‘There you are.’ A voice cracks through the air, arresting my stomping path, and I face Ealdorman Tidwulf once more. I would have thought the king had lesser men to send on his errands, but perhaps not.
‘The king wishes to speak with you.’
‘Good, that suits me,’ I confirm, my thoughts consumed with Lady Cynehild. But before I can reach the king’s tent, I’m aware of a ripple of unease rising through the camp. Tidwulf and I pause, looking around, trying to make sense of what’s unsettled everyone. What my eyes fix on makes my heart beat too quickly.
Somehow, the Wessex force has reformed. They’re striking out towards the Mercian encampment from inside the market settlement and also from along the eastern bank of the River Fleet, on the same side as the Mercian camp. Their intention is clear. They mean to attack us, now, while we’re wholly unprepared.
‘Defend your king,’ Ealdorman Tidwulf roars at the confused mass of Mercian warriors.
Men, who moments before had been sleeping, eating, or relieving themselves, spring to action, as they reach for weapons and pull on byrnies, and helms.
‘You too, Icel,’ Tidwulf orders me.
I rush to Wulfheard’s tent, eager to dress appropriately. I have no byrnie, yet when I stoop inside the tent, there’s one there, waiting for me. I don’t know who brought it for me, but I’m not about to leave it behind.
I pull it over my head as quickly as I can with my bound right hand. It’s an effort to fasten it around my body one-handed. Only then do I reach for my seax to slide it into space on my weapons belt, on the right side of my body. It feels uncomfortable, but there’s no point having it in reach of my useless right hand. My Mercian shield also waits for me. I heft it awkwardly, wincing as a shudder of pain works its way along my hand. I realise it’s the shield I’d been forced to abandon outside the imposing walls during the first battle. I also spy a war axe beneath the shield and take that as well.
I grumble with frustration, while my heart beats as though hooves over the stone roadway. Oswy won’t be able to fight, and the king has left many of his warriors to hold the trading settlement, while King Ecgberht clings to the mint. Those men must be dead or overwhelmed, and Wiglaf will have to call on his newest ealdorman to supplement what warriors he has left to him. Edwin, the smug git, will be fighting in the shield wall. Lord Coenwulf will get his wishes, for the king won’t be able to go back on a promise once the warriors from Kingsholm have fulfilled theirs. Of course, it all depends on the Mercians being victorious. I’m not sure that will happen.
As I emerge from inside the tent, a sense of panic shrouds me. I’m not alone. There’s no order to the onward rush of armoured men. I watch as two men collide rounding a tent from opposite sides, the one only just missing the other with his drawn seax. This attack has come from nowhere. Has Lord Æthelwulf taken advantage of the Mercians’ belief in their success, and now means to snatch it from them? I can think of no other means by which the Wessex warriors have managed to reform. I do find it interesting that they march north, close to the walls, but that they don’t erupt from inside the fort itself. That gives me some hope that the men I left behind still live.
I thrust my helm onto my head and join the rush of men to where Ealdorman Tidwulf has taken command of the king’s forces. I don’t know where the king is.
‘Form up, men,’ Tidwulf orders from in front of the line of defences that the guards have been watching, and through which Oswy refused me admittance days ago.
Ahead, the ground lies hard and barren, the sun nothing more than a pale glimmer on the horizon. The only warmth to be found on this field of slaughter will be from the blood that’s shed in a few short moments.
‘Ealdorman Muca has the left, the king the right, and we fight in the middle. Now shield wall.’ Tidwulf leaps back into the line of advancing men, his intention of joining the battle clear to see.
I cast a final, hopeful look at the grey-walled fort. Surely, if the Mercians inside live, they’ll see what’s happening and add their strength to the Mercian defence. But I see no sign of movement and the gate remains closed. Instead, I focus on not slipping or tripping over the rugged ground filled with dying tufted grasses.
I can see what Ealdorman Tidwulf hopes to accomplish. He wants to ensure that the advancing Wessex force on the eastern side of the river can’t make it to the bridge. King Wiglaf made it clear he believed the Wessex king done for, unless he received reinforcements. Now, it seems, those reinforcements have arrived. If not exactly in the most helpful of places.
If we hold the Fleet bridge, then the two Wessex forces can only join together if the one risks the menacing surface of the dark river. I don’t know how deep it runs, but it’ll mean a cold swim, of that I’m sure.
Risking a look towards the bridge, I fear we won’t reach it in time. The Wessex force is advancing quickly from the open market settlement. I can’t determine how large the force is, but there are enough to overpower the depleted Mercian force.
‘Halt.’ The cry comes just as we draw level with the bridge. We’ve made it before the Wessex warriors, surely a mistake on their part.
I listen to the sound of men filling the wooden bridge. I don’t envy them such a task. If they hold the bridge but have to fight to do so, there’s no guarantee they won’t plunge into the icy waters below them. I can feel the cold of the water against my knees.
