19

‘What is it?’ Wulfheard demands. I thought he knew, but it seems he wants confirmation.

‘The body of a dead man.’ I’m trying not to breathe too deeply. The stink is revolting. I would have expected a body to take longer to rot, but then, if they dumped it in the drainage ditch as soon as I left, that might just account for the putrid smell.

‘Bloody bollocks,’ Wulfheard exclaims, but his words are barely above a whisper. He already appreciates what this might mean.

‘So, they know the killer escaped, and how?’ Ealdorman Ælfstan is standing right behind me.

I startle at his words. I hadn’t realised he was so close.

‘It seems so.’ This leaves us with a real problem.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ealdorman Ælfstan quickly decides. ‘We’ve come this far, and I’ll deliver the fort to King Wiglaf. After all, no one has tried to stab us yet.’

‘I’ll go first,’ I announce, although I don’t want to.

I wait, hoping Wulfheard will protest and go in my place, but I’m the one who escaped this way. I must be the one to retrace my steps.

‘I’ll have four of the men stand far enough back from the wall that they can throw their spears if we hear you cry,’ Ælfstan offers. I think it’s supposed to reassure but it really doesn’t. I could be dead by the time a spear hits our enemy.

I nod, swallow, and almost turn to add my vomit to the soggy remains of Ecgred.

‘I’ll need you to help me. Give me a leg-up.’ I’ve dropped my shield to one side. I can’t take it with me, as I cautioned the ealdorman. It would get well and truly wedged, and then no one would be able to get in or out. Mind, the drainage ditch would fill as well, which might mean all of Londinium would be underwater. I can’t see that the Wessex warriors would appreciate swimming with their own shit.

‘Show me, and go carefully.’ Wulfheard stands close to the wall. The water must be nearly to his knees, just as it is for me.

‘I need to go on my back and have my hands free to manipulate the stone out of the way, if it’s still there.’

‘You won’t have a weapon then.’

‘No, I won’t, but I can’t do anything about that. I’ll have my weapons belt should I be successful at getting inside.’ I’m impressed that my voice sounds firm. No doubt Wulfheard will realise that my legs are shaking in his hands.

I spare a thought for the clouds far overhead, the blackness of the sky and the lack of a moon. It seems I’m to face this task with heavy rain thudding into my eyes and mouth and without the ability to see much beyond my nose. I almost welcome the sensation of my body passing beneath the wall.

Carefully, I use Wulfheard’s cupped hands to angle myself correctly. I need to lie down and use my hands to pull me through the space, arms above my head. I’ll be entirely exposed should I be able to force the stone aside. If someone is waiting with a spear, seax or war axe, they’ll be able to stab me before I can do anything to protect myself.

The lingering stench of Ecgred’s body fills my nose, as does the scent of rank water and rancid shit. Then I’m pushing my arms through the hole, my back banging against a channel worn smooth by the passage of water over more years than I can comprehend.

I gasp and bite my lip, trying not to cry out. I walk my hands back over the stones above my head, seeking out a means of forcing myself through the gap. I manage to get so far, my feet still in Wulfheard’s hands, only to feel something blocking my path.

It’s hard and firm. I can just about slip my hands and arms beneath its weight. The dislodged stone is firmly in place. I need to force it aloft. But it’s impossible. My hands aren’t strong enough, and I can’t position my arms in the right way to move the stone upwards. There’s just not enough room. I can’t help thinking that even if I did manage it, I’d still need to get the rest of my body through the small space as well without dropping the stone and crushing my chest.

Water runs over my hands, flowing freely through the ditch. The rain drums so loudly that I can’t hear if anyone stands and waits for my arrival. Not that I’m ever going to emerge from the channel. I push and shove the stone, feeling my legs kick out and hoping I don’t kick either Wulfheard or Ealdorman Ælfstan in the process. I twist my body, my arms straining with the effort. I know it’s hopeless. I could get out through the walls, but I can’t get back inside.

