I manage to sleep close to the hearth, rolled up inside my cloak, but with my seax nearby. Frithwine and Garwulf do the same, although where the others sleep, I’m unsure. The smell of my damp clothing is unpleasant.
When I wake, I’m called upon by a grumpy Wulfheard, who tries in vain to stifle a huge yawn, to stand on the bastion. I can hear the driving rain thudding against the roof and walls as soon as I’m awake.
‘Stay alert,’ Wulfheard cautions me as I march from the room. I’m still uneasy after the way he spoke to me earlier. Perhaps, if he’d informed me of what was to happen, I wouldn’t have been quite so shocked when we didn’t immediately open the gates to the rest of the Mercians. I didn’t much appreciate being reminded of my indebtedness to the king either. Is he truly in control of my life now? Do I have no choices unless he makes them? Is this how my uncle felt? Not for the first time, I wish I’d known more of my uncle.
I groan, pulling my cloak over my head as I make my way outside to peer into the gloom beyond. I grimace at the low-hanging clouds. I can’t imagine that they’ve lifted all day, the greyness that particular shade that speaks of a gloomy day when it’s best to stay by the hearth and do as little as possible. How quickly has the season slipped from late summer to the advent of winter.
It’s slippery underfoot as I carefully make my way up the steep stone steps, pitted and misshapen by years of use. I can’t even see the Mercian encampment when I finally crest the last step and stare out to where I know the Mercians are sheltered against the weather. To the east, Lundenwic doesn’t seem to exist at all, although I can hear the gurgling of the River Fleet. I imagine it threatens to break its banks and flood both Londinium and Lundenwic and that where it meets the River Thames there’s a torrent.
When I turn southwards to gaze over the walled settlement and the hint of the grey River Thames in the near distance, I feel a prickle of unease. Smoke lingers in the air from the many campfires beneath the half-ruined buildings, trapped low by the rain and making the fog from the rivers appear more pronounced, but it all seems too quiet. Surely, someone must have noticed what’s happening inside the fort? It’s ridiculous to think that the Wessex warriors haven’t realised there’s no hot food for them, and nowhere to store their weapons. Unless, of course, they did all go to Lundenwic, chasing five hundred silver pennies, and their dead bodies are now floating away with the flooded river. Perhaps, Æsc and the two men we killed at the wall were the only men left alive, other than the four who guarded the fort. Maybe Lord Æthelwulf and Ealdorman Wassa cower in their hall, or have attempted to escape via the river gate.
My unease grows because, no matter what, I know that when true darkness falls, I’ll need to lead the Mercians to where Lord Æthelwulf has been managing the affairs of the fort, in the heart of the complex. And what if the Wessex warriors know we’re coming for them?
My belly grumbles, and my mouth is dry, but I don’t descend the steps, not yet. Instead, I stand and stare, willing back the lingering cloud, hoping for a sight of the Wessex lord and his warriors. But, of course, I can’t command the weather, and eventually, cold and aware that darkness is beginning to fall, I trundle down the stairs and eagerly spoon the waiting pottage into my mouth. It tastes of little more than mushrooms and onions, but it satisfies my hunger all the same, even if others complain.
‘We’re in a bloody enemy camp,’ Wulfheard growls at Oswy when his words are bitter and twisted as he glares at the unappetising spoonful of food, allowing it to drip back into the bowl. ‘Be grateful you’re not eating the bloody rats that infest this place.’ Wulfheard scratches his arm as he speaks, and suddenly, I’m itchy as well. That’s all we need, to be as riddled by fleas as the rats.
Frithwine and Garwulf look uneasy at the argument, and I realise they’ve been tasked with preparing the food. At least they’ll have been in the dry to do so, and not sodden once more, as I am.
Apart from two men still on guard duty, everyone else has gathered within the room, with the hearth at its centre. Even Ealdorman Ælfstan shares our meal. He eats with relish. No doubt, he’s as hungry as I am.
‘When we leave here with Icel, Maneca, Kyre, Landwine, Osmod and Æthelmod will remain under Go∂eman. Carry on as normal. Don’t allow the Wessex warriors in, not that they seem to want to be inside the fort. No one has demanded admittance all day long. I admit, it’s strange. If the worst should happen, and our enemy attacks, two of you should make your way to the gates and open them. Hold them until more Mercians can assist you. Whatever the rest of you do, hold the fort. No matter how few of you there are, hold the fort. I’m sure King Wiglaf will see sense and come to assist you all.’
The ealdorman’s words surprise me, and I turn to Wulfheard, mouth open. He shrugs his massive shoulders, no hint of apology there for implying this was the king’s decision. It seems I’m here on the ealdorman’s command, and not the king’s at all. It’s far from reassuring. Now I understand why the gate hasn’t been opened.
