It’s slow-going with Oswy. But I’m amazed he can move at all. Another man would merely lie there and allow the Wessex warriors to come for him. But not Oswy.
I’m reminded of Oswy’s knowing smirk when King Wiglaf’s queen embarrassed Edwin on that long-ago day at Tamworth, when her son was able to beat Edwin in a fight, because Edwin was purposefully tripped by Eahric. Is Oswy the same man to laugh at a young lad, or has he changed since that happened? I can hardly tell, and I’m unsure if I much care. My childhood friend Edwin let me down, staying at Kingsholm when Cenfrith and I were forced out. Oswy, for all his humiliations, has fought at my side. Mind, he wasn’t best pleased when he discovered I might have saved his life. But, for now, that remains to be seen. Oswy might still die.
Neither of us speaks as we labour, like some strange three-legged creature, towards the fort. I direct our steps to find Tyrhtil, but he’s not where I last saw him. I think to call his name, but Oswy growls at me, and I move on, uneasy. Does Tyrhtil know that Brihtwold is dead? Does Tyrhtil even still live?
Overhead, I can tell that the night is moving on apace. The moon emits the thinnest beams of light between the dark and foreboding clouds, but for the time being, it doesn’t rain, although water drips all around us. The ancient stone is pitted and filled with puddles.
I carry my seax in my hand, although my shield repeatedly bangs against Oswy’s legs, and I’m tempted to disentangle it from my aching hand. I’ve either become used to the pain, or it’s dimming. I suspect I’ve become used to it. No burn like that would heal without the correct treatment. Longingly, I think of the supplies in Ecgred’s workshop, but I can’t get to them at the moment. My priority is Oswy and ensuring he makes it back to the fort’s safety.
To begin with, we’re lucky. No Wessex warriors see us or question what we’re doing. We pass buildings that have been pressed into use once more, thatch or canvas, stretched over where the roofs have long since collapsed. We even pass the shelter where I slept after the battle to cross the River Fleet. I try not to consider that, of the three of us beneath the half-roof, I might by the only who yet lives.
As I’m deep in thought, our luck finally runs out. The fort comes into view, a black-edged object against the blueish-black of the night sky, and abruptly, I can hear weapons and someone engaged in a loud and foul-mouthed argument.
‘Let us in, you damn swine,’ someone calls, fists pounding against the small wooden door.
‘Over here,’ I caution Oswy, moving him from the weed-tumbled road so that we can stand behind the remains of a building and try to work out what’s happening. There’s a group of our enemy.
‘Bugger,’ Oswy groans, leaning against the wall so that I can move without taking him with me.
I don’t crouch down, but rather peer around the edges of the stone walls, trying to take a reckoning of the Wessex warriors there. There must be nearly twenty of them. At the same time, I endeavour to ensure the Mercians still hold the fort intact. I consider whether the ealdorman and the others have already made it safely inside. Are we the only ones stuck here? I wouldn’t be surprised. It took me a long time to get Oswy this far.
‘What should we do?’ I turn to Oswy. He has his eyes closed, sweat beading down his face. He won’t be able to fight in that state, and I’m also hampered.
‘We have until the sun comes up to decide,’ is his less than helpful response.
I’m unsure. Is Ealdorman Ælfstan already behind the wooden door and the thick stone walls, or will he appear and assist me? I wish I knew.
Oswy mumbles, the sound low in his chest. It speaks to me of a man in indescribable pain, and I’ve nothing to offer him. But, Ecgred’s workshop is near. Dare I risk going there? I’m torn with indecision.
‘We could go back to the wall?’ Oswy whispers, as before the door of the fort, the Wessex warriors, finally realising that something is very, very wrong, begin to attack the wooden door in a concerted effort to get inside. The crashing sound makes it difficult to hear Oswy’s quiet words.
‘Bugger. They know the Mercians are in there.’
‘But are they seeking out more Mercians?’ Oswy makes a fair point.
‘We should wait,’ I decide, just as Oswy says the opposite.
‘We should leave.’
