. Certainly, Wynflæd would be pleased to know the two slaves. They would have much to share. I almost wish I’d not given up my hold on the workshop so easily. I should have refused the summons to attend the ealdorman and the king’s son. But then, Ecgred would have found another means of claiming back his possessions.
‘Here.’ Brihtwold thrusts a wooden bowl of food into my lifeless hands. I only just grip it in time. I’d not even realised he’d left my side and gone inside the building that makes up one wall of the fort.
I sniff, smelling the vegetables in the pottage as my belly rumbles angrily.
He also holds a further bowl, and I follow him to a small area beside a tumbled-down wall that will provide some shelter from the night air thanks to the piece of stained canvas stretched over the top of it. The day is growing colder. It’s not the only such structure. The Mercians might have their tents, but here, over the hard ground, more of it stone than not, there’s nowhere to pin the ropes and canvas in place and the Wessex warriors have been forced to improvise.
Already, I can sense the end of the day coming, and with so few clouds overhead, it might become even colder. I’d be happier with a hearth to warm me.
I’m surprised to spy Tyrhtil already inside the temporary structure. He’s lying on his back but not asleep. He shuffles upwards on his arse when he sees Brihtwold.
‘That git Ecgred is back,’ he snarls, as though answering my question as to how he’s made his way so far from the workshop alone with such a wound. His snippy tone leads me to believe he’s been denied the aid of the slaves and their healing potion. I can barely imagine the pain in which he must be. I might have been less than sympathetic earlier, but, honestly, he must be in agony. ‘Here, I retrieved your gloves for you.’ He nods down to the ground, and I see them close to his knee.
I reach out and take them. I need to find a way of pulling them back on that won’t arouse too much suspicion. I need to cover my hand before Brihtwold sees my scar.
‘Lord Æthelwulf commanded it,’ Brihtwold explains through hungry mouthfuls, having handed Tyrhtil his bowl.
I sit beside the two, although I eye Tyrhtil uneasily in the flickering flames of a nearby fire. The fire casts his face into shade and shadow, and it’s impossible to know how he fares just from looking.
‘Bloody fool,’ Tyrhtil continues to complain, although he’s sitting now and taking tentative mouthfuls. I don’t think he should be sitting quite so upright, but I hold my tongue. He needs to eat, and that’s never easy when you’re prone. Tyrhtil eyes me over his bowl of pottage. The food is hot enough to burn. I don’t know how Brihtwold manages to eat it. I need to wait, even though I’m ravenous. ‘He came marching back in, ordered his slaves around in the strange gabbled tongue they must understand, sending men hither and thither as though he’d cured them all, and not you. For what did the ealdorman want you? Just to tell you that you shouldn’t be healing people?’
I nod, giving in to my need to eat and trying not to burn my tongue, even though it’s impossible. I should have waited.
‘Hardly seems like the sort of thing the ealdorman needs to deal with?’
‘Lord Æthelwulf said he’d pay Ecgred for his services,’ Brihtwold adds, already looking hungrily at my food.
‘Really? About bloody time it was easier for the warriors to get some healing, as opposed to it just being for the ealdormen, king’s thegns and thegns.’ Tyrhtil speaks with some respect in his voice for the king’s son.
‘You told Lord Æthelwulf you were from Canterbury,’ Brihtwold says next. I’d been hoping not to be asked any more about that. ‘But, if you’re from Canterbury, you should have been with Ealdorman Ælfhere.’ There’s suspicion in Brihtwold’s voice.
‘Got separated from them,’ I try, holding my voice steady.
‘Ah, who cares from where he comes? If it weren’t for him, I’d be dead, and we wouldn’t be having this nice little chat anyway.’ Tyrhtil dismisses the interrogation quickly. But, I realise, I need to be wary of Brihtwold.
‘Where are you from, anyway?’ I ask, eager to have the attention on either of the other two.
‘I’m from good old Winchester way,’ Tyrhtil says quickly. ‘Born and raised there. Been a member of the king’s warband for the last ten years. And young Brihtwold isn’t from far away either. First time fighting for the king, though.’
I nod. I know where I am when they talk of Winchester. That’s where the Wessex kings have their primary residence and their royal treasury, where they build their churches and bury their dead. It’s not unlike Tamworth, for all the Mercian kings could go anywhere within the kingdom.
