Voices from beyond our shelter have me turning to look towards where the door should be if there were one, but there isn’t. The far end of the shelter is open to the elements.
‘Icel.’ The word is barked, and I eye the man before me. He’s small and squat, his legs widely spaced, as he glares at me. ‘Come with me. Ecgred demands an account from you for the mess in his workshop.’
‘What?’ I ask. I left no mess. I know I didn’t.
‘Get on your feet and come with me.’ He’s beside me now, his hands reaching towards me. It’s clear he means to force me upright, even though I stink of vomit and I’m still suffering from my head wound.
‘Leave him be, Æsc,’ Tyrhtil hisses, giving a name to the unknown man.
‘You can either come with me, or Lord Æthelwulf will send his warriors to retrieve you.’ The squat man is determined. His face is riddled with long-healed cuts, his lips slightly upturned in the right-hand corner of his mouth.
‘I hardly think…’ Tyrhtil starts, his voice filled with coldness, but I stagger upright.
‘It’s fine. I’ll go and see what the fuss is about.’ I pause then, trying not to vomit again, and the stupid fool stretches towards me and yanks my arm. The room spins, and the next thing I know, I’m on my hands and knees, yellow bile staining Æsc’s boots.
He kicks me – the damn arse. My nose explodes, and now I’m choking as well, blood streaming into my mouth. I taste the sharp bite of iron and expect to retch once more. Only it has the opposite effect on me. My vision clears, and I can see more clearly than since the Wessex warriors crushed me.
‘Give me a moment,’ I urge Æsc. I watch his foot tapping, the yellow bile slowly working its way onto the ground. Only then do I stand.
While forced to wait, Tyrhtil’s done nothing but berate Æsc for being an arse. An arse of everything, from pig to cow to horse and even a goat. If I didn’t want to worsen the situation, I’d be laughing in Æsc’s face.
Outside, the sun is closer to setting than rising. I’ve slept away much of the day. No doubt I needed it, but all the same, I don’t like to have my daily routine disturbed in such a way.
I expect to see the Wessex warriors huddled together in groups, or practising their training, or even just sleeping, but it seems that Tyrhtil isn’t the only one who thought it wise to find some shelter following the cold night we all experienced. I can smell smoke and even hear people, but I don’t see anyone as I follow Æsc back towards the workshop, along the uneven stone roads.
I’m unsure what I expect to find when I get there. I made no mess in the workshop. With the aid of the slaves, I produced salves and lotions and treated the wounded. What then, I think, is Ecgred blowing steam about?
But then I hear Ecgred’s voice, raised in a fury. Æsc abruptly veers away from me, assured I’ll face Ecgred rather than him.
I duck my head inside the low building, quickly noting that everything is in the same orderliness as when I left at Lord Æthelwulf’s command, apart from the sick and injured. One or two wounded lie on beds of straw, groaning softly, although they watch what’s happening eagerly enough.
‘At last.’ Ecgred eyes me. Hatred spills from his eyes as he threatens with his fists.
Quickly, I begin to suspect the problem.
‘What have you done to them?’ he challenges, indicating the source of his fury.
‘Done to them?’ I decide to pretend I don’t understand.
‘Yes, done to them. Look.’ I do look, and a slight smirk plays around my lips. I’m pleased that the night is beginning to draw in and that Ecgred can’t see my delight in seeing his two slaves sitting together, one beside the other, on a small wooden bench before the fire.
Ecgred lectures them, spittle flying with the words. I don’t understand the tongue he speaks, but now I doubt the slaves do either because the words merge together too quickly. I don’t think he’s taken one breath since he began to rebuke them.
It’s not my fault, far from it, but Ecgred’s slaves have evidently realised that they don’t need to share their knowledge with their master. No, they can hoard it to themselves, and there’s nothing that Ecgred, or I, can do about it. Even as Ecgred waves his thin hands before them, pointing to his shelves of supplies, to the wounded with their hands clutching Mercian coins, the two ignore him. The slaves have made their feelings clear to their master. I’m pleased by their defiance, even when Ecgred has tried to force them with his fists. As I was told, the female slave has a swollen eye. I’m disgusted that he's tried to force the man by attacking the woman. What a worm he is.
