Someone else has had the same thought as me and means to make use of the abandoned supplies within the healer’s workshop.
‘Shit,’ I grunt, trying again to grip my seax with my right hand. Even a wounded man might still prevail against my left hand if this comes down to a fight. And Oswy will be no use to me. He’s more likely to fall over just by standing than confront one of our enemies.
Once more, my heartbeat thuds in my ears, making it almost impossible to hear, but I don’t move. This doorway is squat. If a Wessex warrior is coming this way, it’s better to encounter him here than anywhere else.
Now, I can hear the agonised groaning of a man. His words are too soft for me to make out, but he mutters under his breath, no doubt encouraging himself onwards. Just one more step. A little further now. I know the arguments well enough.
When the man is as close as possible without actually being inside the workshop, I step outside, seax returned to my left hand. But I’m not prepared, not at all, for the sight that greets me. Before I can stab down, using the seax to slice through the man’s neck, where he slides, more than crawls along the roadway, I recognise him.
‘Tyrhtil?’ I gasp. I confess I’d thought him dead when I couldn’t find him behind the forum.
‘Icel.’ He tilts his head up to see me, his voice less than a rasp. I can see where he’s rested his cheek on the uneven road and forced an imprint of stones on to his blood-drenched cheek.
‘I thought you were dead,’ we both say at the same time. No doubt when I didn’t return for Tyrhtil, he assumed the worse. Equally, when I couldn’t find him, I presumed he too was dead.
I put my seax back on my weapons belt as I bend to help him stand.
‘Where’s Brihtwold?’
I swallow against the grief inside me that threatens to spill.
‘He’s dead,’ Oswy calls without any sympathy. ‘He tried to kill Icel.’
The words are like a blow to Tyrhtil. I see his body shudder.
‘The lad was loyal to his homeland,’ Tyrhtil moans.
I don’t know what to say to that. Silence hangs between us, punctuated only by his groans of pain.
‘You said you’d protect him.’
I close my eyes. I don’t want to be reminded of this.
‘And he tried to,’ Oswy calls once more. He’s made it to his feet and sways just as alarmingly as Tyrhtil. ‘But the bastard tried to kill him, regardless.’
Understanding washes over Tyrhtil’s face, and then he staggers again.
‘Then it’s all over.’ His words are more an exhalation of thought than spoken.
‘Not for you,’ I urge him. I can heal him. I know I can.
‘But there’s nothing for me to live for if the boy is dead,’ Tyrhtil persists.
‘Yes, there is,’ I huff, trying to get Tyrhtil to move into the main room of the workshop. ‘Someone needs to mourn his death and tell his family, and that needs to be you.’
‘No,’ Tyrhtil insists.
I stop, stand my ground and look at him. ‘My uncle died on the edge of a Wessex blade. I mourn him and honour him by living while he’s dead. You’ll do the same.’ I’m surprised by the bite in my words and by how right they feel.
‘But—’ Tyrhtil tries to argue with me.
‘Oh, shut the hell up,’ Oswy interjects. ‘Let the boy treat you, and then you’re free to decide whether you want to live or die, but you crawled here, from the look of you. That speaks to me of a man who wants to live.’
Tyrhtil glowers. I anticipate him lashing out at Oswy, but instead, he nods his head.
‘Aye, you might have the right of that. Come, Icel, show me what you can do to cure this old bugger, and then I’ll decide what to do with the both of you.’ The words are almost full of humour, but they still sting me, all the same.
‘Has the fort fallen?’ I ask him, manoeuvring him into position to get a good look at his wounds from where he perches on another of the cot beds.
‘How would I know? I’ve spent the night crawling here, and I’ve seen no one.’
Tyrhtil grips my bandaged hand then, and I wince.
‘What have you done to yourself?’ There’s fear in his words.
‘A burn. It’ll heal,’ I advise him, snatching my hand back before he can squeeze it any tighter, my eyes flicking over the blistering on his chin. At some point, during his journey here, he’s popped the blister, and now it oozes a disgusting yellow liquid, mixed with the remaining hair of his beard and the muck he’s picked up along the way.
‘Where are the slaves?’ he demands to know.
‘Not here. I’ll do what I can, for now, and then when the Mercians hold Londinium once more, I’ll ensure the slaves are allowed to tend to you.’
Tyrhtil looks uneasy at my words, but what choice does he have?
Quickly, I move to the fire and add more wood to it. The heat springs up immediately. My next concern is water, or rather, a lack of it.
‘Stay here,’ I order both Oswy and Tyrhtil. I have to hope that they don’t attempt to kill one another while I’m gone. It might make it easier for me in the long run, but it’ll be bloody messy and probably noisy as well.