‘It’s a long way, from here, and you can hardly walk, and neither of us can protect one another.’
‘We can make it,’ Oswy says through gritted teeth.
‘What if the tunnel’s blocked? Wulfgar might have forced himself free, but we didn’t remove the blockage altogether, and neither of us can do it alone.’
‘So, what, you don’t even want to try?’ Oswy’s fury is sharper than a blade.
‘I didn’t say that. The ealdorman might appear any moment now.’
‘He might yes, or he might be inside the fort, and we can’t get beyond our foemen. Listen to them?’
Our enemy is howling at the Mercians inside the fort. I hope Go∂eman has a firm hand on the Mercians he has command over. If not, they might just do something that would see us all die.
‘We can go to the healer’s workshop,’ I offer as an alternative. ‘At least from there, I can get some medicine to ease our pain. We can continue to the wall thereafter if we need to do so.’
Oswy’s nose wrinkles in disgust at the suggestion, but then three more Wessex warriors run past us, on the way to joining their comrades, their weapons waving angrily, and he relents. ‘Get me there, and get me something so that I can at least fight without feeling every bloody throb of agony through my chest.’
I open my mouth to tell him he’s not the only one in pain, but I snap it shut again. I’m not about to argue with him about who’s in the most pain. As Wynflæd told me, every man and woman feels it differently, and it’s not for me to belittle the child who sobs from a broken leg while a man weeps and wails from a splinter in his finger.
‘Let me help you.’ Once more, we move as though a strange three-legged creature, and one that scuttles amongst the ancient ruins.
First, we need to cross the expanse where the Wessex warriors just ran. The movement reminds me too much of when we needed to evade our enemy when Edwin, Cenfrith and I were on the borderlands between Mercia and the Welsh kingdoms. A stab of sorrow for all I’ve lost since then almost makes me sob, distracting me from my throbbing hand.
While Oswy looks towards the fort, I gaze into the dark reaches of Londinium, and when we’re both convinced no one will see us, we skitter across the road and hunker down behind a squat building. Thin tendrils of smoke escape through the roof, assuring me that it was recently occupied.
Our progress is painfully slow. I wish, more than once, that we could have made it inside the fort. I feel exposed from all sides, and I don’t believe that Oswy and I can mount any sort of defence between the two of us. He’s growing weaker and therefore heavier on my shoulder, and I try to urge him to move more quickly, but it only makes him go slower and slower.
I allow him to rest as frequently as I can so that I can recover.
Whatever is happening at the fort fades slowly into the background. I concentrate only on moving forwards, on reaching our destination. Then, when it’s in sight, I realise my mistake. There’s no one inside the workshop now. There’s no fire for me to mix a potion to give us both strength. There’s no one to help me grind and cut the herbs I need. And, there’s no bloody great big door to ensure the Wessex warriors won’t come for us to finish the job they’ve started on Oswy.
But Oswy is beyond caring by now.
I cry with relief when I can finally allow Oswy to lie down once more. His entire body shudders, and I can see that tendrils of blood are oozing from his wound. It must hurt like a bastard.
I turn to the empty hearth, noting that there are logs and pieces of kindle to start a fire but no means of doing so. I need hot water and heat, but I won't be getting any unless I run back towards one of the temporary shelters the Wessex warriors have used. And I’m not prepared to leave Oswy to fend for himself. It’s too apparent, to my eyes at least, that he’s a Mercian, and it’s not just the weapons he holds with their eagle emblems on handle and hilt, pommel cap and sword buttons.
I lift my hand with the shield still attached to it and fiddle with the leather thong, but the damn thing has become twisted and holds my wrist in its grip. Wishing I had something better than my left hand to perform the delicate task, I cut away the leather ties and look at my burn. It’s too dark to make out much detail, and I’m grateful for that.
‘Here.’ Oswy fumbles with something on his weapons belt and hands it to me. ‘You do know how to use it, don’t you?’ he asks, and I nod. I do know how to use a striking stone, not that something made of iron should be termed a stone.