Only then, the stone gives, allowing me access. With a final kick and push from Wulfheard, my belly is beneath the towering edifice. My head emerges, my hands gripping the side of the stone. I look straight into the eyes of a leering Wessex warrior, and one I know only too well.

‘You Mercian scum,’ he screams at me, stabbing down with a glinting blade, from which water drips onto my face. I turn my face aside, thinking to evade him, forgetting I’m trapped, on my back, with my feet still possibly kicking Wulfheard’s nose.

I should have realised that Æsc would have seen everything I did. No doubt, he was suspicious when Ecgred disappeared.

With fumbling hands, I reach for my weapons belt, even as I force myself backwards; Wulfheard alert to what might be happening, as he adds his heft to push my feet once more.

Somehow, and I don’t know how, Æsc’s blow misses me. It gives me the vital time I need to fully emerge once more on the inside of the grey walls. Æsc continues to scream at me, his words incoherent as he capers in the rain, his seax missing me every time. It’s as though he’s too frightened to get close enough to engage in the battle now that I’m no longer helpless.

I slip my eagle-seax from my weapons belt as I surge to my feet. I glimpse my surroundings, rain drenching me from head to toe, but Æsc is alone. For now, at least.

‘Why did you come back?’ he leers, scampering closer, only to veer away even before I attempt to slash open his inviting forearm.

‘I have unfinished business,’ I inform him through tight lips. The stone has slanted once more to cover much of the gap, which means I’m entirely alone against Æsc. I don’t much relish the thought of killing him. But I need to so that the rest of my fellow Mercians can get inside. ‘Why did you expect me to come back?’ I ask him when there’s no reply.

‘I told them you would,’ Æsc counters. ‘But they didn’t believe me. They said I was a damn fool and should make my way to the trading settlement in the ship, but I knew better. There’s no point trying to break into Lundenwic when the Mercians are coming for Londinium, I told ’em.’ This surprises me. I don’t know Æsc, but I’d dismissed him as unable to determine my intentions. It seems he knew King Wiglaf’s mind long before I did.

Æsc rushes me then, seax flashing in the deluge. I waver, still standing in the channel, which is slick with water. Æsc prevents me from finding a flatter surface. I can just make out the cry of Wulfheard from beyond the wall, but I can’t do anything to help. Not yet. And then I see a hand and know that Frithwine or Garwulf has been sent to follow me. They’re the only two who could still make it inside even with the stone slanted once more over the gap.

Damn. I need to get rid of Æsc, and quickly.

‘Help me.’ A pale hand emerges from the narrow hole with the words, but Æsc doesn’t notice it. Perhaps he’s not quite as far-thinking as I’ve determined he must be. Æsc seems to believe there’s only me.

I step backwards then, not onto the stone path that Æsc stands on, but instead the one to the other side of the channel. He’s not expecting my movement. For once, the reach with his seax is good, but he overbalances, trying to slice me. Quickly, I land a blow to the back of his head with the hilt of my seax. He tumbles, lifeless, into the flowing water.

I use my toe to prod him, but he doesn’t move. I’m glad he’s dead, alongside Ecgred. The two of them were the only ones to suspect me for who I am.

I rush to the slanted piece of stone and force it upright.

‘Come on then,’ I hiss to Frithwine. I can tell it’s him now.

‘What took you?’ he moans, rolling from one shoulder to another as he shuffles fully into view.

‘Someone was waiting for me,’ I grunt. I’ve got my hands beneath the stone, but it’s painful work. It’s bloody heavy and my arms are starting to tremble. ‘Come and help me,’ I whisper to Frithwine, but he ignores me, slowly getting to his feet and moving to nudge the prone body with his toe as well.

‘It doesn’t look like there was much of a fight,’ he mutters, peering into the watery gloom inside the walls.

‘Will you help me?’ I hiss. Garwulf is following his brother, but if I’m not careful, he’ll be crushed by the stone, and I’ll be stuck inside the walls with Frithwine.