I take both jugs with me as I exit through the rear of the workshop and quickly make my way to the nearest well. Glancing all around, I seek out other Mercians or Wessex warriors, but there’s no one close. I also peer into the distance, but I can’t see the fort well enough to determine what happens there. Unease makes my movements jagged. I almost drop the jug I cup with my right arm.
The water isn’t the clearest when I dip the jug into the well, but I know of nowhere else. I’ll just have to boil it all before we drink it. The jugs are heavy once they’re full, and I have to clutch them against my body because I can’t carry them both with the pain from my right hand. They were heavy even without the water added to the weight. I go carefully. I don’t want to slop the water onto my hand or feet.
Entering the workshop with some caution, I can hear nothing but the dull rumble of the two men speaking.
‘Here we go,’ I interrupt them.
Adding more oats to the healing pottage, I also add a small amount of water. I’m not going to waste any of it. Next, I tip the contents of the remaining salve onto the wooden worktop and add more water to the pot. This I return to the fire while also hooking the other cauldron and splashing the contents of one of the jugs into it. That’ll be to drink once it’s boiled away the filth of the well. I add more yarrow and woodruff to the water and a generous amount of birthwort and agrimony. Only then do I turn to Tyrhtil.
He looks no better in the gloom of the workshop. If anything, it only makes his pale face even more apparent.
‘Where are you wounded? Other than your face and the wound I first treated?’
‘It’s the same wound. It’s opened again. I took a fresh cut to my belly.’
‘Show me,’ I demand, but I’m already fearful that I might have promised something I can’t achieve.
Tyrhtil lifts his ruined tunic, hanging in strips of fabric over his chest, and I wince. The wound that I stitched is pink and angry. Some of the stitches have come apart on the left side of his body. Through the torn stitches, I can see where his innards attempt to escape once more. But that’s not the end of Tyrhtil’s wounds. He also has another deep cut running beneath his arm, lengthwise, on his chest so that it almost meets his belly wound.
‘How many did you fight?’ I demand from him, shaking my head. There’s a lot here that needs treatment. I’m glad that I only have two patients, or I’d not be able to give either the attention they need.
‘Enough,’ Tyrhtil grunts.
‘I’m going to clean away the grime on your face first.’ It’s not the priority, but it’s the easiest of the three injuries to tend to, and it’ll be easier for me to look at him without the yellow ooze on his chin.
As carefully as I can, I clear away the muck with a piece of linen. I’ve found a sack filled with torn rags hanging over one of the shelves in preparation for such treatments. Tyrhtil growls through tight lips as I work. Then, I smear in the same paste I’ve put on my hand, although I can’t bind the paste there. In the end, I realise, replacing the yellow puss with the green paste doesn’t make Tyrhtil look that much better.
Next, I tend to his belly wound.
‘It hurts?’ I ask him.
‘Of course, it bloody hurts,’ he grumbles.
‘That’s a good sign,’ I inform him and start to explore the fresh wound by walking the finger of my left hand over it. ‘There’s a lot of bruising here.’ I’m not sure if he did that with his crawling or in the heat of the battle.
‘That’s the least of my worries,’ Tyrhtil retorts, but he winces as my fingers explore.
I’m convinced that the bruising is accounting for the majority of his pain. I also examine the other wound. It’s at least as deep as the nail on my small finger, and it’s bled a great deal, but now the crust of a scab is there.
‘Open this for me.’ I take the vinegar jar to Oswy. ‘I can’t do it with one hand. But be careful,’ I caution him hurriedly when I fear the contents will pour all over the floor.
Oswy hands it back to me. His expression is inscrutable.
‘This will hurt,’ I inform Tyrhtil.
He snaps his teeth shut, gritting them against the pain. He bucks and twists as the vinegar slides over both wounds. I work quickly then to clean them and apply the healing salve. I add a covering of moss for the belly wound because it’s easy to tie a bandage around. For the long, slicing cut, I merely pack it with the healing salve.
‘I could bind it, but that would be your entire chest, and it would be difficult to move.’ I leave unsaid my fear that both men will need to fight their way out of Londinium at some point. I can’t see that they haven’t realised that.
Although Tyrhtil is in pain, sweat streaking his chest, he doesn’t complain, and I admire his resolve. I offer him a bowl of pottage when it’s cooked and then cooled water to drink. Everything feels subdued, as though we’re just waiting for the fighting to resume again. I’m pleased Tyrhtil doesn’t ask me about Brihtwold again.
I sit on the floor, rest my head on the wood of one of the two beds and, even though I don’t mean to, close my eyes.