All the same, I eagerly bring forth a spark by rubbing the two ends one over another, and the flame quickly transfers from my hands to the kindling and then to the wood itself.
Ideally, I’d like to take the time to rest, but I feel too exposed. I turn to the supplies on display and reach for items I need for a healing wound and a healing pottage. I’m hungry and growing weaker the longer I delay eating.
I place oats and some water left in a jug on the side into one silvered cauldron. I sniff it and then swallow it. It’s not fresh, but dead flies don’t pollute it. It’ll have to do. Then I reach for more items: garlic, nettles, yarrow and wild carrot. My hands skitter over the jars, opening lids with my left hand as I cradle the jars close to my chest with my right arm. It’s slow and painful work, and that’s before I’ve even thought to cut the herbs and leaves to the required size.
Oswy snores softly from the corner, and while he sleeps, I examine his wound. When he’s still and unmoving, other than for breathing, the injury seems well enough, but I can see where blood leaks from a section I’ve not sealed shut with the heat of my seax. I could stitch it closed, but I can’t thread the needle, not with my right hand so unresponsive.
I stir the cauldron with the oats and add garlic leaves, unchopped, and nettles. I can’t cut them any smaller, so I add many more than I usually would. I hope the goodness will be released from the leaves as I purposefully try to crush them with the wooden spoon I use.
Next, I look for vinegar. It’ll sting, but I need it to clean my hand and Oswy’s wound. There’s a whole host of jugs of assorted sizes, and, of course, the one I need is firmly sealed with a plug of moss, and no matter what I do, I can’t pull the plug loose.
‘Bugger,’ I complain, foiled in my attempts while Oswy sleeps. If he were awake, he’d be able to pull the plug away, but I can’t.
By now, and with some encouragement, for the wood doesn’t wish to burn well, I have some warm water in another silvered cauldron, hanging over the fire thanks to the wooden and metal contraption above it, from which chains hold the pots in place. I move it aside and splash some of it into a wooden bowl. Returning the cauldron to the heat, I add the yarrow and woodruff and two fat dandelion leaves that are just starting to curl. Again, I can’t cut the herbs as small as I want to. I opt for quantity over quality.
I crush woodruff, lily and brooklime into a paste with the spoon and only then, hesitantly, and knowing it will hurt, do I place my right hand into the wooden bowl of cooling water. I gasp at the shudder of pain and blink back tears. I might have thought I burned my hand badly last time when I endeavoured to heal Cenfrith, but this time, I’ve done far more damage. I judder, cold sweat breaking out on my forehead, and still, I hold my hand beneath the water. I need it to be as clean as possible before binding it with the poultice.
Using my left hand instead of my right, it’s challenging to carry out all the tasks. I feel awkward and clumsy. Lifting my hand clear from the water, I move closer to the fire and examine the welts in the light of the flame. I gasp at the sight. Where before, the image of Mercia’s eagle had transferred faintly from the copper wire twisted around the hilt of my seax, this time, it seems to have burned even deeper. It’s easy to make out the beak, the single, staring eye. I try to clench my fist, but that makes me sweat once more.
I turn aside, keen to pack the wound with the poultice I’ve made. I coat the palm of my hand with the slick substance. I’ve no butter to use, but I’ve made use of something else in one of the jars, which I suspect to be the oil from crushed flowers. It almost does the same job as the butter.
Carefully, I bind my hand with a clean-looking piece of linen and only then do I stir the cauldron once more, my stomach growling as the rich smell of garlic washes over me.
I pull it away from the heat of the fire, leaving the other cauldron with the salve in it to bubble and boil. Once it’s done, I’ll also add some of the oil to it, and then I’ll be able to apply it to Oswy’s wound. All the time, I’m alert to any noise coming from outside. Surely, I think, someone will notice that the workshop is being used once more.
The flames from the fire concern me most, and it’s a relief when the darkness of night gives way to the grey gloom of dawn. The fire will be less noticeable now.
All the same, I wake Oswy from his sleep.