‘Everyone here is from Winchester way,’ Tyrhtil continues. ‘Those from the south-west are in the market settlement, under Ealdorman Wilfhardi’s command. Poor sods. He’s an old man and should be leaving such to his sons and grandsons. He’s about as dynamic as the wide trunk of an oak tree. Ealdorman Ælfhere is the more forceful there. Not like here, under Lord Æthelwulf and Ealdorman Wassa of the South Saxons. Wassa’s brother was an ealdorman as well, of Hampshire. Poor git. We’ll need a new one now. Especially as we’re at war against the damn Mercians.’
‘Doesn’t Wassa have another brother?’ Brihtwold queries. I’m pleased that Tyrhtil has managed to distract him from asking me more questions.
‘No idea. Don’t keep track of those toforans. If they can fight well and command better, I might know who they are. But what happens at King Ecgberht’s court is beyond me. I’m just a warrior, not a politician.’ The two of them laugh at Tyrhtil’s words. I sense a camaraderie between them, even though the two warriors are so far apart in age.
I’ve finally managed to finish my bowl of pottage and only burned my tongue a little. Brihtwold stands easily and takes the three bowls back to where the food has been handed out to the warriors inside the fort. So it seems the abandoned hall I entered yesterday does have a use, after all, that of providing food for the Wessex warriors. A brief silence falls between Tyrhtil and me. I’m thirsty, but I don’t know where to get water from, and I don’t want to ask either and give the lie to everything I’ve been saying about hailing from near Canterbury and being a Wessex warrior.
‘You’ve made a powerful enemy in Ecgred.’ Tyrhtil’s revelation hardly surprises me, but the fact he tells me does startle me. ‘He’s got a reputation, you know, and not a good one.’
‘Brihtwold told me he’s a poisoner.’
‘And the rest. A proper little worm, but in with King Ecgberht, for some reason.’
By now, Brihtwold has returned, his face alight with worry.
‘They say the Mercians have made an encampment inside Lundenwic and that King Ecgberht is threatened.’
‘Do they now?’ Tyrhtil mutters. I can see he’s furious at the news. ‘With his force split, as it is, King Ecgberht might be in real trouble,’ he muses. ‘The king should have retreated inside the protection of the fort, not into the chaotic mess of the market settlement. There’s nowt in there for him to hide behind, and certainly not the precious mint.’
‘His forces were cut off. The Mercians pressed them hard,’ Brihtwold counters, shrugging his shoulders as he does so, the action making him wince. He covers it by pulling an old seax from his even older weapons belt and reaching for some stray dry grasses with which to clean it. I can see that he’s already thinking of the Mercians he’ll kill. The thought makes me shiver with fear. Even though we talk of King Ecgberht and the Mercians, I’ve forgotten that I’m on the opposite side of this war to Brihtwold and Tyrhtil. The pair of them seem like good company. I almost wish I wasn’t their enemy.
I watch Brihtwold’s nimble fingers as they clear the rust from his blade, and swallow heavily as I realise that blood is from a Mercian.
I should do the same with the seax that Wulfheard thrust into my hand alongside the shield, but will it also be Mercian blood? The thought sickens me.
I appreciate then that I don’t even know if I can fight with it. I’ve only used it by instinct to threaten Ecgred.
‘Then we’ll need to come at them from behind, trap them in Lundenwic between our forces and those of King Ecgberht’s.’
‘No chance,’ Tyrhtil counters. ‘There are no walls to ensnare them on that side of the river. They’ll just escape into the fields or the rivers and rally to come back at us once more.’
‘But at least all the Wessex warriors would be in one place,’ Brihtwold acknowledges.
‘We would, yes, but it wouldn’t be behind the walls of this fort. No, I think King Ecgberht is more likely to try to reach us here. Either that or escape over the River Thames and come to the fort via another route. Being split like this is no good for the king. And he’s wise enough to know that.’
‘No.’ Brihtwold shakes his head vigorously, his hair rising from his shoulders with the movement. ‘Lord Æthelwulf and Ealdorman Wassa will want to make a name for themselves, show the Mercians the Wessex force can’t be beaten that easily. You mark my words; we’ll be fighting the backs of the Mercians tomorrow.’