When I wake, it’s growing dark outside once more, and the rain has resumed. The fire is little more than embers. I can hear the snoring of the two injured men. I’m not sure what woke me, and then realise it’s because I need to piss. I scramble to my feet and move to the rear of the workshop, slipping through the back door and standing just below the thatch, adding my water to that which thunders from the sky. I can see next to nothing. Everything is watery, and there’s no sign of movement or flame light throughout Londinium. But that means nothing with the visibility so poor.
Returning inside, I flex my right hand, feel the ache and stabbing pain of the burn, and wish I’d not thought to use it just yet.
I move to where the front door should be and gaze towards the fort. I need to get Oswy and Tyrhtil to it, but I don’t know if the Wessex warriors are still battling to get inside. If they are, there’ll be no chance of escaping that way. Instead, I’ll need to return to the drainage channel and hope Tyrhtil and Oswy can fit through the gap, despite their injuries.
‘What is it, Icel?’ It’s Oswy who speaks.
‘Nothing. Just checking, but it’s impossible to see anything with the rain.’
‘Then it’s the ideal time to move on.’ Oswy labours to a sitting position. ‘No one will be expecting people to be out in such weather. I can feel the cold from here.’
I sigh with unhappiness because Oswy is right.
‘But which way?’ I ask.
‘The wall, it’s the safest option.’
‘It might be, but it won’t be easy and what if you can’t make it through the gap?’
‘Then I’ll damn well climb it and take my chances.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Tyrhtil’s words are slurred with sleep.
‘Escaping.’ I move to check on him as he wakes, adding the small amount of remaining wood to the fire as I go.
‘I thought the Mercians held Londinium?’ Tyrhtil winces as he speaks, and I can feel the heat from here. That isn’t a good sign.
‘They do, but as of yet, we can’t get inside the fort.’
‘So, what, you mean to escape back to the Mercian camp?’
‘We need to do something. We can’t stay here and wait for the Mercians. I’d have thought they’d be here by now. But it seems not.’
Tyrhtil leers at me. ‘Perhaps the Mercians don’t hold Londinium then, and I should hand you over to the Wessex warriors.’
My hand stills at his words. I snatch it back even though my intention has been to check on his bandage and healing salve.
I can sense Oswy struggling to his feet.
‘Why would you do that?’
‘You killed young Brihtwold. I can see you dead to repay the favour.’ Tyrhtil’s words are furious.
‘You have a fever,’ I snap at him. ‘You’re not thinking straight.’
‘Oh, but I am, much more clearly than since I first encountered you and Brihtwold. If I hand you over to the ealdorman, then I can return to Wessex and live out the rest of my days in some peace and quiet.’
‘There won’t be any more living if you don’t let the lad help you, and I won’t allow him to do so unless you swear on your life to keep our presence secret.’ Oswy’s words are spoken with a thrum of fury. The speed of his movements assures me he must be feeling better. ‘And the ealdorman is dead. Didn’t you know that?’
‘All I need to do,’ Tyrhtil crows, ‘is to shout, and the Wessex warriors will come running.’
I’m not sure of that, but all the same, I don’t know how many warriors remain alive inside Londinium. Neither do I know Tyrhtil well enough to decipher if he means what he says or is just toying with us in his delirium.
‘You won’t kill me,’ Tyrhtil glowers at Oswy, who holds his seax right in front of the other man’s nose, menacing with it. ‘Icel won’t allow you to. His heart is too soft.’
I don’t appreciate the taunt and the way he sneers at me. It transforms him from the jolly individual he’d been when he thought me a Wessex warrior.
‘Look, he was sent behind the walls to kill all the Wessex warriors, and what did he do? Put his skills to work healing us all so that we could live to fight another day. He has no desire to kill, only to heal.’ I’ve never considered my skills as something to be so openly derided. I glance to Oswy. I don’t know him well enough to know how he’ll react to Tyrhtil’s hot words.
‘Icel doesn’t have a soft heart,’ Oswy continues to glower. ‘He killed Wessex warriors to keep our king alive. He sacrificed his uncle to ensure our king could reclaim his kingdom from your weak-willed fool of a king. He does have a keen desire to stay alive. He did what needed to be done inside Londinium. After all, the Mercians hold the fort, your ealdorman is dead, and Lord Æthelwulf has fled. There are no more than a handful of you Wessex scum left, and while he might have healed you or started the process, it’s hardly kept you alive for much longer, has it?’
‘Perhaps,’ Tyrhtil continues to burble. ‘But will you take that risk?’
