They run, those who can, and I follow on behind, howling at them, as the remainder of the Mercians do. Wessex men too wounded to move lie on the ground, desperately watching as they’re entirely abandoned. A blond-haired man, his face streaked with blood, assesses my approach, but he’s too slow. Before he can duck aside, I slice open his neck with my seax. I move on before I know he’s dead, but I suspect he is. No man can live through such a cut.
Ahead, Ealdorman Tidwulf hollers for some semblance of order, but the Mercians have been cut loose, and the Wessex dead pile up. I watch as Tidwulf drives his curved blade into a fleeing man’s back. He relishes in this victory just as much as the rest of us.
I see a helmed head crawling towards the riverbank, and I rush to it. The man is missing his right leg beneath the knee. In his wake, he trails blood and gore. I stab him through the neck, and he should thank me for the respite. I suck in much-needed air, gazing back towards the wooden bridge.
The fighting there’s bloody and brutal. The Wessex host is driven mad by their comrades’ destruction on this side of the river. The king’s banner summons the Wessex warriors to their lords, and my lip curls as I see King Ecgberht, some distance from the fighting, astride his mount. It’s impossible not to know him when he wears his elaborate warrior’s helm, complete with horsehair. He has no intention of joining his men.
I think of Ealdorman Ælfstan, of Ealdorman Tidwulf and King Wiglaf and appreciate that these men will face their enemy with their men. King Wiglaf might not always have been the man to do so, but he’s learned what’s expected from him now. He’s come to know the importance of being prepared to die for his kingdom.
But all is not well. As I watch, the bridge seems to shudder. Two Mercians are pitched over the side, their cries piercing, ringing out above the thundering commotion of the battle.
‘My lord,’ I shout, trying to recall Ealdorman Tidwulf to this new problem. But he doesn’t hear.
I survey the scene before me. The ground dips as it nears the River Fleet, and there are few living men on the strip of scrubby grass before me. All the Mercians are long gone, following those of our enemy who hope to make it back to the ship I can now see dipping and rising on the River Thames. It seems that Lord Æthelwulf took the ship and used it to bring reinforcements. Why he chose this side of Londinium’s walls, I don’t know. Unless, of course… And I turn and gaze once more at the fort. Did Ealdorman Ælfstan and Wulfheard have to stop Lord Æthelwulf from claiming back the fort with increased numbers? Is that why they’ve not been seen and have been unable to open the gate? I hope so.
I hear another outraged cry, followed by a shriek of pain and the crash as a body hits the surface of the water, making me shudder at the thought of such a cold death.
‘My lord,’ I try once more, but no one heeds me, apart from one set of eyes that I know far too well.
Edwin is blood-splattered, his byrnie ripped beneath his left arm, his helm askew.
‘The bridge,’ I call to him all the same. I can only hope that the king will notice the problem, that he’ll order his men back to the slaughter field. This isn’t yet a victory.
‘What can we do?’ Edwin demands. His voice is weak. Perhaps he’s winded from the fight.
‘We can hold this end of the bridge,’ I reply, not even considering whether we can or not.
I manipulate my right hand so that I can grip the shield a little tighter, biting down on a fresh surge of agony, and then bend and yank another Mercian shield from the lifeless hand of a man who lived that morning.
‘Get another shield,’ I order Edwin.
He does as I ask without thought, and then I’m shambling over the uneven ground, mindful of the dead and dying, the abandoned blades I could slice myself open on if I fall and trip.
The Mercians hold the bridge for now, but their numbers are dwindling. Where, I think, is Ealdorman Muca? He should be here, making sense of the chaos. I consider he might be dead, along with the Mercians who’ve fallen into the river.
‘We hold, here, until the king or one of the ealdormen sees our plight.’
I’ve to hope that someone will come soon. The Wessex warriors are more than halfway along the bridge. I catch sight of the wyvern banner and know that their bastard king thinks to cross soon as well.
‘Hold,’ I call, wishing my voice sounded as firm as Wulfgar’s or the ealdorman’s, but it’s a fragile thing after everything I’ve done today.
Three sets of eyes glare at me from their position on the bridge, shields in front of them, seaxes ready should one of the Wessex warriors make a run for it. They hold contempt for my feeble efforts.
‘Do you see anyone else coming to help?’ I demand from them. ‘Anywhere?’
