13

I wake to the sharp stink of vomit and know it’s mine.

‘You’re awake. Thank the Lord,’ Tyrhtil announces on seeing my eyes in the shadowed greyness of another dawn.

I ache. All over. Not one part of me doesn’t hurt. Not even my toes.

‘Urgh.’ I raise myself on my elbows, feeling the world lurch around me. I swallow, desperate not to vomit again.

‘Hold it in, please,’ Tyrhtil begs me.

I swallow. My tongue feels like it’s too large for my mouth, and it probes my split lip even though I know not to do so.

‘Where’s Brihtwold?’ I gasp.

‘The latrine pit. He’s had a rough night, but not as bad as you. I’ve never known anyone vomit in their sleep.’

I haven’t either. I force myself upright, the pain in my chest and back making lights flash in my vision once more, but at least I can hear properly.

‘My apologies.’ Tyrhtil nods and offers me a skin of water.

I swill a small amount into my mouth, aware that I have a raging thirst, but drinking too much now will only make me sick.

‘Take it easy,’ he cautions me. I do as he says.

‘I stink,’ I complain.

‘You do, yes. That Ecgred came looking for you some time ago. Well, not Ecgred. The two slaves. They left you this.’ He hands me a bowl, and I smell the concoction suspiciously only to recognise the herbs I need to heal. I shouldn’t be so fearful of what they’ve brought me. I know that Ecgred wouldn’t know how to create this potion.

‘My thanks.’ But I’m perplexed. ‘They came together?’

‘Yes, the man was keen, the woman much less so. They hurried here and back. They pointed at you, so I knew it was for you.’

‘Did they look well?’

‘Better than you,’ Tyrhtil offers, a wry smirk on his lips, and then he sobers. ‘They were both bruised. The woman had an almost closed eye; the other limped heavily.’ That was what I feared to hear.

‘I should have spoken for them in front of Lord Æthelwulf.’

‘Perhaps, but what are they to you? They aren’t your slaves.’

I find the argument far from reassuring.

Eagerly, I swallow the potion made for me. It’s not as thick as I’d like it to be. The coriander is thinly sliced, milk, no doubt from a cow and not a breeding woman, used to give it some thickness. If not enough.

‘I can’t believe they found me and knew of my injuries,’ I muse.

‘They brought me a new poultice as well.’ Tyrhtil lifts his tunic to show me the green strip of cloth that he holds against his wound.

‘How does it feel?’

‘Good, all things considered. I even managed to empty myself earlier.’ He grins. Such simple delight in taking a shit when he’s been unable to for the last day. I’ve seen men and women skip with the joy of being free from such pain and weight inside.

‘Why are they looking after us?’ I consider.

‘Maybe they hope you’ll free them.’

‘How would I do that? Lord Æthelwulf has removed me from the workshop, and I have no influence with anyone here.’

‘I don’t know, but still, it’s a thought. That might be why they sought us out.’

I shake my head, swallowing quickly to ensure I keep down what I’ve consumed. I desperately need to piss, but that involves standing. I don’t yet know if I can do that.

‘Perhaps it was a kindness,’ I begin, but lapse into silence. The slaves and I have not exchanged any words between us. How could we when I can’t speak their tongue?

And then Brihtwold appears in the doorway. He smirks on seeing me. I notice that he’s washed his hair and blood no longer clumps amongst his dark curls.

‘You’re awake then? The whole encampment is in an uproar.’

‘Why?’ Tyrhtil demands to know.

‘Lord Æthelwulf and Ealdorman Wassa have been arguing about how to reach King Ecgberht, and Lord Æthelwulf has determined the only way to do it is via the River Thames. Ealdorman Wassa says it’ll never work. The Mercians will see the ships.’

‘And?’ Tyrhtil presses when Brihtwold says nothing further.

‘Lord Æthelwulf has commanded Ealdorman Wassa to lead the force, and he’s refused. He says the death of his brother is all the payment he’ll offer to the Mercians. He hasn’t said that King Ecgberht has overextended himself, but he may as well have.’

‘And?’ Again Tyrhtil presses when Brihtwold’s words grind to a halt.

‘Lord Æthelwulf says he’ll pay five hundred silver pennies to any man who takes the risk.’

‘Five hundred?’ Tyrhtil isn’t alone in having his mouth drop open in shock. I think of what could be bought with five hundred silver pennies. A warrior could buy a horse, sword and byrnie, as well as a slave to clean his equipment for him. A farmer could buy all the animals he might need, as well as the farm buildings themselves. A trader could outfit half a ship. It’s not a small sum. I wonder how the Wessex lord can afford to offer such a rich prize. And then I realise that they mean to take it from the Mercian traders and from Mercia’s mint. They don’t plan on paying it themselves. They’ll take the money as payment when Mercia is defeated.