I want to tell Oswy to stop, because his seax is now biting into Tyrhtil’s skin close to his throat. I want to tell him that Tyrhtil is sick. But I’m equally astounded to hear him applauding me for what I’ve done. I was aware he knew of my actions in the fight with the Wessex warriors in the borderlands, but other than Wulfheard and Ealdorman Ælfstan, no one has praised me, apart from Lady Cynehild.
I’m also unsure about whether I want him to leave Tyrhtil alone. I did think I knew Tyrhtil, and had found someone I could count as a friend, even if he should have been my enemy. In his delirium, Tyrhtil has forgotten all that, and it’s a problem. I can’t defend Oswy and myself if someone does heed Tyrhtil’s call for help. Unease fills me.
‘Standing with Icel is no risk,’ Oswy glowers, continuing to menace with his blade. Tyrhtil has no weapon. But he sucks in air, his chest expanding, as though to gather enough to shout to his fellow warriors. The two are like old, tired bears, trying to fight with their lost strength of youth, but Oswy is the strongest. He can stand without swaying, and he has a blade in his hand.
I want to turn aside, not watch Oswy make a ruin of Tyrhtil. After all, Tyrhtil has aided us, helped me. But before the Wessex warrior can open his mouth to shout of our existence, I watch as the thread of blood on Tyrhtil’s neck grows longer and then wider, blood beginning to pool down his chest. I can’t look away. I can’t even close my eyes as Oswy cuts Tyrhtil’s throat wide open.
And then Tyrhtil’s body bucks and slides down onto the bed he’s been resting on. Oswy turns to meet my gaze. I don’t know what he sees in my eyes. It isn’t horror, because his actions don’t horrify me. He killed our enemy to ensure we lived. I’ll miss Tyrhtil, I won’t deny that, but at the end, he became my enemy just as Brihtwold did. And, there was never a guarantee that Tyrhtil would survive his wounds. I’ve done what I could, but would he have made it the Mercian camp? I really don’t know. I can’t forget that he was a Wessex warrior, not a Mercian one.
Oswy nods, and at that moment, I feel as though I’ve become his equal, not a lad just to tolerate because his lord demanded it from him.
‘Come on, Icel. We need to escape.’ I know he’s right.
With a parting look at Tyrhtil’s still form, I swallow around the stab of grief I feel, and move towards the back of the workshop.
The rain continues to fall, as though determined to drown out all sound, and that’s both to our advantage and disadvantage.
‘Follow me,’ I caution Oswy. I’ve not spoken to him since he killed Tyrhtil, not even to thank him for protecting us from Tyrhtil’s shrieks.
At the last moment, I turn back into the workshop, a memory tugging at me. I pull two cloaks from a peg where they’ve been abandoned. They’re both woefully short for us, but they have hoods that might protect us from the worst of the rain. We’ve not had cloaks since we abandoned them at the fort.
I help Oswy swirl his cloak around his body, noting the massive gap from above his knee to his feet which isn’t covered by the material. Then I do the same, and together, we leave the workshop, our steps slowed by Oswy’s wounds.
I don’t look back. I never want to see that place again, no matter the wealth of supplies it holds.
In no time at all, I’m drenched, despite my cloak, water dripping from the too-short hood to land on my chin and in my eyes when the wind blows the rain in a sudden squall. We quickly reach the well where I gathered the water, and I move us close to the exterior wall as soon as I can. It would be too easy not to see the gap in the wall through the watery torrent in front of us.
I don’t pause or allow too much extra time for Oswy to mirror my movements. We’re alone and exposed to whatever has happened between the rest of the Mercian warriors and the Wessex foemen. Oswy is wounded, although he’s shown he can still kill a man quickly enough.
As the rain blows from the east, the wall provides some relief from the deluge when we’re able to keep close to it. Still, in many places, we have to avoid the tangled ruins of broken-down walls and the reaching ruins of weeds and brambles that have enjoyed their day in the sun but are now slowly dying, if far from giving up the fight. I stumble and fall, elbow-deep in a thick patch of nettles, and immediately, both hands begin to itch uncomfortably, the irritating sting of them making me hunt for a dock leaf when I’ve regained my feet.
Not that I find one until the initial sting has become almost unbearable. Bad enough that my burn aches, throbs and itches, now the rest of my palm is as itchy.
Eagerly, I sniff and then rub my hands on three of the leaves, the relief immediate. I don’t stop walking. Behind me, Oswy groans and heaves in breath, but doesn’t complain, not once. And then finally, I’m sure we’re in the very spot where we gained entry. I recognise the pile of rocks where we hid the dead Wessex warriors, but my heart stills when I can’t see the gap in the stone wall.
