Brihtwold’s wrong.
We sleep where we eat. In the morning, with fog shimmering in the air, we’re roused from our hard beds by a loud argument coming from the fort.
I’m stiff and sore, all sorts of pains making themselves known as I stagger upright from my stone bed. I’ve not even had a cloak to wrap around myself. More than once during the night, I wish I’d taken a cloak from one of the dead men.
Brihtwold is in no better state than I am, for all he does have a threadbare cloak held tightly to him by an iron brooch that’s seen better days. Poor Tyrhtil can’t even sit, let alone stand.
Concerned, I drop to my knees and eye him.
‘Show me your wound,’ I demand.
He lifts his cloak and ripped tunic clear from his belly with no eagerness. In the dull grey light of early morning, I touch the skin around the injury and then remove the linen bandage and poultice.
My forehead furrows. ‘It’s healing well,’ I advise him, surprised at the revelation. The skin is pink and puckered, but the stitches are holding together, and if anything, his skin is cold, not warm as it should be if he had a fever.
‘It’s not that,’ Tyrhtil admits, attempting to stand. Brihtwold is quickly to his other side. I support his weight from the left. ‘I need to piss and drink. My gut feels churned up. I need to shit as well, but I can’t.’
I nod. I had considered it might be a problem, but I’d hoped that his guts would have escaped the ravages of his wound. It seems I’ve been too optimistic.
Between Brihtwold and I, we get Tyrhtil to the latrine pit and wait for him. It stinks. The smell is foetid, rising above everything else, even clearing the fog that sticks persistently in other places. I can see the ground begins to dip down from where we stand. The stream I heard yesterday must be at the bottom of the dip. The ground looks boggy as well, with the stone covering tipped at odd angles, lending more credence to my thoughts.
‘Can you fight? How many Mercians did you kill?’ Brihtwold eyes me uneasily from beside Tyrhtil, who sits to empty his bladder. He groans as he does so, and an even more foul odour makes itself known.
‘Yes. I can fight. And enough men fell below my blade to make me a warrior. Can you fight?’ I ask, stung into retorting. I’ve not thought of myself as proficient in killing men and protecting Mercia, but I don’t appreciate Brihtwold’s questioning of me. I wish I could tell him of saving King Wiglaf’s life in the borderlands, but he wouldn’t thank me for that, and I’d give away my affiliation as well. I can tell him of the Wessex lives I took. How many men have I killed? I wish the number wasn’t imprinted on my mind. But I remember the men I killed fighting for Mercia on the borderlands. I remember how I killed all three and now I’ve doubled that number fighting at Londonia. I can only see the number will continue to increase.
‘Yes, I can fight.’ His words are flecked with just as much bile as mine. I can’t help it, I grin.
‘Good, then we can both bloody fight.’ I arch an eyebrow at him, and his unease slides from his face. He returns my grin.
‘It’s just, your seax is shit,’ and he points at my warrior’s belt, smirking.
I know it’s not a good weapon. I tried out the weight in my hand last night when everyone else slept. It’s top-heavy, the handle too long, the blade too short. But what can I do? ‘And you think yours is any better?’ I demand.
‘I suggest we both find ourselves good Mercian blades when we face our enemy.’ His words are filled with bluff. We might doubt one another’s abilities and hate each other for doing so, but we relish the coming battle, should it come, with little enthusiasm.
As Tyrhtil staggers back to his feet and we rush to his side, I sense some movement amongst the rest of the men.
‘Any success?’ I ask Tyrhtil.
‘No, not yet. I pissed, but not the other.’
‘Drink a great deal,’ I instruct him. ‘And if we can find you some garlic, that’ll aid you as well.’
Only as I’m talking, we all become aware of another noise. The banging of weapons against shields from beyond the walls alerts me that the Mercians are once more on the attack. I curse myself. I’ve not yet found a way to allow the Mercians easy access inside the fort. I should have done something by now. Wulfheard will be growing impatient with me.
Lord Æthelwulf strides from the rising sun, encased in shadows and the promise of light. ‘We fight the Mercians today,’ he commands the Wessex warriors. ‘Now, on your feet.’
My knees quiver at the thought of willingly facing my fellow Mercians. Yet, the melee in front of me doesn’t immediately resolve itself into a force of men eager to leave the safety of the fort.
‘You can’t fight,’ I inform Tyrhtil, as his pale face flashes with sweat. ‘Not until you’ve emptied yourself, fully,’ I caution him. He can barely stand upright. If I had access to Ecgred’s vast store of herbs, I’d make him a potion of garlic, mustard and pennyroyal. It would ease him. I smirk at the thought, reminded of the horse I tried to aid in just such a way at Kingsholm. It seems that man and beast can’t live with a belly filled with the foulness of the body.
‘I must,’ Tyrhtil hisses through tight lips.