‘You can do it,’ he calls, striding up and down, hand on his seax, as though daring one of the Wessex warriors to fight him. He’s almost strutting like a peacock.

‘Get back here,’ I cry louder this time, hoping the heavy rain will drown out our conversation for anyone else who might be listening.

‘Why? Can’t little Icel manage on his own?’ Frithwine mocks.

‘Do you want your brother to die?’ I retort quickly. My legs are starting to shake. As well as my arms. I don’t remember the stone being this heavy when I made my escape. Perhaps a different part of the wall has fallen, or it’s moved position. Maybe even the rain makes it feel heavier. I don’t know, but I do need help.

‘If he dies, I’ll kill you,’ Frithwine grandly announces.

‘If he dies, you’ll be inside the walls with no one but me to help you. You already know I’ve survived the experience once. I don’t think you’ll be quite so lucky.’

‘So now you threaten me.’ Frithwine rears up before me. I see his teeth shimmer in the reflection from his blade. Damn the fool.

‘Help him,’ his brother gasps from between where my legs are spread, one on each side of the ditch.

‘You help him,’ Frithwine jeers.

My left hand slips off the stone. It falls heavily, and both Garwulf and Frithwine cry out, the one with more fear than the other because he now has a face full of stone.

‘Help me,’ I command through gritted teeth. ‘Or you’ll have your brother’s death laid at your door. I’ll ensure everyone knows it wasn’t inevitable.’

‘Move over then,’ Frithwine mumbles, finally seeing the problem.

With our arms straining, Garwulf emerges with grunts and groans. Now I’ve two others to help me. Hopefully, Wulfheard and the rest of the men will be able to get inside when we’ve moved the stone. But I can also hear male voices, calling to one another. I think the Wessex warriors might just have decided to come and see whether Æsc was correct or not with his assertions.

‘We need to hurry,’ I whisper harshly.

Garwulf is standing but bent over, hands on knees as he breathes deeply. I’m unsurprised. It feels like a weight is crushing you even without a face full of stone at the end.

Frithwine hasn’t moved. He and I continue to hold the stone, but it won’t come entirely free, although we can wiggle it from side to side with grating sounds.

‘Help us,’ Frithwine commands his brother, but it’s as though Garwulf doesn’t hear.

Damn the fool. They’re both as bad as one another.

A spear thrusts through the gap, its shimmering blade catching what little light there is. I imagine it’s Wulfheard, trying to determine if it’s safe for him to come through yet. And it isn’t.

Water pools down my back, merging with the sweat there, and still, the stone won’t move. Together, Frithwine and I are simply not strong enough. It’s hard to get a good grip on the rain-slick stone.

I can still hear voices. I don’t know if they come from without or within the walls.

‘Garwulf, get your bloody arse over here,’ Frithwine growls. Between us, we’re trying to work the stone loose, shifting it towards Frithwine and then towards me. At the same time, it needs to be held straight. When it hangs low into the channel, it won’t budge at all. It’s bastard heavy.

‘Now.’ I fill my voice with as much resolve as my uncle would once have done, and Garwulf finally heeds it. He stands upright, blinks, and then moves as though I control his arms and legs. Legs splayed over the ditch, he dips down on his knees and uses his shoulder to keep the stone level. Finally, I feel some give in the stubborn piece of masonry. ‘Keep going,’ I huff through tight lips. My eyes are focused only on the stone. I almost don’t want to turn to face the interior to be greeted with the glinting iron of our enemy.

The spear remains, and now I can hear someone grunting, and two hairy hands appear.

‘Get back,’ I order, hoping they’ll hear me. If the stone should fall now, they’ll have broken fingers and probably wrists as well. ‘Get back,’ I urge once more as the stone lurches.

Garwulf leaps away, mindful of his feet. But in doing so, he lets go. Once more, the stone grinds to a stop in its slow passage.

‘Get back here,’ I’m now begging Garwulf.