‘No,’ I moan low in my throat, scurrying forwards to peer closer and closer in the gloom. It’s easy enough to find the drainage ditch, but there’s no more than a palm’s-width gap below the stone, which had been loose enough to move aside. ‘The stone’s shifted,’ I admit with defeat to Oswy. ‘It’ll be impossible to move it between the two of us.’ I glance back towards where I know the blackness of the fort is.
‘We’re not giving up,’ Oswy announces. ‘I’ve not walked all the way here, just to give up. Come on, help me.’
But I shake my head. ‘It took three of us the first time, and the gap was five times as big as it is now. It can’t be done.’
‘There is no can’t, Icel. We have to do this, and you’ll help me or, so help me, I’ll hold a seax to your throat as well, and see how you like it.’
I turn to face him. In the gloom of the low-hanging cloud, the constant rainfall and with his face pale as a dead man, Oswy looks menacing. I fear him at that moment. I’m too terrified to argue with him.
‘Help me, then,’ I urge him, bending to the piece of stone. It’s slick, and my hands slide painfully off its surface, so cold that it’s as though they’ve been stabbed. ‘Bugger.’ I hop on the spot, hands throbbing from the cold, the contact with the stone, from the pinpricks of the nettles, from the burn that has cut me deeply, all coming to the fore. ‘I can’t bloody do this,’ I roar at Oswy. All of my fury, grief and frustrations fill that moment in time as I shake my hands, trying to dispel the pain and the sickening sensations running through them and my body. ‘I don’t want to be here. I never wanted to be here. This isn’t what I should be doing with my bloody life.’
Oswy rears back at my rage. His eyes are wary but implacable. ‘Your uncle was a fool when he made you think there was a bloody choice, Icel. There’s no choice. Not while Mercia is threatened and weak. Would you have Wynflæd cower in fear once more? Would you have Lady Cynehild torn from the monastery and raped? Would you allow that to happen just because you’d rather be sheltering in the skirts of Wynflæd? As much as healing is a skill, it’s only needed because of Mercia’s bloody enemies. Icel, listen to yourself. Do you need others to protect you because your hand hurts? Grow up and get on with it.’
Oswy bends to the task, the back of his cloak all that I can see, and my rage bubbles and burbles, and then abruptly drains away when I think of my uncle’s sacrifice and of Wynflæd, even Lady Cynehild. I can’t abandon them to life under the yoke of another when I have it in me to prevent it.
I slide my hands beneath the stone, questing for a rough patch that I can grip more tightly with my fingers. I don’t even look at Oswy.
‘On three,’ he huffs and then counts, and I strain. My hand screams in agony, my back cries out in pain, and still, I don’t let go. I’ll move the damn stone. I vow it. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, repeating the action time and time again, and slowly, imperceptibly, I hear the groan of the stone grating against others.
It finally gives, and with it, Oswy tumbles to the floor. As the stone clears the longed-for gap in the drainage ditch, a surge of water trundles beneath the wall to thunder over the side of the high wall and then into the pit of murk which must be twice as deep by now.
‘Get on your feet and through the damn gap.’ There’s no compassion in my voice. Oswy has forced me to face some uncomfortable truths. I’ll show him no sympathy.
Oswy holds out his hand, and I wrench on it. He surges to his feet, lips curled over his teeth, so he snarls.
‘If I get stuck,’ he spits at me. ‘Force me through, no matter what you have to do.’
‘I’ll do what needs to be done,’ I assure him, and he lies down as soon as the worst of the water has drained away.
I see him shudder, the coldness of the rain immediately permeating through his cloak, trews, tunic and byrnie. And then he forces himself through, feet first, head the last thing to disappear. I can smell him when I crouch by his head, pushing it when he appears stuck, with my left hand. He holds, for what feels like an eternity, and then with a wet sound, he disappears. I snarl with laughter on hearing his exclamations of disgust for landing in the huge puddle on the other side.
I lie down, feet and legs as far under the wall as I can get them, and shuffle my way forward. The water once more surges around me, and for a moment, I fear it’ll cover my mouth and nose, but the stone passes over my face. I all but shoot through the channel, landing with a cry of shock into the pool of water that’s waist-high.
‘Bugger,’ I exclaim, finding my feet and wading clear of the mess. Oswy stands watching me, dripping wet, his cloak half off and half on, and the damn bastard is laughing at me. I consider punching him, but I shake myself and glance down at my shabby appearance. A smile plays around my lips as well.
‘Come on, you daft sod,’ he calls to me. ‘Time to make our triumphant return to the Mercian camp.’