It’s dark when I follow Wulfheard to the edge of the encampment once more. Heavy-looking clouds shadow the moon, and while it’s not as cold as the previous night, I can’t help fearing the downpour that it portends.
‘We’ll need to get there before the rain, or the drain will be full.’
Wulfheard doesn’t glance at me as I run to keep up with him. He walks with great purpose.
‘We’ll get there when we get there, and if it’s pissing it down, we’ll still make it inside.’
I wish I shared his confidence, but Wulfheard is a broader man than I am, as too are the other men, when we finally draw level with them close to the edge of the encampment. They carry shields and wear thick cloaks, the scent of animal fat assuring me that the cloaks are greased to keep the impending deluge away.
‘You won’t need shields,’ I begin before I’ve fully come to a stop.
‘What?’ Oswy’s eyes are cold as he glares at me. Thanks to the crackling flames of a sentry post, I’m able to see.
‘The shields won’t fit through the gap,’ I explain quickly.
‘If the bloody shields won’t, then how will we?’ Oswy demands.
I shrug my shoulders. I don’t think he will. Maybe Ealdorman Ælfstan and Wulfheard won’t either. The other men are equally well built. I meet Ealdorman Ælfstan’s eyes evenly. He watches me, considering what I’m saying.
‘Stand beside me,’ he asks.
I do as he requests.
‘I’m much wider than you are,’ he confirms thoughtfully.
‘And I had to wriggle to get through the gap. It was easier for my companions because they’re of a much slighter build.’
‘I hadn’t considered that,’ the ealdorman admits, his eyes flickering with annoyance. ‘Wulfheard, go and find me some men who are as narrow, if not narrower, than Icel at the shoulders.’
‘And make sure they have small bellies as well,’ I add, just to reinforce the point.
Wulfheard huffs and thuds back into the camp, while the other men deemed too broad and too fat glare at me. I won’t apologise. If they get wedged in the small gap, then they’ll die, and we won’t be able to get beneath the wall.
‘The gap was truly so small?’ Ealdorman Ælfstan reiterates, feeling the heat of the same stares. The other men mutter to one another. I refuse to hear what they say.
‘Yes. It’s a drainage channel. I had to manoeuvre a loose stone even to find the gap.’
‘But the stone is loose?’ The ealdorman jumps on my words.
‘Yes, but someone needs to be inside to move it.’
‘The wall is what, two hands thick?’
‘More like three or even five,’ I confirm, looking at my long hands as I say it.
‘But someone followed you to the gap?’
‘Yes, someone tried to skewer me with a spear. I would have informed you if you’d asked me.’ I feel annoyed to have not had the opportunity to state this before I was asked to steal my way back beneath the walls.
‘Ealdorman Tidwulf had Theodore explain it all, and he advised the king and the other ealdormen. Ealdorman Sigered pressed for the king to abandon the fort, but I argued against it. After all, it’s Lord Æthelwulf who rules in Kent. It would be good to restore Kent to the rest of Mercia by killing the king’s son.’
The explanation surprises me. It seems that Ealdorman Ælfstan is incredibly ambitious. I spare a thought for King Ecgberht’s arrogance that has brought him to this catastrophe. Some would say he has eyes bigger than his belly. I’d say he has ambitions that far exceed his capacity and the abilities of the Wessex warriors.
‘What do we do once we’re inside? If we make it back inside?’
‘Taking the fort would be a good start, but so would killing the Wessex warriors one by one, so slowly that it might not be perceptible to Lord Æthelwulf until he’s left with no one to protect him.’
‘There must be nearly two hundred warriors inside Londinium?’ I interject. I should have taken a count, but it was impossible when I was so busy healing the sick. There were many more than that, but the vast majority went on the ships. I can’t see that many of them returned, not if Oswy was right in saying they watched a ship burn down during the night.
‘And?’ Ealdorman Ælfstan eyes me as though testing my resolve.
‘They can’t all be Mercia’s enemies?’ I’m thinking of the men I helped and Tyrhtil if he still lives.
‘They fight for their king, against Mercia, and so they’re enemies.’ Ealdorman Ælfstan is firm on that point. His surety reminds me of my uncle. Cenfrith always knew who the enemy and the allies were. Thinking of him makes me remember his painful death. What would he think of me? Healing Mercia’s enemies?