Between us, Brihtwold and I return him to where we slept the night before. Men are waking slowly, grumbling, moving towards the latrine, and generally ignoring the instructions of their king’s son. That surprises me. King Wiglaf wouldn’t allow such as this, for all I detected unease in the warriors I fought beside before banishing King Ecgberht from Mercia. King Wiglaf would have the men on their feet quickly. Or, rather, Ealdorman Ælfstan would. He’s a man who likes to be obeyed before the instructions are even uttered.
‘If you fight like this, you’ll be dead without felling a single one of your enemies,’ I caution Tyrhtil. I don’t know why that shouldn’t be what I wish for, but having tried to save his life, I’m reluctant to have him throw it away once more when I know it’ll be folly.
‘My lord demands it.’
‘Your lord demands healthy men in the shield wall, if that’s what it will be. You’ll fall and leave it sundered.’ Brihtwold has taken up my argument now.
‘It’s not to be a shield wall,’ another Wessex warrior grouches, walking towards the latrine. ‘He wants his warriors to rush across the River Fleet at its narrowest point, to join the king’s warriors inside Lundenwic. He’ll be leaving as few people inside the fort as possible.’
The news astounds me. I’ve not been back atop the walls of the fort to see where the Mercians are, but I would anticipate they’ve already considered the possibility of such an attack. I also don’t understand why Lord Æthelwulf would abandon such a strategic location – well, not abandon, but leave it weakened. Unless, of course, it won’t be weakened.
I turn slowly, eyeing the walls that surround me, some close, some much further away. Does Lord Æthelwulf believe the walls will hold against the Mercians? Does he genuinely think that just keeping the one gateway closed will be enough? Perhaps he’s correct in his belief. After all, I’ve found no other means of escape.
‘Hurry up.’ Ealdorman Wassa rears up amongst the ramshackle collection of warriors trying to rouse themselves to full wakefulness. They moan with all the aches and pains of a good night’s sleep after a hard-fought battle. ‘Your Lord gave you an order. I mean to see it’s followed.’ Ealdorman Wassa’s face carries the ravages of his grief for his brother. It’s aged him overnight. I think there’s vomit in his beard and wince to see a man brought so low by too much ale. I can tell that rage drives him onwards. He intends to exact his revenge against the Mercians. I wish him luck with that. ‘And don’t think you’re not required to join your fellow warriors. Ecgred is the only healer the Wessex warriors need. You can fight. He can’t.’
I recoil at his harsh words as he stands before me, finger jabbing into my chest. I feel as though I’ve been unduly singled out just because I told him his brother would die. The words of yesterday are entirely forgotten.
‘My lord.’ I bow my head low and hope that Wassa doesn’t catch sight of Tyrhtil, but he does.
‘You’re no good to me in that state,’ Wassa announces, glaring at Tyrhtil. ‘You can throw missiles from the walls.’
As the ealdorman strides away, his echoing cries bring stragglers to their feet. I’m almost grateful that Wassa has banished Tyrhtil from the coming attack. But Tyrhtil isn’t. His tired face is furious, his eyes flashing brightly even in the dim daylight.
‘And how am I supposed to get up there?’ he all but wails, pointing to the bastion atop Londinium’s wall.
‘On your backside, if need be,’ I inform him. ‘And take a latrine pot with you. When your belly lets up on the filth inside you, you’ll not want to have to travel far.’ I offer this as though it’s a given that his belly will empty itself, which it isn’t.
‘Here.’ Tyrhtil reaches to his discarded weapons belt and hands me the seax handle-first. I can see how sharp the blade is just by looking at it. ‘I don’t want you to die out there. If you make it to Lundenwic, then that’s good; if not, you can come back here and heal my guts.’ His lips twist in pain once more.
‘Drink as much water as you can,’ I repeat, taking the blade, although my gloved hand trembles to do so. It’s a fine weapon, much better than the crap one Wulfheard thrust into my hand. He honours me, and yet he’s a Wessex warrior, and I’m a Mercian, and we should be enemies if only he knew my true identity. I go to give him mine in return.
‘You can keep that,’ he dismisses me. ‘You couldn’t cut a bleeding finger with that,’ and I chuckle. He’s right. It’s a crap blade.
Now I look all around me. I have no idea where my shield is, but Brihtwold does. His face is inscrutable. He still has his terrible blade. I would wish he had a sharper one as well, but Tyrhtil has only one seax to offer.
‘This way.’ Brihtwold sighs uneasily. His face looks wraithlike in the greyness of dawn. He’s terrified, and I should be, but I’m not. This, I hope, will be my chance to escape; even if I haven’t brought the Mercians the victory they need, I’m sure Wulfheard would rather I didn’t attempt to kill Mercians. Surely?
As soon as I’m outside the walls, I can run towards the Mercian line. I’ll abandon Brihtwold and his allies to their fate. There’s no other choice.