‘Hold.’ Ealdorman Tidwulf’s words crack like thunder.
I ready myself. I’m not in the first line of the shield wall and not even the second. I’ve been too slow for that honour.
The fort is closer now, but I can’t see more of Lundenwic than the smoke that scurries into the sky from fires burning there. They might be from hearths. I just don’t know. Everything else is lost from my sight.
I turn to face the men who surround me. I recognise some of them, and it takes me a moment to remember where from because they aren’t men who lived at Tamworth. Only then do I glimpse Edwin’s pale, sweating face, and I remember. These are the warriors from Kingsholm. They seemed a fierce bunch when I was in Kingsholm, but that was before I fought the Raiders, the men of Wessex, and watched my uncle bleed before my eyes. Perhaps they aren’t quite so fierce after all.
I look away. I don’t want Edwin to know we fight so closely together. This is his first real engagement. I hope he lives through it, even though our conversation was less than friendly before.
‘Hold.’ Tidwulf’s voice fractures the air one more time. Although I’m not in the first two lines of the shield wall, I keep hold of my shield, having looped my hand through the strap. I have a spear, thrust into my hand by one of Tidwulf’s warriors, distributing the equipment along the rear of the shield wall.
I know what I’m to do with it when the time comes, even if I lack all skill with the long, thin weapon. I suppose it takes little ability just to jab and stab with it, and that’s all I’ll be able to manage with my left hand.
No sooner have I checked my grip on the weapon, I hear a shriek from close by, and the Wessex warriors on the eastern side of the Fleet crash into the front of the shield wall.
I can hear little but dip low, keen to weave the spear through the legs of my fellow warriors and pierce one of the Wessex foemen with it.
The shield wall heaves forward, an initial success against the Wessex force, but it leaves me behind, crouching low. I rush to rejoin it, only for the whole thing to surge backwards. I’m forced to dash back or risk being crushed by my comrades.
I wait this time, eager to see what will happen now that some sort of middle ground has been reached. Will the Wessex warriors come at us once more or merely hold, hoping against hope that the bridge that divides them will quickly fall? Do they expect their king to tackle the Mercian warriors blocking the bridge?
I can hear the murmur of voices, the growl of a Wessex warrior, perhaps Lord Æthelwulf in overall command, the words rolling compared to mine.
Weapons clash, shields hammer one another. Now I risk bending again, as do others at the rear of the shield wall, and thread the wooden haft through the tangle of legs. I can see where others are doing the same on the Wessex side. I thrust and stab, aiming for what little I can see of feet and legs.
I draw my weapon back, relishing the slash of maroon that mars the blackened blade, and then I stab forwards with it once more. I can feel that the men at the front of the shield wall are doing well. Their movements are quick. Elbows rearing backwards and jabbing forwards. Blades flash. I begin to believe we’ll win the fight easily.
Only then I feel something heavy hit the ground in front of me. A Mercian warrior, and then another. I rush forwards, desperately untangling my right hand as I go, throwing it to the ground and reaching for the shield held overhead by the second line of warriors. I drop my spear to grip the shield tightly with my left hand, allowing the man who’s been holding it to fill the gaping void in the shield wall. Others hasten to do the same. One of the warriors from Kingsholm, his name evading me for now, stands beside me. He bends his head, arms thrust upwards to hold the shield, and I can tell he’s done this many times before.
It gives me some much-needed confidence.
Beneath my feet, the wounded try to drag themselves away if they can. Hands reach out for them, and some of the men stand easily, angered to have been flattened in such a fashion. One fights his way back to the front, furiously surging through those who’ve taken his place. But the man beneath my feet is motionless. I fear for him, with the bloom of burgundy leaking beneath his belly.
‘Move him,’ I call, hoping someone from behind will hear me, but the body stays where it is, all eyes focused to the fore, as the same happens between the two shield walls somewhere else along the line. We hold this time, better prepared for it.
‘Buggers,’ a voice beside me cries.
I don’t know what he means, but curiosity makes me look up and around the rim of the shield, and I see it. Atop some of the shields to my left, warriors stand. The Wessex men have run along their own side’s shields and now stab down into the Mercian line with spears. As I watch, head extended to see in the small gap between my shield and the one over my head, one of the men falls backwards, tumbling into the mass of his allies. A Mercian must have stabbed upwards with his spear, skewering our foeman high on his thigh.
‘Ware,’ Ealdorman Tidwulf calls, his cry taken up by others, as our enemy redouble their efforts to get through our line. More and more of the Mercians are screaming now, shouting their denial.
The ground is rapidly turning sodden beneath my feet and so much blood.
And then the man before me staggers backwards, knocking aside my weak grip on the shield.
I rush into the gap as he vomits noisily behind me. A seax is embedded in his neck, and he won’t live to continue the fight.