I’ve not given much thought to who Wulfheard will recruit to join our small collection of warriors while he’s been searching the encampment, but I really should have done.
The querulous voices of Frithwine and Garwulf make themselves heard before I can see them.
Wulfheard stomps into the firelight, his face shadowed and unreadable.
‘Everyone is too wide or too damn fat,’ he complains. I notice that he’s sucking in his stomach as he speaks. ‘These two, even with their wounds, are the best I can do.’ He risks looking at me, almost daring me to argue, one eyebrow arched high into his hairline, and I decline to do so. He’s furious. That much is evident.
‘What do you want us for?’ Frithwine demands. He’s not yet seen me. When he does, he’ll be even more unhappy.
‘For an important matter.’ Ealdorman Ælfstan’s voice ripples with his authority.
I witness Frithwine visibly swallow back his arrogance.
I duck my head and allow half a smirk at such a response. I’m trying to see how Frithwine fares since I last saw him in battle. Has he recovered from being trampled? Now that it’s happened to me, I have more sympathy for him, but I’m not expecting any thanks from him for saving his life.
‘Were there really no others?’ Ealdorman Ælfstan directs to Wulfheard, his words betraying his frustration.
‘No, my lord, there bloody weren’t. We need to ensure our men are kept in better physical condition, and we need to give them much less food and wine. It doesn’t help that Ealdorman Tidwulf has also gathered his men together to attack the trading settlement,’ Wulfheard concedes.
Frithwine looks from Ealdorman Ælfstan to Wulfheard, his mouth slightly open. I take that to mean he’s not been invited to join Tidwulf’s endeavour. Mind, before I can enjoy that sense of achievement for long, I’m reminded that I haven’t either.
‘We take our shields,’ the ealdorman confirms, despite my advice to the contrary. He’s not sent any of the men away. I can’t see that all of them will make it through the small gap. ‘We might need them yet. But we move quietly, and no one is to talk. Muffle your weapons, but ensure you have them close to hand should they be needed.’
The contradictory advice has Frithwine once more looking confused.
I’ve not yet had a clear sight of Garwulf. I try to remember what wounds he carried. I recall he had a deep gash on his right arm. I hope it’s not caught the wound-rot. That would be an unpleasant way to die. I also hope that Frithwine has beaten the dent out of his helm.
‘Lead on, Icel,’ Ealdorman Ælfstan announces, and I’ve the pleasure of watching Frithwine huff in shock at hearing my name.
‘But he’s a bloody traitor,’ Garwulf gasps, his voice a harsh croak.
No one answers, and then Wulfheard can be heard muttering. ‘And that’s why we leave the little shits to polish their seaxes. A fat lot they know about war.’
I grin and check my weapons belt holds all the blades I might need. That includes my eagle-marked seax, which Wulfheard kept safe for me.
I slip through the defences the Mercians have built, down the slight slope and into the ditch, facing towards where I know the fort of Londinium is, and its walls, which promise safety but, in reality, provide very little.
Despite the advancing darkness, it’s easy to find the walls. The Wessex warriors have small fires burning on top of the bastion, unlike last night when there was no light other than that of the moon and stars. The fire blazes fiercely in the concealing darkness. But I’m reminded of when I thought we were under attack, so I lead the troop of Mercians at an angle, aiming to meet the wall some distance away from the fort and its defences. I’d like to know who threw that stone at me. I hope it was Æsc, but he could have told anyone by now. We might be walking into a trap.
I’m trying not to consider how, in the dark, I’ll find the drainage channel I used when I took no accurate accounting of my surroundings. I simply wanted to escape. Never in all my thoughts did I consider that I might be forced to return. It might have helped if that had been made more evident to me, but then, I’m beginning to suspect that Wulfheard didn’t honestly know what he was doing when he thrust me into the Wessex shield wall. He saw an opportunity and took it, without any thought.