King Wiglaf has held back. He can’t see what happens here. He must only be aware of the victory over the reinforcements.
‘Do what you can,’ one of them mutters to me, his expression fierce behind his helm. He turns back to face the seemingly unstoppable Wessex assault.
‘Stand with me,’ I inform Edwin. The bridge is only just wide enough for a horse to cross. Two of us can easily block it, provided we hold our position.
‘It won’t work,’ Edwin argues. His face is twisted in fear.
‘It bloody has to.’ I broker no argument. ‘If King Ecgberht reaches this side of the river, we’ll never reclaim Londonia, not with the numbers we have.’
I think Edwin will argue with me, but instead, he nods, just the once, and kicks aside a muddy ball of grass to make room for his feet.
I can feel the bridge moving, the Wessex warriors no doubt making a run for it. I force my shoulder into the one shield, the other wedged beneath it. Edwin does the same, and the four shields just about cover the expanse. But, we have only one hand for weapons between us, and I can feel the coldness from the river wrapping itself around my feet. We’re exposed.
And then the onslaught begins.
The first blow against my shield sees me waver, almost slip. Luckily, my foot digs deeply into the gravel left on this side of the pathway, no doubt forced there by a cart or some such. I hold my place. I can’t risk looking around to see if any aid is coming. I must endure until it does.
Edwin jumps back from his shield, the force of the blow against him making his eyes open wide, and a roar of fear erupt from his throat.
‘Let us through,’ a voice begs, but I shake my head. The Mercians will have to give their lives to retain the bridge. If we yield, the Wessex warriors will be through and racing towards King Wiglaf.
‘Hold,’ I urge Edwin through tight lips.
He makes no reply.
I look upwards. A war axe appears over the shield rim, one I’m powerless to dislodge. If I reach up, the shields will give way. I hold my head lower, refusing to acknowledge the Wessex banner that flutters at the corner of my vision.
I’ll not allow that banner to cross this bridge.
Another war axe crashes through the shields, through the one held in place by my other shield. It misses me, but there’s space through which the Wessex warrior can see, and they can see nothing. Who then must they think prevents them from crossing? Do they realise it’s no more than two boys?
I hold firm, the pressure on the shields to part so intense all of my body aches from the efforts. I feel ragged and broken, everything hurts, but that doesn’t matter. I’m only one person, but I must do everything I can for Mercia. If my uncle gave his life to Mercia, then so can I.
Another war axe thunders into the shield held by Edwin. I catch a flash of the blade and then close my eyes as splinters of wood fly through the air. We might be holding them at the moment, but I know we can’t do so indefinitely. Edwin must realise the same. His eyes lift to meet mine, and they say more than our angry words did earlier that day.
If we should die here, then we’ll both have met our fate as warriors of Mercia. I hope that my uncle would be proud of me, that Lady Cynehild will not be too angry with me, that Wynflæd will not mourn for me too deeply.
Our temporary structure shudders, and although I can’t see, I’m sure there must be horses on the bridge. No doubt they mean to use their horses as a battering ram to force Edwin and me aside.
A seax stabs through the shield. I feel it grating over my helm, and I’m grateful to have such protection on me. Now a spear slides between my legs, turning and twirling, and it’s impossible not to fixate on it, even though I can’t move my feet without fear of slipping.
A clang of iron on iron, and Edwin’s helm falls backwards, exposing his forehead and his bewildered eyes, but still, he holds.
The spear hooks my foot, the hilt pulling on me, but I keep my place until the spear slices through the leather of my boot and leaves a scorching burn mark in its wake.
Tears fall down my cheeks now. I might want to be remembered as a warrior of Mercia, but I’m no more than a child. Wiser heads than mine should have realised what was happening. Why did they leave it to me?
‘Stand aside.’ Wulfgar’s booming words startle me. His shield crashes into the place where the gap has formed. He stinks of blood and sweat, but at least he’s seen the problem. ‘Hold,’ he informs me.
I feel more and more of Mercia’s warriors falling into place behind me. One after another, after another, shields and seaxes ready in hands. And then I hear a sound I never thought to hear again.
‘For Mercia.’ Through the mass of men comes the command of Ealdorman Ælfstan, and he isn’t far behind.
I meet his eyes, and he grins at me.