Go∂eman grunts and nods sharply. I realise with dismay that if Go∂eman is to hold the fort, then Oswy is to journey with the ealdorman and myself to kill Lord Æthelwulf. I’m hoping Wulfheard will also be included in the group. I’m not expecting it also to comprise Frithwine and Garwulf.
‘If this all goes wrong, and we can’t make it back to the fort, then we escape the same way we came in. That’s why it needs to be you youngsters.’
‘It’s to be hoped that fat Wulfgar has finally managed to free himself,’ I mutter, unhappy at this new risk that must be taken.
‘He has,’ Wulfheard rumbles, a smirk on his face as he once more sucks in his belly, reminded that he’s far from svelte. ‘He and Uor journeyed back to the gate and made themselves known. Mind, it took them a long time.’ Wulfheard’s eyes glint with malice as he speaks. It’s easy to see what he’s thinking.
I know a moment of pity for the man with the large belly. Wulfheard didn’t exactly slip through the opening easily either, so he’s a fine one to be complaining, and he knows it.
Under Ealdorman Ælfstan’s watchful gaze, I take note of the small party who’ll once more venture inside Londinium itself. Other than the ealdorman, Wulfheard, Frithwine and Garwulf, there’s also Oswy, Cenred and Waldhere. The two are firm friends. They’re not pleased at being put with three of the younger warriors. I can hear them muttering about how untried in battle we are, but, equally, those with more experience have the build to go with them. If we’re forced to flee through the wall the way we made it inside, they’ll cause problems. Oswy and Waldhere, whether they realise it or not, will have to ensure the rest of us get away before they attempt the same.
Wulfheard glowers at them, but they don’t seem to notice or appreciate the honour of being asked to escort Ealdorman Ælfstan.
‘Now, Icel, tell us how we reach Lord Æthelwulf and Ealdorman Wassa?’
‘They’re in the centre of the settlement, in a stone-built building, one of the few that still stands to two levels. We head towards the east, and it’s in the centre. It’s difficult to miss it during the daytime, what with the ruined columns that still stand, and the statues that guide our steps towards it, but in the darkness of night, it might be a little more tricky.’
‘But you know the way?’ Oswy glowers at me from beneath his thick eyebrows.
‘I know the way. During the day,’ I retort, not appreciating the disbelief in his voice.
‘Wonderful,’ he rejoins flinging his arms into the air in disgust, causing his weapons belt to jingle at the same time. ‘This won’t bloody work,’ he jabs at Ealdorman Ælfstan, his voice entirely lacking respect.
‘Then we’ll die on the edge of Wessex blades,’ the ealdorman replies calmly. ‘And I don’t know about you, but I don’t much fancy that.’
The door to the fort building creaks open, and I step once more into Londinium itself. It’s dark and gloomy, no longer raining, but damp enough that I can feel moisture on my skin even without the rain.
I gaze into the heart of Londinium, trying to pick out the way I want to go. Whereas when the Wessex warriors first retreated behind the closed gates, they didn’t venture far from the fort in the northern tip, those temporary camps have moved away now. There’s a faint glow of firelight coming from Ecgred’s workshop, but nothing else. I must assume that everyone is close to the massive building the ealdorman has claimed or at the quayside, waiting for news of the men who journeyed to the market settlement along the River Thames.
‘This way.’ I turn to Wulfheard, his eyes just about visible, although the rest of him isn’t.
‘Stay close,’ I caution as I move away from the door. I hear it close with grim finality. It seems this is it, then.
I walk like I belong, for all I don’t. I feel the same fear as when I first arrived, although having Wulfheard with me alleviates some of the worry, if not all of it. Should a Wessex warrior appear from out of the gloomy ruins, they mustn’t question my being here. We’ve heard no outcry about the men we killed when we gained admittance beneath the wall early this morning. Hopefully, that means our presence here remains unknown. For now.
Beneath my feet, the stones and gravel below the tufts of grass are uneven. I walk close to the side. It’s easier to stay on track with the drainage ditches to guide me. I sniff the air. But only when I can see some hazy lights ahead do I smell the smoke of the fires and the food that’s being cooked. The stink of men who’ve not washed for too many days drifts on the air alongside the festering wounds that need treating, or men will die of the wound-rot. We’ve reached the place where I first met Lord Æthelwulf. Any moment now, I expect the twin lines of broken statues to appear before me.
A hand on my shoulder startles me. Wulfheard’s eyes gleam in the darkness.
‘We’re not going to just march up there,’ he huffs, jutting his chin towards the lights, as though I’m going to do just that.
‘You did sort of imply we would,’ I snap, ensuring my words are only loud enough for him to hear.
‘Lead us around the back of the place,’ he orders.