For a time, I can hear the murmur of conversation from the men on guard duty on the fort’s high walkways, but it quickly falls silent as we make the turn around the wall that eventually leads down towards the River Thames. It’s impossible to see the river from where I stand. I can’t hear it either. It’s as though the river has ceased to exist. The dark encompasses everything, and no dancing flames startle me from the far side of the wall. The Wessex force is tiny compared to the length of the walls. Even if they suspected someone might try to gain unauthorised entry into Londinium, where would they think to look other than where I escaped with Theodore and Gaya? That concerns me, but Ealdorman Ælfstan knows of this, and still he bids me lead his warriors on. I can only hope that no one waits for us there, or this attempt will be over before it’s begun.
The dreaded rain promised by the thick clouds overhead suddenly begins to fall, a torrent that soaks me in an instant, no matter how closely I try to get to the stone wall. The rain falls from the east, great gusting sheets of it that sound as loud as a contingent of the king’s mounted warriors. I flick my cloak over my head, but it’s too late. Rain drips from my helm, and down my neck. I grimace at the cold fingers that slither down the bone of my back, only to pool around my weapons belt.
I don’t welcome having to polish my weapons back to sharpness. It’s as though I can feel them growing less sharp as the rain increases. The shield thrust into my hand by Wulfheard as we began walking grows heavier and heavier. No doubt, the thin wood tries to buckle with the moisture.
And still, I keep on walking. I remember it took me longer than I thought it would to reach the Mercian encampment when I was going the other way. But, all the same, I feel as though I’ve been walking for half of the night. I’ve tripped and slid, and even waded, almost knee-deep, in pools that have formed with the rain. The ground here is just as boggy, and I don’t like to think what I might be walking in as the water falls from the narrower drainage channels and to the exterior of the walls.
No one speaks, but I can sense the frustration of those who follow me. I can’t do anything about the rain, but, no doubt, they do expect me to find the place where we can gain access as soon as possible. I only wish I could be confident in my abilities to do so.
Only then something does catch my eye. It’s just the briefest glance, but there’s a shimmer of something before the rain falls once more. I move forwards eagerly. My hands reach out and find the spearhead that tried to impale me. Hurriedly, I gaze at the wall in front of me and let out a short-lived strangled cry of triumph.
I’ve found it. I run my hands over where the gap should be, but there’s something in the way.
‘They’ve blocked it,’ I whisper to Wulfheard because he’s closest to me. I realise then that he’s been tasked with ensuring I’m protected while the rest of the Mercians trail behind. I don’t see Ealdorman Ælfstan, but I know he’s one of the number. He’s not merely ordered his warriors to do this; he’s taking part as well. I was grateful for that, but now I fear I’ve let him down. The thought of going back to the Mercian encampment unsuccessful fills me with more unease than if I’d not managed to find the place at all.
‘We can move it,’ Wulfheard informs me, his words firm. He’s perhaps correct, because around whatever they’ve pushed through the hole, water is streaming into a deepening puddle on the ground. The rain might just aid us yet. ‘Here.’ Wulfheard has reached his hand through the gap in the stonework. I watch his rain-drenched face in the shaft of moonlight that illuminates the pool of water at our feet. ‘I can feel it. It’s not stonework.’ And then he steps back, horrified, looking down at his hand. I can’t see what’s spooked him, but he spits and gags, so I know it’s something disgusting. Perhaps a dead deer or just a small animal. It’s not exactly what I’d have used to block a hole, but each to his own.
‘What is it?’ I whisper to him, but he still doesn’t speak, and the rest of the men are silent.
I curse my curiosity then as I thrust my hand through the gap. I feel forwards with it, and then I encounter what feels like a rag tied around something that might once have been alive. I grimace, feeling the slipperiness of the texture. I can see why Wulfheard didn’t appreciate this. But I persist. If this is the only thing preventing us from getting inside, then I’m happy to force it loose.
Only then the smell reaches me, and it’s worse even than the clogged drains that have been dispersing their waters into the ditches that surround the walls, and through which we’ve been walking.
I try not to breathe, gritting my teeth, desperate to succeed. I feel something come loose, a malleable part of the body pulled to one side, and I leap back as the blockage works itself free. I’m quick, but not fast enough. As I splash back to Wulfheard’s side, through the puddle that now reaches my knees, I know what I’m going to glance at, and I’m not disappointed.
It can only be the body of Ecgred.
Whoever put it there knows what happened to Ecgred and knew where to find him after we hid him. But does that mean that they’re waiting for me on the other side of the wall?