Lord Æthelwulf has more men than I can count. At least fifty of them line up behind the mass of us before the still-closed gate of the fort. They’re in position to ensure no Mercian rushes inside the fort. I smirk. They already have a Mercian inside their fort. They just don’t know it. But then I sober. I don’t want to fight for the Wessex force, and I certainly don’t want to injure any of my fellow Mercians. I need to make my escape.
At my side, Brihtwold is quiet. I can see his pulse fluttering on his neck. He’s terrified, and I can’t think of any reassuring words. When we once more step onto the slaughter field, there’ll be no one to ensure either of us lives to see the sunset. It’s a sobering thought and one I try to banish. When I’ve fought before, Wulfheard or Ealdorman Ælfstan were never far away. Now I’m more likely to be trying to kill them than be saved by them.
Not only do I have to stay alive, but I also need to try to make my way to the Mercian force. I can’t see that it’ll be easy.
In front of us all, Ealdorman Wassa stands, ready to lead the force away. Lord Æthelwulf, much to my disgust, has decided to follow along behind the majority of the force. He has at least twenty sworn men who protect him. He doesn’t mean to lose his life today in this effort to reach his father.
Around me, men talk, or fall silent, whisper prayers to their Lord God, or merely sob quietly. I think no less of them for their fear or bravery. The Mercians are an evil lot. They have vengeance on their mind, just as Ealdorman Wassa does. The Mercians will happily slaughter every single man here. I can only hope if we’re overrun, that someone recognises me before they try to stab me with seax, spear or sword.
I have my Wessex shield in my hand now. It’s heavy and unwieldy. Already, it tugs my shoulder down. I don’t have a spear. There were none left when Brihtwold led us to the weapons store of men who were already dead. I have no skill with a spear anyway. Brihtwold has managed to lay his hands on a sharper seax. That pleases me. Sending him to fight with a blunt blade is no better than sending him knowingly to his death. I swallow against the knowledge that once the gate opens, we’ll be enemies. I hardly know him, and yet he’s aided me. Maybe I’ll be able to ensure he lives when the Mercians overwhelm the Wessex force. Not, I think, that he’ll welcome my intervention. He is a proud warrior of Wessex.
Above my head, the sun finally climbs high enough to be able to see everything surrounding me. As though that’s the signal, the two wooden planks reinforcing the gate are removed, and half of the gate squeaks open on ancient hinges. It’s a miracle the whole thing doesn’t just fall over. I expect to hear the roar of the Mercians at this, but any sound they’re making is coming from far away.
I wish then that I’d thought to take a vantage look at the way the Mercians are arranged, but, of course, there was no time for that. I must assume that they’re still harrying King Ecgberht in the market settlement because there’s no cry from Ealdorman Wassa to warn that we’re under immediate attack.
We begin to move forwards. It’s a slow shuffle, not a quick sprint, as I pass outside of the fort, the smell of ripe bodies assaulting my nostrils despite the unseasonable coldness of the previous night. The Mercians have left the Wessex dead to rot.
The men in front of me lumber to a run in a crash of iron and wood. I do the same. Brihtwold, beside me, is muttering beneath his breath, a mantra of some sort, but I can’t hear the words. I look down, jump aside to avoid a decaying corpse, and then I’m running.
The ground moves beneath my feet, alarmingly quickly. I breathe deeply, in and out, keen for the air to freshen, but the filth of stagnant water merely replaces the scent of the dead.
The Wessex warriors remain tightly packed. I can’t see where I’m going or risk stopping to determine my location, for those behind me will collide into me. Brihtwold and I manage to remain close together, more by chance than an effort to do so.
The ground abruptly clears of the dead, the churned earth telling me that we might be getting close to the river. I remember eyeing it from some distance away, a thin stretch of dirty grey water that splits the two disparate parts of Londonia.
Only now do those ahead of me falter. I bump into the man in front of me, who’s suddenly stopped, as I feared to do. Together, we crash to the floor in a tangle of shields, arms and legs, his angry cry and mine mingling, while around us I can hear the same happening amongst the rest of the force.