‘You’ve stopped them from obeying me.’ Ecgred eventually turns his gaze back to me.
I shrug my shoulders, wincing with the movement. ‘I can’t even speak to them. How could I have done that?’
At this, Ecgred’s mouth snaps shut, a wildness in his eyes assuring me that he’s not far from hitting me. Equally, he can’t deny the truth of my words. That much is obvious. Silence falls in the workshop. I move slightly, trying to catch the eye of the brown-skinned man and his female companion. Their expressions are stoic. They’ve made their decision, even though they don’t meet my gaze.
‘Then why aren’t they fulfilling their tasks?’ Ecgred eventually questions, making an effort at calmness.
I look at him, trying not to show the disdain that I feel for this wild man who thinks to profit from the skills of others. ‘Have you asked them?’ is all I can think to say.
‘Asked them? Asked them? They’re my slaves. They should do as I want when I order it.’
But I shake my head. ‘Slaves only do as they’re commanded. You give specific commands to them.’ I can’t see that my words will help him. The slaves have determined to disobey him, no matter what.
A trickle of words spills from Ecgred’s lips. I see the shoulders on the female slave tense. But nothing happens.
‘What did you ask them?’ I enquire.
‘To treat the wounded?’ Ecgred’s growing furious once more.
‘Then you must tell them what to do. Which herbs to use, which potion to make. They’re enslaved. They must be instructed in every little detail.’
Again, Ecgred’s mouth falls open in shock as he comprehends my words.
‘But,’ he manages to squeak.
I nod at him, encouraging him.
‘But they know what to do. They’ve done it many times in the past.’
‘Then you should also know what to tell them to do,’ I counter.
Ecgred has moved to his shelves and pulled down two jars. He opens the lids and sniffs one and then the other. The smell of coriander wafts close to me. He looks into the stone jars and then at his slaves, but they don’t move.
‘What are you treating with that?’ I ask him conversationally. I can’t deny that I’m relishing this. For the first time in my life, I understand that Wynflæd, with her sharp words and edged silences, might have enjoyed watching my pathetic attempts at mirroring her actions.
‘A poultice, to protect against wound-rot,’ Ecgred whines.
I shake my head. ‘That won’t work. Those aren’t the ingredients that you need.’
I’m distracted from Ecgred’s response by a groan of pain from one of the warriors. His face is bleached white, stark in the half-light of the flickering fire and advancing night.
I move to him. ‘Where are you injured?’ I enquire.
His eyes half close, and then he lifts his right arm. I see where he’s been impaled on something, almost cutting him from beneath his armpit up through his shoulder, but the weapon’s stuck lower down because of the sharp angle. Dirty, bloody rags try to suppress the blood flow.
‘You’ll need stitching together,’ I inform him.
He moans once more, as though the words wound just as much as the blade.
I head to where I know the pig’s guts are kept and quickly place them in a bowl of hot water to soften, the water taken from a boiling pot over the hearth. I feel the eyes of both slaves on me. I nod and offer them a smile. I hope they understand my regard for what they’re doing, even though I’m helping the warrior. Ecgred hovers behind me, watching what I’m doing, and I ignore his presence.
I also reach for the herbs I need to make a poultice and a remedy for the wounded man to drink. My hands and nose easily find the ingredients I need, the honey and moss, the garlic, nettles and oats. I obscure the jars as best I can so that Ecgred will learn nothing from me.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask the man over my shoulder.
‘What does it matter?’ he growls.
I rear backwards. I didn’t expect such anger, but then, he’s been lying in pain for some considerable time. While I’ve slept, have the Wessex warriors attempted another strike against the Mercians? I didn’t think to ask.
‘Well, my name’s Icel,’ I inform him, holding his arm out from his body to closely examine the wound. He stinks of sweat and pain, of blood, and his skin is too dry. I’m glad my nausea has passed, or I’d be no good to him. I’d be the one vomiting, as opposed to my body merely aching with every movement I make.
I turn aside, find a jug and splash water into a waiting wooden bowl.
‘Drink this,’ I urge him.
He drinks it thirstily, only to scowl at me again. His forehead is a welter of blackening bruises, a long gash running beneath his thinning hairline.