‘Sorry it took us so long,’ he bellows. ‘We had some Wessex scum to hold at bay.’ His words are filled with good cheer, and they embolden me. If Ealdorman Ælfstan can hold against so many of our enemy, then so can I. I redouble my effort to keep the shield in place.
And Ealdorman Ælfstan doesn’t come alone. I catch sight of the other Mercians who braved the drainage channel and who I feared lost on the edge of a Wessex blade: Go∂eman, Cenred, Osmod, Landwine, Waldhere, Kyre, Maneca and Æthelmod. Even Frithwine and Garwulf.
The Wessex warriors, no doubt aware that the Mercian shields have been reinforced, redouble their efforts to get across the bridge. I can hear the sound of spears being thrown, the whooshing loud in my ears. The cries from across the bridge suddenly increase in volume. While I expect hooves to be used against the shields, the sound of hooves on wood leads me to believe they’re going the other way.
‘Hold men, hold.’ King Wiglaf’s voice, joining Ealdorman Ælfstan’s, renews the Mercians’ resolve. We push, and we shove. At one moment, I think I’ll fall beneath the crush of Mercian feet, only for Ealdorman Ælfstan to haul me upright, his grip fierce. His eyes rake me in, perhaps noting wounds I’ve gathered, while I watch him. His cheek is bloodied, although the blood is old and scabbed. I consider what other wounds he carries even as the remainder of the Mercians rushes across the bridge, chasing down the Wessex warriors. I gasp air into my tight chest and peer at where the Wessex banner is leading the retreat.
I think they’ll retake Lundenwic, but then I catch sight of more warriors carrying the eagle banner and know that there’s no means of escape that way, not through the tightly packed streets of the trading settlement.
Abruptly, five mounted Wessex warriors veer away from the rest of the men. Unheeding of the men they crush in their wake and eagerness to escape, they encourage the horses to move faster and faster. King Ecgberht means to flee by any means necessary.
‘My lord.’ I point and call to Ealdorman Ælfstan.
‘My Lord King,’ Ælfstan quickly shouts in turn, and Wiglaf turns to face him, little more than his eyes visible beneath his shimmering warrior’s helm.
He follows where Ælfstan indicates, and I see the distaste in his eyes. My uncle told me that King Wiglaf was craven, but he’s since proved otherwise. Whether he fled the battlefield or not when first faced with King Ecgberht of Wessex no longer matters. He fights with his warriors now.
‘Bastard.’ The word echoes on the lips of us all.
‘Catch him,’ the king roars.
Now every eye is on the retreating figure of King Ecgberht, and the words have two effects. The Wessex warriors howl with fear. The Mercian warriors with outrage and derision.
‘Get the horses,’ Ælfstan calls to me.
I seek out Edwin before I dash away, but I can’t see him amongst the carnage of the attack.
My lip sours when I race closer to the encampment and spy Ealdorman Sigered, sitting proudly on his black mount, his eyes on the action before him, even if his hand is nowhere near his seax or sword.
‘The horses,’ I puff, his horse walking backwards as I rear up before it.
‘What?’
‘The Wessex king means to escape,’ I point, even as I rush onwards, crashing through the abandoned tents and canvases, skipping high to avoid hempen ropes keeping the temporary dwellings upright.
I spy Theodore, watching from the tent’s doorway he now commands. His eyes are narrowed. Does he sense the victory or the impending doom? I wish I knew.
‘He means to escape,’ I bellow at him, the words drifting behind me, hanging still while I plough onwards.
Abruptly, I pull up, seeing the horses arranged before me. How many should I take? How will I know whose animal belongs to whom? And then Brute is before me, eyes blazing, and I smirk to see him, pawing the ground, ready and waiting.
Eagerly, I go to mount. I have no saddle or reins, they’re in my tent, but one of the stablehands has seen me.
‘My lord?’ he calls, and I smile.
‘I’m no one’s lord. Bring me Ealdorman Ælfstan’s horse and nine other beasts, saddled and ready to gallop.’
The youngster offers me a toothy grin and goes to release the reins of the horses who have been made ready. I realise the ealdorman’s horse isn’t amongst them, but another of the stablehands rushes through the herd of horseflesh and brings one animal towards us. I pause.
‘I have time to get my saddle,’ and I turn, thundering back to my canvas, breathless with my haste. Already I can imagine King Ecgberht being too far away to catch, and yet, we’ll accomplish nothing without horses.
