22

Wulfheard finds the entrance and beckons all of us close to him, and then Ealdorman Ælfstan speaks.

‘We move quickly and stealthily. The primary task is to silence as many Wessex warriors as possible, including the ealdorman. If we’re overwhelmed, we retreat to where we entered Londinium, or, if we can’t, towards the fort. There are at least fifty of them, and we number much less. Keep alert.’

I can hardly see him, just the glimmer of his unsheathed iron seax and the whites of his eyes. I can hear him, though, and now the true nature of what we’re about to do threatens to hold me stationary.

I had no choice when I was abandoned inside Londinium but to survive as best I could. To willingly make my feet carry me into the centre of Wessex power might just prove to be impossible.

‘The youngsters stay at the rear, but there are few enough of us as it is. You’ll be called upon to kill and to stay alive.’

This last is growled. It’s as though the ealdorman thinks it’s entirely in our hands. Which it isn’t. I frown. The words are hardly reassuring.

‘I know all three of you have the ability and the talent. Don’t let older men overwhelm you. Remember, they’re older and fatter than you are. They’ll rely on that and will just expect to win. And that’ll be your advantage over them.’ As he speaks, I feel my rapidly beating heart begin to slow, and I focus not on what I can’t achieve but what I can. I stayed alive alone inside the walls of the settlement. I was a lone wolf, and still I led the rest of my pack to the prey. I protected King Wiglaf on the borders. I can, as the ealdorman assures me, do this. I just need to believe myself capable.

I hear Oswy rumble with frustration, but this time Wulfheard speaks.

‘You were a young fool once, Oswy, remember that. I know stories about how you used to fight. It’s a wonder you’re still alive. Give them a chance, or I’ll share what I know and then who’ll look the bloody fool.’

I detect the flash of Ælfstan’s teeth as he grins at Wulfheard’s threat.

‘Right, enough of this. Let’s begin,’ and without pausing, Wulfheard turns his back on the small group and crouches beneath the crumbled ruins of what must once have been a vast doorway. He disappears, and the rest of the men hurry to catch him. I don’t want to be last, but Frithwine and Garwulf elbow me aside, and Oswy has followed Wulfheard, while Ealdorman Ælfstan is the next to go. I expect Waldhere to shoulder me aside as well, but he doesn’t.

‘I’ll go last. Watch your backs,’ Waldhere mutters, clearly unhappy about it.

I dip my head low and feel the weight of fallen stone above my head. It smells of shit and dead animals, the scent so noxious, I almost gag. But ahead, there’s a flickering shadow that promises I won’t feel trapped for long. I hurry to keep up. I try to watch where I place my feet, but I kick a piece of stone, cursing as pain stabs my toe. The noise echoes ominously. I hear the clink of weapons and know that everyone has turned to see who’s made the noise. It’s only a momentary pause, and when no one speaks, we quickly resume.

We emerge from beneath the stones. Only, the ceiling gets even lower. I’m forced to my hands and knees, not even able to bend double, to progress forward. I grimace as my hand touches something slippery and slimy. Tyrhtil didn’t mention this, but perhaps we should have realised. An abandoned doorway is likely to fill with detritus.

Ahead, the shadow dies away. I fear we might have been led into a trap, only the ceiling suddenly surges upwards. I’m grateful to stand upright, wipe my hands on my trews, and take stock of where we are.

The sound of voices reaches us. It’s not the cry of men celebrating a great victory. If anything, the sound is sullen and filled with suppressed fury. Wulfheard listens and then continues down a long stone-lined corridor, although it’s open above our heads. I reach for my seax, wanting that feeling of iron in my hand before we encounter our enemy.

A scuffing sound ricochets down the corridor. Wulfheard presses his body against the wall. We all follow suit, able to see what he’s doing in the light from a dancing fire in a room up ahead.

Someone staggers into the corridor. I hold myself as still and silent as I can as the stranger releases his foul-smelling stream onto the broken pieces of stone on the floor, only to shamble away again. He bounces from one side of the corridor to the other, seemingly insensible.

‘Blind drunk,’ Waldhere mutters in my ear, and I nod. I can hardly believe we’ve not been discovered. ‘If they’re all that drunk, this’ll be easy.’ There’s a hint of hope in his voice.

We inch our way closer and closer. Now, I can pick out single words, the thread of a conversation taking place between disgruntled men. I know how that feels to be let down by your king or lord. And it’s Lord Æthelwulf who’s taking much of the abuse.