‘What happened to you?’ I ask, taking the bowl from him and returning to my initial task. I have another bowl of hot water. I dip a rag into it and begin to clean away the muck and filth. I also cut aside his tunic. He glowers at me, in silence, as I do so.
It seems I’m to get no answer from him. It’s not going to stop me from helping him. Wynflæd never turned aside an arrogant sod, although she always managed to bend them to her will. Eventually.
I work quickly. The silence in the workshop should be oppressive, with Ecgred dividing his time between berating his slaves and observing me. He should watch. Then he might know what to do in the future. I expect him to run to Ealdorman Wassa or Lord Æthelwulf at my intervention, but he does neither of those things. Perhaps, like the rest of the encampment, he’s aware of the barely contained resentment between the two men and unprepared to exacerbate it further. Maybe he genuinely hopes to learn something. The fact he allows me such free rein does surprise me.
When I’m done, I eye the warrior once more. His face is sheeted in sweat. He doesn’t look well.
‘You need rest and good food,’ I inform him.
He heaves himself upright, left hand teasing out the work I’ve done beneath his right arm.
‘I’m going in the ships,’ he informs me, the first true words he’s spoken. The warrior seems to bounce off the table, sending the water jug tumbling over the side. I leap to catch it, and water covers my hands. ‘I’ll earn my five hundred silver pennies.’ With that, he staggers from the workshop, weaving a path that sees him kick a bucket of water all over Ecgred’s feet, much to Ecgred’s disgust.
My hands are smeared with blood, and my nails are black with dirt. I eye them with a grimace before plunging them into another bucket of warm water deposited close to the fire.
‘Right then.’ The male slave catches my eye as I turn to the next waiting warrior. He’s been quiet all this time, hunched around himself where he sits. I don’t know what the slave tries to tell me, but I offer another smile. ‘What’s wrong with you then?’
Reddened eyes greet mine, but it’s the lip that has me staggering backwards. It looks to me as though the man’s been bitten or gnawed his lip. Now the skin lies jagged, exposing the stumps of his yellow teeth and the redness of his gums, the paleness of his jaw, shown against the backdrop of a dirty-blond beard and moustache. I already think I’ll have to shave him to repair the lips. Only then does he pull his hand aside. I see he has more than one injury. His left hand is as jagged as his lip.
‘What happened?’ I demand to know.
‘A dog,’ he grumbles, standing with a wince. ‘It went wild because a group of arseholes decided to use it for target practice.’ His voice is filled with disgust.
‘And the dog?’
‘Dead. The bastards killed it when it turned on me,’ he answers remorsefully.
‘Any other wounds?’ I query, my thoughts turning to the poor, dead dog. One of the Wessex warriors must have brought it with them to Londinium. A strange decision to make.
‘Only bruises and small cuts.’
‘Then I’ll tend your lip first and then your hand. It’ll be nasty.’
‘Aye. It’ll teach me to get involved where I shouldn’t.’ I can’t place his accent, but his words don’t roll as so many others of the Wessex warriors do.
‘I need to shave your chin,’ I inform him.
‘Do whatever you must. I don’t shave because it’s too much effort. I hate the damn beard.’
Carefully, I use a small cutting knife to shear away as much of the beard as I can. The hair falls to the floor, exposing more of the wound. I wince in sympathy as its extent becomes clearer.
‘I would suggest you might never want to shave again,’ I caution. My fresh bowl of warm water is a murky brown, more like mud than blood. There are big lumps of dark black congealed blood from his chin and mixed in the tufts of beard that remain. I don’t want to pull them apart because I imagine it’ll hurt, but neither can I sew the wound until I do.
‘This’ll be painful,’ I advise him.
I see his red-rimmed eyes harden as I begin the process. It takes a long time. I’m unaware of just how long until a candle appears beside me. I eye the brown-skinned slave with surprise. I look around and can see that Ecgred has become tired of his tirade and, feeling useless, has left me to my work.
In his absence, both of the slaves are busy in the workshop.
The male slave shoos me aside, and I step away. He takes my place immediately. I watch his more delicate work as he begins to help the bitten man. I stay silent, occasionally handing over bowls of warm water and threads of pig’s gut. The flames from the fire leap higher, and water is replenished by the female slave, and still, there’s silence. The wounded man can’t speak while the delicate work of reconnecting the flesh is taking place.