I bite back all of my complaints and veer away to the left. So much for looking like Wessex warriors. If we skulk through the ruins, we’re sure to be discovered.
Besides us, there’s the ruined outline of a dilapidated building that allows access to another pathway. The colossal building and stone complex can be seen ahead thanks to firelight.
‘Watch your feet,’ I hiss to Wulfheard. I hear stones being kicked and someone’s outraged complaint of pain when they kick a piece of the original building that still stands.
The voices of the Wessex men can be discerned, little more than soft murmurs, one to another. They don’t sound victorious. I’m not sure they sound like anything other than men trying to keep warm on a cold night.
My thoughts turn to Tyrhtil and Brihtwold. I hope Tyrhtil still lives, even if he is a Wessex warrior. And then someone cries out ahead.
‘Who the hell are you?’ The voice is rough, edged with pain. It’s as though I’ve summoned Tyrhtil to my side merely by thinking about him.
‘Tyrhtil?’ I call, for the moment forgetting what I’m doing here.
‘Icel?’ he gasps.
I rush forward, unheeding of Wulfheard’s hiss of denial before I do so. I feel his hands just miss my shoulder as I forge onwards.
‘You survived?’ I find Tyrhtil sitting, spear in one hand, on a piece of masonry that must have once formed steps into the building that’s our destination, only from the side, not the front. In the distance, there’s a brazier, and it makes him appear wraithlike. In the time I’ve been gone, he’s shrunk in on himself.
‘Barely,’ he comments. He’s trying to find out who follows me, peering over my shoulders, but the rest of the Mercians have faded into the background.
‘Are you wounded?’ I demand. I can smell the stench of dried blood on him.
‘Yes, but at least I escaped. The bastard Mercians burnt us. Less than a quarter of the men made it back alive. And those the Mercians didn’t burn drowned in the ship that sank.’
‘But you were one of them who lived,’ I offer with warmth in my voice. I detect someone’s objections being stifled from the rear and know that it’s Oswy.
‘Not that it’s going to do me a lot of good. I should have died there. It would have been better than the pain. Ecgred is dead. I’m sure you know. And his slaves gone. There’s no one to treat the rest of the men or me.’
I feel torn. In a leap of flames, I can see the blistering that’s shorn away half of Tyrhtil’s black beard, his skin as well.
‘Where have you been?’ Tyrhtil demands, recalled to the fact that I could tend his wounds.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words gush forth. What can I say?
And then I detect a flicker of movement. Wulfheard stands behind Tyrhtil, seax held at the other man’s throat.
‘Do it,’ Tyrhtil whispers.
I can see his anguish. I can also hear the hope in his voice. Tyrhtil wants to die.
‘Don’t do it,’ I say at the same time. ‘He helped me.’ I fill my voice with calm. One false move and Tyrhtil could alert the Wessex warriors of our presence, another and he could be dead.
‘Do it,’ Tyrhtil demands, his eyes filled with my betrayal, even as he lifts his hand to wrap it around Wulfheard’s hilt as well, pressing it even tighter. Now Wulfheard has to not let his seax slip against the man’s throat. ‘It seems that Æsc and Brihtwold were correct when they denounced you as a Mercian.’ Tyrhtil glowers at me. His eyes are slits of pain. What wound does he carry now?
‘I can help you,’ I pronounce, trying to ignore the knowledge that Brihtwold suspected me just as much as Æsc did. ‘I know where the slaves are, Theodore and Gaya. I can get them to you. All you need to do is stay quiet, and let us do what needs to be done to return Londinium to Mercian control.’
Tyrhtil gurgles, and I don’t know whether he’s laughing or sobbing.
‘You expect to find Lord Æthelwulf here?’ There’s incredulity in his voice. ‘He’s gone, taken the one remaining river-worthy ship across the River Thames back to the safety of Wessex. Bloody coward. He’s abandoned his father and his warriors,’ Tyrhtil spits, his words sharper than the seax at his neck.
‘But Ealdorman Wassa remains?’ I query, shocked by the news of what Lord Æthelwulf has done. Will Ealdorman Ælfstan change his mind about attacking Wassa now? I know he wanted the Wessex king’s son, but he’s beyond our reach now.
‘Yes, he does. Unhappily.’
‘And he’s inside that building?’ I press, pointing to our destination.
‘I’m guarding him.’
‘From who?’
‘From rumours, and now, it seems, from the fact there are bloody Mercians inside the walls.’ He’s furious.
‘You’re not doing a very good job,’ Wulfheard mutters.
Tyrhtil startles as though he’ll turn his head, only to remember he has a blade at his throat.
‘I’m doing what I can.’ He’s finally removed his hand from the hilt of Wulfheard’s seax. ‘I’m doing more than those men too terrified to leave the safety of Ealdorman Wassa’s stone-built hall. They’re all snivelling babes.’