‘Damn bloody coward,’ a loud voice shrieks. ‘We hold Londinium’s fort. What does he think will happen to us? The Mercians can’t get inside. The gate’s shut. The river entrance heavily guarded as well.’

A chorus of jeers greets the words. I take it to mean they’re agreeing with the speaker.

Wulfheard is close enough to risk glancing into the room the men occupy. He does so, and then he furiously beckons us on. I hurry to get closer to avoid the splash of piss against the wall, but still, Wulfheard and Oswy emerge into the room before I’m entirely ready.

I expect a cry of dismay, the grind of iron being lifted from scabbards, but it doesn’t come, not straight away. Not until I round the doorway do I catch sight of what’s happening, and then fear stills me, driving all thought from my mind.

It’s one thing to hear someone say fifty men. It’s quite another to be faced with that number.

Two rows of backs face us, looking to where Ealdorman Wassa stands in front of them all. He has his mouth open as though to add his opinions to those of the man proclaiming Lord Æthelwulf a deserter. But the words perish on his lips, and the men at the rear of the hall wither with the same strangled exhalation, a hearth fire providing a patch of light by which to see. The five men die with barely a whimper; Wulfheard and Oswy quick to take advantage, Ælfstan a little slower. Wulfheard kills two men in the time it takes me to make sense of what’s happening.

Ealdorman Wassa struggles to release his seax from his weapons belt to offer the words of alarm needed to rouse his men. In that time, I slide my seax into the exposed neck of a man slumped in sleep on his forearms, a board before him with two candles burning on it.

As he slumps forward, one of the candles shakes itself to the edge of the table, and I hastily extinguish it with my foot. Fire is everyone’s enemy. I don’t want to start a fire that’ll be as deadly for us as it will the Wessex warriors.

And then the Wessex ealdorman manages to shout an alarm.

‘Attack,’ he roars, the words rumbling through the room.

But men, sodden with ale, and cold with fright, don’t respond well to a sudden demand for weapons. The warriors to either side of me struggle to stand, let alone draw forth their weapons. Instead, the one man, a shiny pate flashing thanks to the flames of the hearth fire, grabs for his eating knife and turns to jab me with it. I knock downwards with my seax handle, impacting his hand and sending the weapon tumbling to the floor.

The second man, long blond hair tightly braided, lurches at me, trying to offer me a smack on my nose, for he’s a similar height to me. All he gets for his pains is my elbow in his face. He howls, grabbing his nose as blood pours from it. I stab him through where his heart should be, and the sharp tang of blood and piss taints the air.

This gives the first man, the bald one, the opportunity to escape from the bench still tangled around his legs. He jumps upwards, landing on the bench, only for it to shudder with his weight. One leg falls to the floor, his other knee staying in place, and he all but hits himself in the face with that knee as his balance gives way.

I shove him, using my bloodied gloves, which leave two imprints on his dirty-white linen tunic. He reels backwards, arms flying, and smacks one of his fellow Wessex warriors behind his head. The movement jars the other man forwards, and Frithwine is there to take advantage of his shock, and he dies with a blade through his neck.

But the bald-headed man isn’t done yet. His fingers fumble over the table behind him, and he grips a heavy drinking jug, similar in design to an ale cask, the metal rings around it look menacing in the poor light. I move aside, duck low, but all the same, I feel the glancing blow on my left arm, and a strange sensation shimmers over it, as though I’ve knocked my funny bone.

And he’s not finished. He tries again, aiming for my lowered head as I dash beneath his arm. He doesn’t have the means to hit me, not now. I stab upwards with my seax, clenching my teeth as my blade struggles against the tight muscles of his belly, where his knee doesn’t protect him, but eventually, his hot, stinking breath in my face, he sags.

‘Bastard,’ he heaves at me, and his guts drip to the floor even as he empties his belly by vomiting all over me.

‘Bloody hell,’ I exclaim, trying to rush back to avoid the foul-smelling fluid.

He smiles, blood pooling from his mouth, and dies like that. One leg up, one leg down, his lifeblood splattering the floor tiles as though a rich wine from the south.

But I don’t have time to examine my work, for the Wessex warriors are getting themselves in some sort of order. The men have little more than their eating knives to defend themselves with, but some of the more enterprising have lifted silver platters to use as shields or byrnies. The ealdorman has also managed to summon his door wardens, who come running, their hands filled with the discarded seaxes and blades of the Wessex men, while the few servants there are scream and rush the other way. They collide, a clatter of weapons hitting the hard stone floor.