I brace my feet on the slick surface. They slide a little and then hold. Glancing to either side, I check the two men who support me. To my left is one of the men from Kingsholm, to my right, Wulfgar. He chuckles on meeting my surprised eyes.
‘Sometimes, it’s better to be fat,’ he quips.
‘It is,’ I confirm, my thoughts turning to Ealdorman Ælfstan and Wulfheard. Where are they?
But I’ve no time for such thoughts. The shield pressing against mine seems to grow ever heavier. I feel the strain in my already tired arm. I meet the pressure, weight for weight, body tense, just in case the Wessex scum decides to play me for a fool. I refuse to fall beneath his shield. I can sense a blade coming towards me, but it’s to the side of Wulfgar, and he spies it just as quickly as I do. Using his right hand, he drives down with his seax, and the gloved hand judders, flinging open so that the seax thuds to the floor. I kick it aside. I don’t want to trip on it later.
‘My thanks,’ I call to Wulfgar, but there’s no time. For now, the Kingsholm warrior is, in turn, threatened. The enemy hand is lower than the one that tried to stab me. I know I’ll struggle to hit it if I do what Wulfgar has just done, instead jabbing my shield-holding elbow at the hand. But the grip only tightens, perhaps sensing victory. ‘Arse,’ I exclaim, knowing it hasn’t been enough.
Luckily, the warrior behind me has seen the problem. He reaches out and grips our foeman’s wrist, pulling him closer and closer. I feel the enemy shield butt up even more firmly against mine. I hold my place even though there’s less and less room. As my fellow warrior forces the hand higher, I reach across and slice just below the elbow with my seax. Blood fountains into the air. I snap my mouth shut, closing my eyes as well so that his blood won’t blind me.
When I open my eyes once more, the stubby arm’s gone, but I feel fingers on my foot. I shout, thinking I’m under attack, only to see the gloved hand, gore flooding from the severed wrist. I boot it aside, grimacing at the sight of such a terrible wound.
The two sides seem to be in a stalemate. I worry the Wessex warriors are waiting for the bridge to fall, for King Ecgberht to reinforce them from the western side. If that happens, the Mercians will be outnumbered. I’m not sure by how many but, certainly, enough to make a victory possible. All these Mercians will have died, and King Ecgberht will still be in control of Londonia.
Wulfgar snarls beside me. I risk looking at him and see a seax blade perilously close to his belly, while at the same time, a long spear attempts to trip him. I stamp down, holding the spear in place, allowing him to focus on the seax. He stretches out once more, pulling the rest of the warrior towards him, and a crack of fracturing wood rings from behind his shield. He grimaces. I steady myself for what will come next. I hold my shield firm, not allowing the shoving and thrusting to dislodge my feet.
Wulfgar grins at me, blood dripping from his teeth. ‘Ready, you little shit,’ he taunts.
‘Do it,’ I explode.
Wulfgar lowers his shield, exposing the black and white wyvern shield that faces him. It’s no longer flat but rather concave, held together more by the hand gripping the leather strap than anything else. Wulfgar slashes through the strap, and as I keep my enemy at bay, I jab my seax at the warrior there.
Defiant eyes glare at me from behind a helm, but as he tries to defend himself with half a shield, Wulfgar hacks open his throat, and he tumbles to the floor. Immediately, Wulfgar replaces his shield and presses home his advantage. I hear the enemy calling one to another, desperately trying to fill the space left by the broken shield. I’m reminded of what it felt like to fight on the wrong side of the shield wall. But Wulfgar doesn’t stop applying his weight against the shield, and the warrior I face slowly tumbles backwards without the support of the warrior to his left.
Now I look to Wulfgar, and he dares me with his eyes.
I lower my shield and stab down with my seax into the man’s exposed belly as his shield has fallen over his upper body. His legs buck, one of his knees clattering against my shield, but I keep my grip and return to my position in the shield wall as quickly as I can. My right hand throbs, but I’ve managed to wrap my hand through the strap. I can only hold it with the aid of my allies. Without them, I’ll have to hold it with my left hand and have no other weapon, other than my helmed head to defend myself.
The Wessex shield wall is compromised now. The desperate cries of men to ‘bring that bloody shield here’ encouraging the Mercians.
‘Attack,’ Wulfgar roars. ‘For Mercia,’ he follows on with, and the cry is taken up by more and more voices, Ealdorman Tidwulf adding his command to the uproar.
I feel the Wessex shield wall warp. Any moment now, I’m sure we’ll overwhelm them. I sense we’ve pushed them past where the bridge over the River Fleet stands, and so there’ll be no help for them from there, provided the Mercians maintain their control over the bridge.
I apply my shoulder to the shield, sensing my arm growing weak. I don’t want to be the reason why our offensive fails. We move forwards at a steady pace. The shield warriors Wulfgar and I have felled are eventually replaced, shields slapping into place, but it’s too late. My speed increases, the entire shield wall moves quicker, and then the Wessex defence breaks entirely apart.