The Mercians have realised what’s happening.
‘Shields.’ The cry comes from someone in front. It’s roared so loudly that I can’t tell who speaks. It could be Ealdorman Wassa of Wessex. It could be Ealdorman Ælfstan of the Mercians. I just don’t know. And neither can I join either shield wall because I have a mouthful of stinking, dirty-blond hair and a foot in my belly, while the man I’ve crashed into turns to strike me, only for another foot to knock his hand aside, as it also kicks my chin.
I try to pull my body together, dragging my feet and legs up to my chest, my arms as well. I’ve let go of the Wessex shield and now offer my back to whoever means to run over me next. A boot hits between my shoulder blades, another kicks me up the arse, grazing my rear end and making me wish I still had hold of the shield to cover my tender parts.
Battle cries and roars, and some whimpers, reach my ears. I hold myself in place because more Wessex warriors think to run over me. We were too tightly packed together. No one could tell what was happening. Then I hear a voice I recognise, and it drips with contempt.
‘Bloody fools,’ Lord Æthelwulf cries with frustration from behind me.
Only then do I risk raising my head. It’s entirely the wrong thing to do because the Wessex warriors who’ve kept to their feet are retreating, chased by the Mercians, and I’m in their way.
‘Get up.’ There’s a shriek of outrage. A hand touches my shoulder. I clamp eyes on one of Lord Æthelwulf’s mounted warriors. He holds out his hand, and I grip it, trying to untangle my legs, arms and head so that I can escape this fresh stampede.
His horse’s breath steams in the cool air, eagerness in the tense muscles of the animal’s hind legs, and suddenly, I’m not only standing but being hauled up behind the man as well. He’s not alone. I can see others being pulled upright, and all the time, the bellows of the retreating Wessex warriors are loud in my ears.
The horse, a chestnut animal, seems to turn on its back legs and leaps clear just as a host of men reaches the place where I was crumpled. My eyes take in the site. I’m one of the lucky ones. Others are bent and twisted, backs caved in, blood and stark white bone visible for all to see. And still, the Wessex warriors rampage.
‘Hold on,’ the unknown man says to me. I do just that.
I have no idea where Brihtwold is. I hope he lives.
The gallop jolts me over rough ground. Despite the fort being the one place I was desperate to escape from, I’m grateful to pass through the open gate, to feel the weight of stone above my head and to be helped down to the ground. Only then can I breathe in deeply around the ache in my chest and the pain of my back.
Blood drips down my nose when I remove my dented helm, the sweat-laced linen cap as well, now rimmed with the pink of a winter’s sunrise. I become aware of my surroundings. I’m inside Londinium, yes, but I’m not in the fort. The rider has taken me into the heart of the settlement, not far from where I was led to meet the ealdorman and Lord Æthelwulf.
I can hear the roar as the tide recedes for the remaining Wessex warriors, no doubt leaving them floundering on the ground, but hopefully, inside the fort.
I spit, and my saliva is flecked with blood as well. I reach up, touch my lips, and feel the swelling there. Checking with my tongue, I sense the bitter sharpness of a cut lip. I can only hope my teeth remain in one piece, but I can’t see for myself.
The horse, his brown tail high in the air, his white socks a counter to the rest of his coat, has left me, his rider turning in a tight circle. Other mounted men have joined the rider and horse, although I don’t see Lord Æthelwulf amongst them.
My ears throb with the sound of my heartbeat, and I’m unable to move. My legs are too weak, and the taste of vomit sours my throat. I spit again, but it doesn’t help.
‘Here.’ A skin of water is thrust beneath my nose. I take it, swallowing deeply, eager to drive the nausea away.
All is chaos. It was bad enough when I arrived inside the fort when Wulfheard thrust me behind the enemy shield wall. This is so much worse.