Ealdorman Ælfstan fights with the skill I witnessed my uncle use. His movements are quick, concise, always intended, almost a step ahead of his foemen. Oswy uses his bulk to batter aside his opponents, while Wulfheard is more careful, trying to determine his opponent’s skills first. Garwulf lingers behind me, but Frithwine screams at the top of his voice as he launches himself at a wiry foeman.

Not that I’ve time to watch him. I surge forwards, my eyes on an enemy to the right of Wulfheard, only to be brought up short by a man who scurries beneath the table and the bench before leaping to his feet in front of me, war axe in one hand.

‘Bastard,’ he hollers, his drooping moustache moving aside from his bulbous lips by the passing of his air. The blow lands on my byrnie, just below my left arm, and it hurts. Oh yes, it does, but I can feel no rupturing of my skin for now. Perhaps, I hope, the blow wasn’t as decisive as it should have been. Or maybe, the blade wasn’t sharp enough, dulled by the blood of others.

I face him, licking my lips and determining how to attack him. I overtop him by a good head, but those around us jostle as they fight, and I don’t think being taller is the advantage it could be. If anything, it just leaves more of me exposed to him.

Thinking of how my uncle fought and the lessons Wulfheard has taught me, I jab with my seax, aiming for his weaponless hand. He has no silver platter for protection and no byrnie either. He dances aside from the blow, but my left hand is already bunching. As he moves to veer aside, I punch him.

It’s not my strongest hand, and it doesn’t land where I want it to but instead close to his neck. Nonetheless, he jerks backwards, gasping for breath. I redirect my seax beneath his underarm, and as he gargles and gesticulates, as though trying to speak with his hands, I thrust the blade as high up as I can get it, releasing the tang of sweat from his armpit.

Blood fountains over my gloved hand, and once more, I dart aside, only to knock into the back of a Wessex warrior who doesn’t even break stride. I know he’s one of the Wessex warriors because he advances against Frithwine, who fights with wild strikes and stabs, seax in one hand and a war axe in the other. I can see Frithwine’s eyes, and they’re wide and fear-filled beneath his bashed warrior’s helm. He screams at the top of his voice, and I don’t even think he’s aware of it.

The foeman laughs as he easily evades each and every strike of the younger man, even as blood jettisons from a cut on Frithwine’s chin and another to the base of his neck. This hulk of a warrior knows where all the weaknesses are on a man who fights with a byrnie to protect him. Any moment now, I expect him to stab beneath Frithwine’s armpit as Frithwine lifts his arms higher and higher.

‘Remember your training,’ I roar at Frithwine. The damn fool is doing half the job for his opponent.

To help him will mean turning my back on the enemy, but I can’t leave Frithwine to die like this, even if he and I are far from allies.

Only, I’ve been too slow, and now Frithwine is wedged in place, with the first table against his back, his opponent sensing victory. I glance at the fighting, but everyone is battling with someone else. There’s no one but me to help Frithwine.

‘Keep your arms down,’ I shout to him. I think he hears me, but it’s impossible to tell above the shrieking of wooden tables and benches being forced over the stone floor.

I jab out with my seax, a welter of blood immediately oozing from the diagonal cut I score across the man’s back. But even though it must hurt, he doesn’t stop attacking Frithwine. No doubt he’s drunk too much to feel any pain. And now Frithwine’s cries are becoming more and more frantic.

Again, I slash across the foeman’s back, my blade moving the other way, but it doesn’t earn me the attention of the Wessex warrior.

I aim at where his trews meet his tunic. When he lashes out at Frithwine, he reveals a welter of snail-trail scars on his back.

Putting all my weight behind the movement, I stab into the exposed flesh, meeting resistance immediately. I push and push.

‘Get him away from me,’ Frithwine roars.

‘I’m bloody trying,’ I grunt. If this is all the thanks I’m going to get, I’m not sure why I’m bothering and now my seax is wedged in the man’s back. I can’t retrieve it, and neither can I force it deeper.

Another shriek from Frithwine grants him a look from Ealdorman Ælfstan, where he fights to the right of me, but even that slight lack of attention earns the ealdorman a slice down his arm.

‘Use your seax,’ the ealdorman admonishes, but his attention is immediately taken up with his own foeman.