‘Help us, and I’ll help you,’ I suggest.
‘But you’re Mercians.’
‘And Londinium is Mercian.’ Ealdorman Ælfstan has joined the debate, stepping into the semi-light from the distant brazier.
‘Aye, it is,’ Tyrhtil agrees, eyeing the man before him. Ealdorman Ælfstan wears nothing to mark him as an ealdorman, and yet, Tyrhtil senses it all the same. His next words are more deferential. ‘And welcome to it as well. The Mercians living in Lundenwic are a fearsome group. I hardly know how King Ecgberht took it from them.’
‘He didn’t, not really. He holds the mint and little else.’ I didn’t know this, but I trust Ealdorman Ælfstan to tell the truth.
‘If I help you, what will you do? Kill ’em all? There’s over a hundred men still living, half of them sitting at table with the ealdorman, all of them trying to find their courage at the bottom of their ale.’
‘We’ll kill our enemy, yes,’ Ealdorman Ælfstan is honest enough to admit.
Tyrhtil closes his eyes as he considers the options available to him.
‘If I asked you to kill me, here and now, would you do it?’ This is directed at Ealdorman Ælfstan.
‘Yes.’ The ealdorman doesn’t even take the time to consider his answer.
‘Then I’ll help you. The sooner this is over, and King Ecgberht is back in Wessex, the better. Never again should he attempt to take so much and claim it as his own to rule. And if the bastard Ealdorman Wassa dies in the process, then so much the better. The ealdorman is inside the building. It’ll be impossible to approach him from the main entrance. He’s doubled the guard since some of his men went missing, Æsc amongst them. But there’s another one, to the rear. It’s smaller and filled with rubble, but you can get through with some effort. No one guards it.’
‘Icel, you stay here, with your friend.’ Wulfheard stumbles over the word he must apply to the Wessex warrior.
‘You have my word. I’ll do nothing to endanger you. I can hardly stand,’ Tyrhtil counters. It seems he doesn’t want me to stay with him. Perhaps he knows the time left to him is short, and he doesn’t want anyone to witness his death, should it come before I can help him.
‘If you can hardly stand, then how will you escape?’ Oswy barks, his words so loud all of us look around in horror, hands reaching for seaxes, dreading the arrival of the Wessex men.
‘We’ll aid him in return for him helping us.’ Wulfheard surprises me by defending Tyrhtil.
‘Fine, but if you raise the alarm, I’ll slice your tongue from your mouth and then peel the rest of your skin from your face.’
I grimace at Oswy’s graphic depiction as he leers at Tyrhtil.
Tyrhtil is forced backwards, and I think he scowls, but it’s difficult to see in the dim light.
‘I’ll do as I said. You have my word. All I ask is that Icel help me, as he promised.’
‘Then we have an agreement,’ Wulfheard confirms, his voice pitched low so that the sound won’t travel. ‘Now, tell us how to find the second entrance to the building.’
I listen with only half an ear as Tyrhtil shares all he knows. I feel terrible for involving him in this, but he hardly seems to show any remorse for betraying his fellow warriors. I can’t decide if I hate him for being so weak or admire him for being so brave.
‘We’ll come back for you,’ Wulfheard promises the Wessex warrior. ‘And if we don’t, we’re either dead or can’t come here. In that case, make your way to the fort, if you can, and inform the men who answer your banging that you’re an ally of Icel, and on the word of Wulfheard, you’re to be admitted. They’ll do so.’ I consider why Wulfheard doesn’t say the ealdorman’s name, but then realise that even the Wessex warriors might have heard of one of Mercia’s ealdormen. They won’t know there’s a Wulfheard in the group.
Tyrhtil nods, but his gaze is focused on me. I consider that he tries to decide where my loyalties genuinely lie, if I’m to be trusted, and if I can do what I promise to do. I try to offer a smile of reassurance, but my cheeks are too tight, and it comes out as more of a scowl.
Wulfheard leads the men away, but Tyrhtil grabs my arm and holds me in place.
‘If you come across Brihtwold, please don’t harm him. He won’t thank you for sparing him, but I will.’
I swallow heavily. My spark of delight at knowing Brihtwold still lives disappears quickly. In the press of what’s to come, how am I to ensure Brihtwold stays safe?
‘I’ll do all I can,’ I assure him, and Tyrhtil releases my arm quickly.
‘Catch them, or you’ll become lost,’ he whispers, and I leave him to scamper over the rest of the ragged road to where the final figure of Frithwine is just about visible. I don’t pause to look back. I don’t want to know if Tyrhtil is true to his oath or not. It doesn’t matter. There’s no choice now but to try to kill the Wessex ealdorman.