I watch, trying to focus on what’s happening. Lord Æthelwulf appears, his face puce with rage, as he expertly guides his black horse with its single white stocking on its rear leg through the press of bodies. I can’t hear what Lord Æthelwulf shouts. My heart still beats too loudly, all sound muffled. I must have taken a blow to my head when I was overrun.
I reach for my metal helm, run my fingers around the curve and immediately find a dent. I hold it close to my eyes, trying to determine which part of my head has been hit. Only a wave of nausea hits me. I turn aside quickly to cover the rough cobbles of the road with the bile from my stomach.
My belly heaves with the action, sending a fresh surge of pain along my back. For a moment, I can’t catch my breath. I’m sucking in air, but nothing gets past my throat, and panic makes my legs weak. I’m already buckled in pain, and now I can’t breathe either. I think of Wynflæd, of how she’s brought others from such a trance with practised ease, and I seek the calmness I’ve seen in her, hearing her words in my head.
Imperceptibly, almost so slowly I don’t notice, I find myself breathing again, the pain receding. I turn, slump again on the ground, hoping no one has seen me, but I have been seen. Ecgred, with his malicious eyes and haughty face, watches me from close to Lord Æthelwulf’s mount. I can see the pleasure my current state gives him, and if I could, I’d march to his side and wipe the smile from his face.
Only, I don’t need to. As though sensing what’s happening, I feel Lord Æthelwulf’s gaze settle on me. He looks to Ecgred, and fury still painting him maroon, he reaches out and thuds the handle of his seax onto Ecgred’s head. I hope the action hurts, but I have no way of knowing other than to see the hastily removed gloating turn to fury on Ecgred’s face as he jerks away from the unexpected attack. The man hates me even more. Then someone crouches down before me, concern on his face, and I eye Brihtwold with joy.
His helm has come loose, his dark hair tousled and bloodstained, clumps of it sticking together. He’s talking to me, but I can’t hear him, only see his lips move.
I open my mouth. Words form there to tell him that I can’t hear, but I don’t heed them either. The sound of my words vibrates against my throat, and I cough.
He nods, understanding on his face.
‘Come,’ and he bids me rise with his hands. I can tell that single word from how his lips form their shape.
I stagger upright and follow him. I imagine I know where we’re going. My first step jolts my body. I gasp against the sharp pain in my chest. I pause, and Brihtwold doesn’t notice, moving on without me. Lights flash behind my eyes. And then he’s beside me, offering me his shoulder for all he looks little better than I do.
We walk through the mass of Wessex warriors. Lord Æthelwulf catches my eye as he wildly gesticulates to others who form a circle around him. His mouth opens and shuts, but I don’t know whether he shouts or speaks. I still can’t hear, and I have to keep my eyes on where I’m going, fearing time and time again that the ground will rush up to greet my bloodied lips and cause even more damage.
When Brihtwold finally stops walking, we’re in front a tumbled-down building, half a roof covering it. Tyrhtil eyes me with unease from where he sits, close to a small hearth fire, flames licking hungrily at the dry wood and even drier horse dung he’s managed to find to combat the cold.
‘What happened to you?’ he asks, yawning. Although they sound echoey, the words reach me, and I shake my head as though that will help.
‘Don’t you know what’s happened?’ Brihtwold demands angrily.
‘I’ve been asleep,’ Tyrhtil retorts, anger flecking his words. It seems he didn’t make it to the bastion. I’m not surprised. ‘What did happen?’ Now his curiosity gets the better of him as I stumble to the ground. I sit but jolt my back in the process. I hiss at the fresh pain.
‘We did as commanded,’ Brihtwold shouts. I can tell he shouts because I can hear him easily. I’m also eager to listen because I don’t really know what occurred. ‘But the Mercians were waiting for us. They must have expected us to try to reach King Ecgberht via the narrowest crossing on the River Fleet. Our force bunched together, and people fell, Icel amongst them. And now we’ve all retreated, and Lord Æthelwulf’s furious. More Wessex warriors lie dead from the stupid stampede.’ Brihtwold paces the small space as he rails. He’s enraged. His shoulders are hunched, almost touching his ears. He’s been wounded on his head and leg and his arm isn’t fully repaired from the first attack on the Mercians
‘What happened to you?’ Tyrhtil asks, raising his voice so that I can hear him.