Eventually, the slave nods and gives a little grunt; I take it to be of happiness and he turns his attention to the ripped hand. I watch him, as does the warrior.
‘Where are you from?’ the warrior asks me, the words muffled by his fattened lip. The wound looks even worse now, but it does stand a good chance of healing, of that I’m sure.
‘Kent.’ I remember my lie.
‘So, more than half a Mercian then?’ His fair eyebrows disappear into the welter of blackened bruises.
‘No, a good Wessex warrior,’ I reply quickly.
But he’s shaking his head.
‘I’m from Kent,’ he informs me. ‘I’m much more than half a Mercian, but I fight for Lord Æthelwulf now. I remained behind to ensure Lord Bealdred escaped from Lord Æthelwulf. At some point, and I’m far from sure how, I ended up fighting for the Wessex lords.’ There’s no anger in his voice. It’s as though he speaks of how to make a pottage and not of for whom he risks his life.
‘And would you return to Mercia now?’
The man stills, as though unsure whether to say more. His eyes meet mine, and I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe. So much rests on his answer. And then he shakes his head.
‘I’m a Wessex warrior now. After all, it’s two Wessex healers who’ll ensure I live.’ I think he tries to smile, but with his chin all exposed as it is, it’s more of a grimace and not a pretty sight at all.
I drag my eyes from his face and breathe in deeply. I should have liked an ally amongst the Wessex warriors. In truth, I should be determining how to help King Wiglaf and not saving a man who’s changed his allegiance to another.
Then I turn. Æsc has returned. His eyes blaze angrily, even as the Kent warrior gets to his feet and quickly escapes from the workshop, his face and hand repaired as much as possible.
‘Where’s Ecgred?’
‘How should I know?’ I taunt him.
‘I’m telling him of this,’ he cautions me. Only then do I realise Æsc glares at the two slaves.
I open my mouth, but before I can argue with him, he’s gone, lurching through the workshop and out into the darkness of night. I shiver. It’s another cold night. The brown-skinned slave shrugs at me, no hint of fear in his eyes. He says something to the other slave, and she nods, biting her lip and hurrying to tidy away the herbs he’s been using. She shows more concern than him. I wish I knew their names.
‘My apologies,’ I say, tone regretful.
The man grins at me. It seems he doesn’t care. I eye where his feet are chained together, and I shudder. This man shouldn’t be here. He should be free to heal with the extensive skills he possesses. If Wynflæd knew of him, she’d wish him freed. And then he surprises me by speaking.
‘Theodore.’ His voice is rich.
‘Icel,’ I reply, and he nods, a sharp tongue licking at his lips. He grips my hand when I’m not expecting it and turns it over. I gasp as his fingers probe at the scar there. Even in the weaving shadows of the fire and candle, I can see the image clearly. It marks me as what I am, a Mercian.
I go to snatch my hand back, but he holds me tight. I expect to see a threat in his hard eyes, but, instead, he points at my scar and nods. I swallow heavily. I don’t know what to say to him, even if I thought he could understand me. I nod slowly. He does the same, the hint of triumph in the curve of his thin lips.
He releases my hand and steps aside, just as Ecgred appears, a thick cloak covering his scrawny legs and hands. His face is purple with fury, his eyes only just visible as two dots of white.
‘You Mercian bastard,’ he curses, leaping towards me. I don’t see what he carries, but it’s evident he means me harm. I startle that he calls me a Mercian. How can he know that?
I’ve faced enough people trying to kill me to interpret the signs. Yet, my feet don’t move, and I’m held in place as though they weigh a hundred times more than usual. I close my eyes, anticipating the blow, swaying slightly as though my nausea has returned. Only there’s a loud thud, as though a body hitting the ground. My eyes snap open, and it takes me time to make sense of it all, and then I gasp.
The female slave stands, menacing the prone body of Ecgred with a heavy jug, which she strains to keep hold of, her arms shaking with the weight. Ecgred’s eyes flicker once, behind his closed eyelids, and then fall still, and I tumble to my knees.
‘No, no, no,’ I mutter under my breath, reaching out to touch Ecgred where his pulse should beat at his neck, but there’s nothing. I notice the sliver of blood that pools from beneath his head, and I sit back, knees beneath me, my feet useless.
He’s dead.