With my saddle held clumsily against my chest by my left hand, I rear up and dash back the way I came. Brute waits for me, head bowed, and he takes the saddle, the bit and the harness without argument, although the stablehand has to assist me with the more difficult task of cinching it in place as I have only one hand to do so. And now the other horses are ready as well.
‘Come with me,’ I urge the stablehand who helped me, but his face clouds with fear. ‘Tie the horses’ reins to their saddle. I’ll not have them tripping,’ I quickly rephrase. Only then do I allow Brute his head. I encourage him onwards, giving him the freedom to gallop as quickly as he dares, jumping over hempen ropes and even over one fire spitting feeble smoke into the air. Behind me, other hooves rumble.
I hear a voice cry. ‘There’s a ship to the west of Lundenwic.’ Theodore stands, waiting for me to pass him, to tell me what I need to know. He shows no fear, neither does Gaya, who must have given him the words to shout. In fact, both of them have weapons in hand. They’ll fight for Mercia, just as I will. They must hate the Wessex king just as much as I do.
‘Thank you,’ I call, racing past Ealdorman Sigered and his few men who still stand as his guard and do nothing. Brute shows no signs of slowing when he crests the rise and the slaughter field, with its host of carrion crows and groaning men, the stink worse than blood-month. I encourage him onwards, checking I don’t rush alone. Eight of the other horses keep pace with me, Ealdorman Ælfstan’s steed amongst them.
The bridge comes into focus quickly, King Wiglaf trying to clear a path to allow him access, while the fighting has dwindled to little more than two or three areas of fierce battling. But still, that path is blocked to us.
‘Stay here,’ Ealdorman Ælfstan cautions the king, mounting even before his horse has come to a complete stop. ‘We’ll get to him.’
Ealdorman Ælfstan steers his horse down the rise beside the river without pausing for an argument. I can see how deep the river is now. But Ealdorman Ælfstan believes it’s the quickest path. That much is evident as he forces his horse into the water. The animal stands firm and then gives in to the vigorous demands from its rider. Together, they crash into the river, and I shiver, even as Brute follows on behind.
I don’t know who else mounts the remaining horses, but my ears fill with the murmur of the river, and then Brute is released by the current and rushes up the embankment. No more than four Wessex warriors attempt to intercept us, but the ealdorman meets them with his blade. I slash one man with my seax, opening a thin line of blood across his forehead, even as I kick him, and he tumbles beneath the hooves of one of the horses coming on behind.
Ealdorman Ælfstan hasn’t paused, and I encourage Brute to catch him. I need to share the information that Theodore ensured I knew.
‘The west,’ I huff when Brute catches up to the ealdorman. ‘A ship, according to the healer.’
Ealdorman Ælfstan’s lips narrow in a tight line, and he grimaces.
‘Craven bastard,’ he roars, his horse redoubling its speed beneath his feet.
I bend low over Brute’s neck, allowing him the space he needs to bunch his powerful legs beneath his tight belly.
So quickly, I almost can’t focus on anything, we skirt inside the boundaries of Lundenwic. I can see where a fierce battle has been fought. Collapsed buildings still smoulder, puffs of smoke rising into the cool air as though fog.
Ealdorman Ælfstan appears to know where he’s going. With his eagle shield before him, people who reside inside Lundenwic skip out of the way of the advancing horses, turning weapons to face the ground as they realise he’s Mercian.
I’ve never stepped foot inside Lundenwic before. Although there are clearly defined trackways, they’re tight and twisty. The houses are built almost so close together that one holds up the roof of its neighbour. It’s so unlike Londinium, I’m staggered, yet the most prominent difference explains everything. To my left, the River Thames churns darkly, an open expanse rushing along the banks of the trading settlement. The much-needed shore front where the market transacts all of its business, where there are wooden and thatched homes, where wattle and daub is the building material of choice. There’s almost no grey stone to be seen.
No sooner have I seen this than Brute comes to an abrupt stop. I almost fall, just managing to stay in my seat by gripping the reins tighter and tighter, my knees coming together over Brute’s neck.
‘What?’ I gasp, and then I realise what he’s seen. Here there’s a broken tree trunk, no doubt from one of the wattle and daub houses that once lined the roadway, now burned, so that little more than ash remains. And the sharpened stake of what’s left of the post. If Brute hadn’t stopped, he would have run onto that stake.