‘Yes. And I’ve said I’ll go,’ Brihtwold confirms, puffing up his chest as though such an act makes him more manly. I notice his grimace as he does so.

‘You’ve never even been on a ship,’ Tyrhtil laughs. ‘You’ll be sick and fall overboard, and I bet you can’t swim. The Mercians will have access to ships, you know,’ he further cautions.

‘I’m doing it. I can leave the king’s force and return home with five hundred silver pennies. I could live forever on five hundred silver pennies.’

‘Well, not quite forever,’ I caution him. I don’t want him to take such a risk. It would be certain death, and Lord Æthelwulf knows it. Why else is he offering such a vast sum? If it succeeds, the Mercian traders will pay the bill; if it fails, it will cost the Wessex lord nothing but the death of men on his conscience.

‘We should use the ships to return to Kent and Wessex,’ Tyrhtil states abruptly. ‘The Mercians will leave us be if we go home. King Ecgberht has already lost the kingship of Mercia. Their capital is firmly back under King Wiglaf’s command. This is desperation.’

‘You would leave our Lord King in Lundenwic? Lose Lundenwic to the Mercians?’ Brihtwold decries. His words are flecked with anger.

‘Our Lord King can do the same. He could take a ship from the traders and go back to Wessex. It would be easy for him to leave. He just won’t because of his hatred of the Mercians.’

‘You have no loyalty.’ Brihtwold’s words are hot, his face flushed.

‘I wish to live. This,’ and Tyrhtil points to his belly wound, ‘has shown me how weak one man is against sharp iron and blades.’

‘You have no honour,’ Brihtwold tries again, his lips drawn together tightly. He looks terrified to my eyes but is also determined to do as he boasts. A heady combination. I thought him like my childhood friend Edwin from Tamworth. But at this moment, I think not. Edwin wouldn’t have sworn to do something that scared him so much.

‘I have more than enough honour, you young scroat. I’ve fought for our Lord King all my life. If anyone could live on five hundred silver pennies and never fight again, it would be me.’

‘Then you should do it,’ Brihtwold flings at him.

‘Then perhaps I will. At least I can bloody swim, and I know the way to the far side of the River Thames as well, back to the realm of Wessex.’

I expect Brihtwold to continue his argument, but he falls silent instead, chest heaving with his frustration and, I imagine, fear.

‘I’ll go,’ Tyrhtil says more softly this time.

Something passes between the two, but I don’t understand it.

‘Good,’ Brihtwold eventually announces. This argument has been about something more than who can swim, of that I’m sure.

‘When will the ship leave?’

But before Brihtwold can answer Tyrhtil, I have to ask the question.

‘Why didn’t they use the ship in the first place?’ I’ve not yet made it back to the pinnacle of the fort. I don’t honestly know where the Mercians are or what they’ve achieved. Do they surround the walls? Do they still have command of the bridge over the River Fleet? Do they have a foothold inside the market settlement itself? Where, exactly, is King Ecgberht of Wessex? I can but hope that my question doesn’t arouse too much suspicion. Wulfheard didn’t tell me much about the River Thames. His concern was with the settlement of Londonia.

‘The river is tidal and deadly. The Mercians living along the Strand’s shoreline have built defences against the Wessex forces. It’ll be impossible for the king to retreat with his warriors that way. He must go forwards.’

‘So, how can you get to him?’ My forehead furrows in consternation.

‘Lord Æthelwulf has thought of that,’ Brihtwold confirms confidently. ‘We’ll travel at night and make it there before they can stop us.’

I open my mouth to argue once more, but then I shake my head. It’s better if the Wessex warriors fail. That the brave Mercians kill them as they attempt to sneak past them. Not that all of the traders in Lundenwic are Mercians, but the Frisians will fight for King Wiglaf because the Mercian kings tax them lightly and provide well for them. The Wessex king has so far treated them poorly, raising their taxes and disrupting the river trade by sending his reeves to examine every little detail of who brings what and from where. King Ecgberht has made enemies of the traders.

I decide not to argue further, even though the idea is folly if the Mercians have such defences in place.

‘So, King Ecgberht is trapped inside Lundenwic,’ I summarise. ‘The Mercian inhabitants will not let him gain access to the ships on the River Thames, and he can’t get past the Mercian forces encamped outside Lundenwic.’

Brihtwold nods earnestly. It seems he doesn’t sense the difficulty, but Tyrhtil is quiet now, his eyes far away. I know he feels that the coming endeavour is foolhardy.

I sigh. I’m coming to like Tyrhtil, despite the fact he should be my sworn enemy. If he dies trying to seek entry into the market settlement when he should just go home by rights, it’ll be a waste. The Wessex king is trapped. His forces are split. And yet, I know only too well the madness of kings. King Ecgberht ought to approach King Wiglaf and forge a peace, but both men hate one another. They’d sooner kill all of their warriors than admit that either of them were wrong.