Hastily, I bend because something has caught my eye, a knife that one of my opponents has dropped to the ground. I have an idea.

The man might be a strong bastard, but we all have weaknesses.

I test the edge of the knife and find it woefully inadequate.

‘Hold him,’ I direct Frithwine and, from my place on the ground, I shuffle forwards. I stab upwards, into the softness of the foeman’s leg, to the side of where his stones should rest. Ideally, I need something to slash with, but the knife is too blunt for that. So I hack and hack, aware that, at some point, the man must move to defend himself and that I’m scrunched on the floor, my knees tight to the tiles. It’ll be a struggle to get out of his way.

I expect the enemy to buckle, to tumble to the floor, but he’s a strong man. Once more, Frithwine whimpers, trying to defend himself from the wild strikes of his opponent.

‘Bugger,’ I exclaim, shuffling back, so I have the room to swing my war axe. I aim for the giant’s knee. The blow lands with force, and his leg finally gives, impacting the floor so forcefully I expect the stone to shatter.

Although he’s on one knee, it doesn’t stop him from fighting on.

‘Will you just bloody die,’ I huff to myself. I aim the axe at his other knee, and now he drops to the floor. I catch sight of Frithwine’s terrified and bleeding face. ‘Finish him or bloody move,’ I order him.

I’ve finally got the attention of the enemy warrior, and he swings his body at me, even as I can hear the sound of his blood pouring to the floor.

‘You’re dead,’ I spit at him.

‘And so are you,’ he rumbles, showing me his bloodied teeth, as he directs his seax at me.

Frithwine is finally able to step back, the entire table giving with a tortured shriek of wood over the stone. He’s surprisingly quick to leap clear, a sideways look as he staggers backwards and backwards again. There’s a space between him and the enemy now. I harbour the thought that he might run for it, perhaps find somewhere to hide, leaving me to contend with the dying man alone.

A blade flashes beneath my nose. I swerve my neck to avoid it. I’m missing my seax now. I know how to fight well with it, but it’s still embedded in the man’s back. But we’re level now. I can see the cords on his neck that run beneath his tunic. I see, too, his bent nose, his scar-filled face, the emblem of Wessex’s wyvern which flashes in iron around his neck. I realise that this man has fought many, many times before. No doubt, he’s gorged his blade on Mercian blood time and time again.

I swing my war axe, aiming for his nose, but it cracks into his jaw, shattering teeth so that they tumble to the ground, mixing with his blood. And my war axe stays there. It will not budge, even when I try to swing it away from the gaping hole of his cheek.

His eyes flash dangerously. His seax arm aimed to strike at me. I brace for the impact because I might have freed Frithwine, but in doing so, I’ve merely trapped myself.

But the attack doesn’t come.

I open my eyes, peering at the man, and then grin. At last, the huge giant is dead, his seax arm slowly falling to his side, his eyes wide but seeing nothing. I kick him with my foot, and he falls backwards, my war axe coming free with the movement. Beneath him, it’s no longer possible to see the tiles because they’re smeared in blood so dark it’s almost black.

I suck in a much-needed breath.

‘Duck,’ Wulfheard roars.

I do so, feeling the sensation of disturbed air over my head.

‘My thanks,’ I mutter, reaching down to pull my seax loose, the force of so much blood pouring on the ground, finally releasing it.

With two blades in my hand once more, I shuffle aside from Wulfheard’s fight with a Wessex warrior who already bleeds from a cut below his left eye and his chin. Somehow, Wulfheard has become turned around. Now he fights as though one of the foemen, while the foeman labours as though he’s a Mercian.

And it’s the same for others as well. The first table, and the benches from either side, have been forced backwards and backwards so that they meet the wall that delineates the room from the passage we used to gain access.

Frithwine hasn’t run but has joined his brother. Both of them trade blows with a man of medium height who has a seax in either hand and seems to be just as capable with both of them.

Men lie on the floor, unmoving or groaning feebly, while Ealdorman Ælfstan stands back from his latest victim, who twitches in his death throes. I look for the Wessex ealdorman, but I don’t see him amongst those who fight or lie dying on the floor. Has he escaped? I hope not.

I gasp in much-needed air, looking around to see where the fighting is fiercest. For all the men we’ve killed, many of the Wessex warriors still seem to stand. I know I’ve killed five of the enemy. If the others have done the same, then we should be close to winning. But instead there are more and more of them pouring into the room, wild with their rage. The killing is far from done.