Around me, the other mounted warriors shriek their fear as they see the way barred and take evasive action. If not for Brute, more of the horses would be dead.
When everyone has rushed through the space behind the fallen post, Brute continues, now at the rear of the group.
I watch as the horses regain their speed, the ealdorman too far in front to catch unless he stops. And then I crest a hill and see the ship Theodore told me about. It’s not a huge ship, but already small figures scamper over it. They ought to see their king coming towards it and must know that it’s time to retreat.
I push Brute on. King Ecgberht can’t be allowed to escape, not after all the carnage he’s caused, and not when he’s gone from commanding a force large enough to make Mercia and Northumbria kneel before him to little more than four men at his back. He’s abandoned all of his warriors.
If King Ecgberht escapes back to Wessex, he’ll only live to gather more men from his Carolingian allies and start the task of taking Mercia once more. If that happens, Mercia will never be safe from his pretensions.
Yet, no matter how fast Brute gallops, or Ealdorman Ælfstan, far in front, it seems that King Ecgberht is faster still. I watch him dismount, running alongside his horse because the animal only truly slows as it thunders into the murky depths of the River Thames. The other riders at his rear turn on seeing their king safely aboard. I appreciate that we must fight them before we can even get to their king. They dismount, slapping their horses to have them clear of the coming battle.
‘Hurry,’ I shout, but there’s no one to hear me. Everyone else is in front of me, rushing towards the River Thames. I have a better view than all of them until I dip low, the river for once higher than I am, and now I can see nothing but the mud-splattered trackways that lead west towards Mercian settlements further inland.
Ahead of me, the other horses are keeping a good pace, apart from one of the animals, which has reared up and now limps onwards. The Mercian quickly dismounts, checks the animal for obvious signs of injury and rushes onwards himself, tangling the reins around the animal’s saddle so it won’t further hurt itself. I admire the warrior’s dedication.
I pass the horse, head down, sweat-streaked. I wish one of the stablehands were ready to help the poor animal, but I can do nothing for it now.
Brute spurs onwards, surging past the running Mercian, and now I can see again.
Ealdorman Ælfstan has reached the four Wessex warriors. He, too, has jumped clear from his black mount and faces all four of our enemy.
The sound of weapons crashing together is loud enough to be heard from where I am. The ealdorman holds off the enemy with his shield and blade. The next mounted warriors attempt to go around the small skirmish, but one of the Wessex men detaches himself from the group and rushes against him. The same thing happens to the next Mercian as well. Ealdorman Ælfstan battles the remaining two so that the fourth and fifth Mercians can race on to the ship.
I can see where the Wessex king watches his warriors dispassionately while shipmen dig oars deep into the turgid River Thames, eager to get as much of a gap between themselves and the riverbank as possible. It’s going to be close, my eyes wavering between the chasing horses and the ship, but I fear King Ecgberht might just have managed to escape.
But the Mercian – I recognise him now as Wulfgar – directs his horse into the river, and the animal hastens to obey, moving level with the ship. Wulfgar lifts his seax and war axe, flinging the one at the king, stabbing one of the shipmen with the other.
I hold my breath, but the war axe misses King Ecgberht by no more than a hair’s breadth, while the shipman stabs down with his oar, battering Wulfgar and his horse so that Wulfgar slides free from his horse’s back.
The next Mercian flings himself at the ship, legs circling in the air as his horse comes to a sudden stop, lending him some momentum. But the boat is too far away, and the warrior crashes into the River Thames. I hear a cry of pain, and unconsciously, I’m looking to Ealdorman Ælfstan once more.
One of the Mercian warriors has fallen. Ealdorman Ælfstan battles three of the Wessex men alone.
I spare a lingering look to King Ecgberht, but even Wulfgar has turned his horse back towards the shore, collecting the struggling Mercian as he goes, for fear he’ll drown beneath the weight of his weapons and sodden byrnie. King Ecgberht must smirk beneath his warrior’s helm, despite the fact this is no victory for him, other than that he still lives.
Dismayed, I aim Brute towards Ealdorman Ælfstan. I must save him from the three Wessex warriors. The remaining Mercians have ridden to the riverbank, and from there, they shout derisively at the king of Wessex. Now he truly is escaping with little more than the clothes on his back – such infamy. The Mercians will enjoy sharing the story of that. But, first, Ealdorman Ælfstan is under threat.