He comes, but warily. I think he’s right to be concerned. The stone is massive. If it does fall on him, just like the hairy hands, which have thankfully disappeared, he’ll be crushed – toes, ankle, foot, he might even break his leg. I’m not cruel. I don’t want Garwulf to be maimed, but Frithwine and I can’t do this without his aid.

‘It’s coming,’ I quickly confirm once we’re working together again. ‘As soon as I feel it start to give, jump away.’

There’s a sudden lull in the sheeting rain. Again I detect conversation from nearby, but I suspect it’s merely the Mercians, desperate to join us inside the walls.

‘One more heave,’ Frithwine mouths through his exertions.

I put all my effort into it. My hands are agony, my arms and shoulders shrieking with the effort of it all, and then it slips and slides.

‘Move,’ I bellow to Garwulf.

He staggers backwards, only to lose his balance and place one foot in the water-filled channel where the spear once more probes to see if the obstruction has been cleared.

‘Move,’ I repeat.

Everything happens both too slowly and too fast. The colossal piece of grey masonry thuds to the side of the drainage ditch, but it veers alarmingly towards where Garwulf’s right foot remains outside the trench.

I almost can’t bear to watch, knowing he’ll either be trapped or sliced by the spear. At the last moment, Garwulf lurches clear, falling heavily to the left, the knock of his knee on the hard surface making me wince.

I can see the glint of the Mercians when I bend low enough to peer through the wall, even if I can’t determine their features in the poor light.

‘Now,’ I urge them. There’s still one place where the space is too small for them, but I can’t move an entire wall. They’ll need to work their way through the gap. And as I said, there’s no way that a rounded shield will come through. If they want them, they’ll have to rig up a system to pull them over the top of the wall.

I slump down, agony coursing along my back and down the back of my thighs. Only then, I hear another noise, and appreciate that we’ve been discovered when we’re still not a full force.

Frithwine helps Garwulf back to his feet. He’s bitten his lip in the fall, and blood runs down his chin, mingling with his weak effort of a beard. But he surprises me by grinning.

‘Bloody hell,’ he crows, ‘we did it.’

‘Yes, but we’ve been discovered.’ I point into the darkness.

From somewhere close by, I can hear running footsteps. I don’t know how many have detected us, but if it’s more than three, we’re in trouble.

‘We need to protect the channel,’ I inform the two brothers, speaking without appreciating that I’m commanding the two of them.

Frithwine bends down and pulls the spear from the ditch. It’s been thrust through and left there, while the scrape of someone coming through the tunnel can also be heard.

I reach for my seax, wishing I had a spear as well, but the grunts from the tunnel tell me that whoever is coming is doing so very slowly. They might even be wedged in place. This isn’t going to plan.

‘We have no shields,’ Garwulf moans.

‘No, but we don’t need them.’ I speak with far more confidence than I feel, especially as the gleam of metal draws my eye to whoever is about to face us. They still haven’t spoken, whoever they are. With Æsc already dead, I’m concerned with how many people suspect the Mercians are trying to burrow their way inside the imposing, if neglected, walls.

Frithwine stands to my left, Garwulf beside him. I’m drenched, and just moving my arms around the tight, sodden material is an effort.

And then, I can see who rushes towards me. I almost sag with relief, for there are only two men. Two against three should be easy enough for us.

‘Æsc,’ a guttural voice calls. ‘Stop pissing about and get back to the main encampment. Ealdorman Wassa is looking for you.’

Ah. I realise the men aren’t actually seeking me.

‘Hurry up, it’s bloody wet,’ the second man complains.

I appreciate then that the flicker of iron I’ve seen is from byrnies and weapons belts, not from weapons held in their hands.

‘Who else have you got out here?’ the first man mutters, finally appreciating that there’s more than one man and that they face him as though ready for battle.

‘Stop pissing around, Æsc,’ the second man complains.