He barely opens one eye as he batters aside my insistent hand.
‘You need to wake up and eat, and I have a poultice for your wound.’
At those words, he groans, and his eyes open wide. He turns and vomits. I grimace at the stink. At least he wasn’t sick on me, I decide.
‘Bugger, it hurts.’
‘Yes, it bloody will.’ As much as I would appreciate some sympathy for my wound, I know better than to offer any. Wynflæd seemed as caring as a heated blade in her exchanges with her patients, and yet she cured them all the same.
I move to spoon the pottage into a bowl, held in the crook of my arm, and hand it awkwardly to Oswy, where he’s managed to force himself into a sitting position.
‘I need to drink,’ he says.
‘I only have one hand. Give me a moment.’ If we stay here for much longer, I’ll need to find water, which will mean leaving the workshop and Oswy.
I splash what little there is of the remaining water into a wooden beaker and hand it to Oswy.
‘Slowly,’ I caution him when he goes to gulp it back. ‘You’ll make yourself sick again if you drink too much.’
He slows his drinking and then picks at his pottage, wrinkling at his nose.
‘Well, you’re not much of a cook, are you?’ he complains. It seems he expects a feast, even now.
‘If you don’t eat it, you won’t start to heal,’ I advise him and eagerly begin to eat my portion. I balance the bowl on my knee and eat with my left hand. I admit it doesn’t have much taste to it, but it’s warm and filling, and I swallow it all without complaint.
Oswy takes his time, his eyes peering into the recesses of the workshop as though seeking out our enemy. Now that he’s awake, I can tell he’s unsettled.
As soon as he’s finished eating, I make him lie down and carefully examine his wound before applying the salve to his chest and once more binding it.
‘It needs some stitches,’ I inform him. ‘But I can’t do them now. I can’t thread the needle, and I doubt you’d be able to either.’ Oswy has enormous hands. The thought of asking him to pull a pig’s gut through the eye of a needle is laughable.
He hisses and bucks beneath my ministrations.
‘Keep as still as you can,’ I advise him, but it seems that as gentle as I’m being, it’s not gentle enough.
‘What do we do next?’ he asks me, distracting himself from what I’m doing.
‘We need to escape or get to the fort.’ I’ve not looked outside. I’ve certainly not gone to see what’s happening in front of the fort. I would hope that the Mercians have prevailed, but I don’t know the ealdorman’s next intentions. Indeed, he must be considering fighting his way to the gates and opening them to allow the Mercians inside by now.
‘Which is the quickest way out of this hellhole?’ Oswy asks, the word ending on a gasp of pain as I secure the bandage more tightly.
‘Neither. We’re almost in the middle of both places, as far as I can tell.’
‘Bloody wonderful.’ Oswy sags back against the bed. I realise I’m burdened with someone too injured to move and yet whom I need to encourage anyway. I hope that, unlike Cenfrith, Oswy doesn’t determine on saving others before himself.
Around his heavy breathing, I hear a noise and startle.
‘Did you hear that?’ I whisper, but Oswy shakes his head.
I reach for my seax with my right hand and then switch it to the left one when it’s both too painful to grip and impossible with the poultice I’ve applied to it. The sound comes again. I can’t determine if it’s careful steps over gravel and stone or something else entirely.
I move to the side of the open door and peer out. My view is obscured. I can only see what might be coming at me from the right and in front. I’ve no idea if someone is coming from the left. But then I hear another grinding noise, and my head flicks to the back entrance.
‘Stay here,’ I caution Oswy. He’s sitting upright, his hand fumbling for his seax where it still hangs on his weapons belt. He’s heard the noise as well.
I scurry beyond the fire and then through into the shadowy recesses of what was a storeroom when Ecgred lived. It’s gloomy in there, the roof almost touching the ground where it hangs low. But I’m sure the noise is coming from out there.
I rush to the doorway, looking out on to the ruins. The abandoned stone flashes beneath the sunlight, but I still can’t see anyone. And then the noise comes once more, and I think I know what it is this time.