One of the Wessex men is already bleeding from a wound across his neck. But the other two are hale, despite Ealdorman Ælfstan’s careful attack. He fights with precision, none of the rage I would expect to see in a man fighting for his life. I’m reminded of how similar his technique is to my uncle’s.
I rush Brute at the bleeding man, kicking out with my right leg, and only then leaping from the saddle. I have a firm grip on my seax by the time I land on the churned earth. I twist my right hand through the strap on my Mercian shield. I ram it into the bleeding man’s head where he tries to stand, having tumbled to the ground at the force of my kick. He falls backwards once more, spread before me, arms above his head, legs below my feet, and I stab down through his byrnie. His body judders as he draws his last breath.
But I don’t have time to spare. Ealdorman Ælfstan is down on one knee, blood streaming from a wound on his exposed cheek, his helm knocked askew, or perhaps lost in the headlong dash. I don’t know. And still, the rest of the Mercians are oblivious to what’s happening.
I rush at the back of one of the men. Thick brown curls escape below his helm, and he has shoulders as broad as Wulfgar’s. In one hand, he menaces Ealdorman Ælfstan with a seax, while he punches the side of his face with the other. The sound is unmistakably wet. I launch myself at him, desperate to get him off Ælfstan. Ælfstan is bleeding from his lip as well, one eye entirely bloodshot. I can see that he wavers.
The warrior must sense me, and when I’m in mid-flight and unable to move position, he turns. I meet his fist head-on. It crashes into my chest, driving the air from me, leaving me gasping but stabbing at the same time. I lash out at his arm, his shoulder, as he withdraws his hand from me, and blood arches into the sky.
‘Little cock,’ he growls at me, but I’m on top of him, punching with my left fist and jabbing with the right, each movement agony as the shield thuds into him. He moves his head from side to side, evading my blows, and I growl low in my throat. Beneath me, I can feel him forcing his knees higher to gain purchase on the ground. If he gets to his feet, I won’t be able to stop him. Even now, it’s akin to fighting a bear.
And still, Ealdorman Ælfstan isn’t safe. I would wish Wulfheard were here, able to help Ealdorman Ælfstan, but I’ve not seen him, only the ealdorman.
‘Keep still.’ The words are snapped with authority.
I glance up to see the very man himself.
‘I can’t kill him while you crawl all over him.’ His words are thick with displeasure and pain.
I slide from the Wessex warrior’s body, tense, expecting him to jump up and continue his fight, but, instead, I’m greeted with the wet sound of iron through flesh. I choke, blood pouring from my nose just as it does from Ealdorman Ælfstan.
He’s still on one knee, swaying from side to side, as though a tree in a storm, but the Wessex warrior is dead, his head just below Ælfstan’s knee, a seax sticking out from his neck.
I take a deep breath, struggling to get enough air into my body, and collapse to the ground, violently coughing.
‘Nice,’ Wulfheard offers as I roll over and spit to clear my mouth, not realising my bloodied saliva lands on the dead man’s face.
‘Sorry,’ I gasp, but Wulfheard shakes his head at me, a smile on his pain-etched face.
‘How did you…’ he begins but then stops. ‘I don’t need to know,’ he confirms, surveying the scene before us. By now, the other Mercians have realised what’s happening, and they’ve moved back to help Ealdorman Ælfstan. But it would have been too late if not for Wulfheard’s arrival.
I eye him, noting that he has a bandage around the top of his left arm and can’t stand straight, favouring his right foot.
‘What happened?’ I demand to know. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Lord Æthelwulf returned with reinforcements. We had to hold the fort and couldn’t make it to the gate. Come, we need to return to the king, inform him that we failed and that King Ecgberht has escaped.’
‘It’s hardly a failure,’ I retort, patting my body to check for other wounds the giant might have inflicted on me. ‘His warriors are dead. Londonia is Mercia’s once more.’
‘Aye, but the bastard still lives,’ Wulfheard growls, and he makes a good point.
‘We’ll get him next time,’ I retort, tending to Ealdorman Ælfstan as I speak. I hold his head still, but his eyes can’t focus on me. He’s taken a knock to the head. I know what he needs to cure that.
‘There better not be a bloody next time,’ the ealdorman grumbles, and then he vomits all over my boots.