‘Crushed in the stampede and rescued by one of Lord Æthelwulf’s mounted warriors.’ Tyrhtil’s mouth opens in surprise at the revelation, as I wince to hear my voice so echoey in my ears. I swallow down, hoping to clear my ears, but it makes no difference.
‘It was a bloody mess.’ Brihtwold finally flounces to a spot on the floor and glares around him, as though a Mercian might appear at any moment. ‘We were hardly gone for a morning, and you’ve found yourself a nice place here.’
‘I needed somewhere to hide from the king’s thegns. They were calling everyone to join the attack, even the wounded, and I couldn’t make it up the bloody steps. My gut was on fire.’
‘They were too eager,’ Brihtwold complains, his hands raised in frustration. ‘And now there are even less of us, and the Mercians have killed without even doing a great deal.’
I stay silent at Brihtwold’s tirade. I can’t help but be pleased that the Mercians were once more triumphant. And yet, I owe my life to a Wessex warrior and a man sworn to the king’s son. If I could do it without my ears ringing once more, I’d shake my head in confusion at my mixed thoughts.
‘What will happen now?’ Tyrhtil says aloud.
‘How would I know?’ Brihtwold hunkers down, his legs drawn tight to his belly, and he holds them there. I envy him the movement. If I did the same, I wouldn’t be able to breathe.
‘You don’t look so good.’ Tyrhtil turns his attention to me.
‘Winded,’ I expel. ‘And my head.’ I rest my right hand on my head, wincing at the movement. My voice still sounds strange to me, although I can hear a little better.
‘You need someone to tend to you?’ Tyrhtil asks.
I almost shake my head again, but remember in time.
‘No. I need coriander in boiled water. It’ll ease the pain of my mouth.’
‘We don’t have any coriander,’ Tyrhtil says regretfully.
‘I know. I’d go to Ecgred, but he’s just been crowing over my wounds. Lord Æthelwulf noted it, but, of course, Lord Æthelwulf isn’t in Ecgred’s workshop to oversee everything. I’ll be fine. Some sleep.’
‘Then sleep, and I’ll keep a guard.’ Tyrhtil half-smiles. ‘And what of you?’ he asks Brihtwold.
‘Sleep as well, and then something to eat.’
‘What of your head?’ I ask him.
Unconsciously, Brihtwold lifts his hand to his hair, and it comes away bloody once more. I try to rise to my knees, but my legs ache too much.
‘Head wounds always bleed a great deal.’ Now I beckon him closer, and he shuffles towards me. I lift his pink-rimmed hair and carefully examine his scalp. I find a slice at the top of his neck, shallow but wide. ‘Your helm,’ I advise him. ‘It cut you. As I said, head wounds bleed a great deal. You’ll be fine to sleep, and I’ll tend to it when we wake.’
He nods, his eyes fierce at my words.
‘Wake us if you need to,’ Brihtwold informs Tyrhtil.
The other man grunts and winces as he does so.
Now it seems we’re all injured in some way or another. If I had access to the stores that Ecgred has command over, I could ease our suffering, but I need to sleep for now. My head pounds, my hearing keeps coming and going, and I’m exhausted. Just breathing is an effort.
Brihtwold pulls a cloak towards me from a small pile of supplies that Tyrhtil protects like a dragon over his gold. I take it eagerly. I’m cold, despite the heat from the fire. My teeth chatter, making my gums ache, and I lie down as a hundred new ills make themselves known. I appreciate when I wake that it’ll be a torment. But sleep drags me down, and I’m powerless to fight against it.
I close my eyes, the sound of the busy fort a dull throb in the distance. It’s far from reassuring. I need to make my way back to the Mercians before anything else befalls me.