Whoever is coming through the tunnel has managed to free themselves. The sound of their advance is audible. Metal scraping over stone is one of the loudest noises imaginable, even with the thundering rain all around us.

‘Now,’ I urge Frithwine and Garwulf. We need to silence these men before bringing more to this place.

Without waiting for them, I spring forward, seax in my hand, eyeing the pale neck of the man before me, the first one to speak. He doesn’t anticipate my movement. It’s too easy to stab downwards into his exposed neck because I’m so much taller than he is.

With a soft whimper, he slips from the blade, and I catch him. I don’t need him to fall like a stone weight.

Frithwine and Garwulf are slower. The man they face is more alert. As I silence his companion, he has a seax in one hand and a war axe in the other. He aims carefully with the weapon in his left hand, the seax going for Frithwine, while with the war axe he makes a wild swing towards Garwulf. Both of them startle back, Frithwine managing to tangle his legs in the drainage ditch, seeming to forget he has a spear in his hand. He could have skewered the man quickly enough.

Garwulf thrusts his seax between him and the war axe, and now I’m turning. It feels unfair, three men against one. Well, two really, for Frithwine is useless to me. I bend, snag the spear from Frithwine’s weak grip and plunge it into the man’s exposed back.

He shrieks, the sound like an eagle deprived of its prey. I rush to clamp my hand over his mouth as he bucks against the pain. I palm my seax, pull it up to his throat and silence him with a splatter of hot blood that covers Garwulf.

The man would fall, but I gently lower him to the ground, breathing heavily.

‘Well done.’ A voice I know well sounds filled with praise. Wulfheard watches me with an appraising eye. ‘You fight well when you have to,’ he confirms, one hand reaching down to pull Frithwine free from the drainage ditch. ‘You might yet prove to be as valuable as your uncle to the king. You, on the other hand,’ and he turns to Garwulf and Frithwine, ‘need more practice. Don’t forget you have weapons to protect yourself with.’ His words aren’t filled with condescension but rather the keen eye of a teacher. ‘And be wary of what your damn feet are doing.’

I sag to the stone floor, mindful of the growing pool of blood, pleased to hear that more of the Mercians are forcing their way through the tunnel.

‘We’ll push the bodies back through the tunnel when we’re all through,’ Wulfheard offers as though it’s nothing to be disposing of men in such a way. ‘Three of them!’ he exclaims, noting Æsc as well now.

‘Aye. This one here must have seen me leave. The other two came looking for him. Which means that, in no time, someone will come looking for them as well.’

‘When we’re all through, we’ll head north.’ Wulfheard is peering into the rain-sodden landscape around him. ‘It looks bloody different in the dark,’ he confirms.

I’ve forgotten that many of the warriors have no doubt been inside Londinium before. The place might be largely abandoned, but the fort is worth keeping hold of, even if it’s only because it looks impressive to the enemy.

‘Well, the fort is that way,’ I indicate, pointing where I know it looms in the darkness. ‘And if we keep close to the wall on the inside, we shouldn’t run into any of the Wessex warriors because they’re in the centre.’

Ealdorman Ælfstan has made his way through the narrow drainage ditch. He eyes the dead men, nods at me, a sign of praise, and bends to encourage the rest of the men to hurry up.

Frithwine and Garwulf have taken themselves closer to the wall. I imagine they would happily exit through the way they’ve come in, but under the watchful eye of the ealdorman, they dare not. Garwulf indicates his clothes, and I’m sure he must complain about the blood that covers him.

Eventually, much of the small party is inside Londinium, the shields, as I cautioned, abandoned on the far side. We’ll have to fight with what we’ve got, and as I examine the rest of the Mercians, I appreciate that they’re all fighters, not just warriors. Oswy, I know, is good with his fists, and he’s not alone. Cenred is a mean bastard, Waldhere vicious. The others all look fearless as well. For a moment, I pity the Wessex warriors we’ll come into contact with, and then I shake my head.

If they didn’t want a fight, they should never have taken Mercia’s stronghold of Londinium.