Wolf of Mercia Page 2

  ‘Are there many of them?’ I think to ask. Not that it matters, and, probably, it would be better if I didn’t know.

  ‘More than enough,’ the ealdorman confirms.

  By now, Wulfheard has reappeared before me, his eyes raking me in, no sign of Bada.

  ‘Take your cloak off. You’ll be dead three times as quickly if you try to fight in that.’ There’s disgust in his words.

  I’m annoyed. I never meant to join the shield wall wearing it. I just haven’t had time to remove it yet.

  I bend to remove the mud that stains my knees, wincing at the pain of such a hard impact, even as I reach for my tumbled seax and war axe.

  Wulfheard fumbles with my eagle-headed shield on Brute’s reins while the cries of laughter quickly fade away. The men have other things to consider than my clumsy dismount.

  ‘Remain at the back,’ Wulfheard commands me. ‘The last time we faced our enemy, they were weak and numbered far fewer. Stay out of trouble.’

  With his words cast over his broad shoulders and his helm wedged in place, the older warrior jogs away from me. I stand, reaching out to Brute, my fear making my chest heave.

  Ealdorman Ælfstan spares me a look from casting his eyes over the arrangement of the rest of the king’s force, dividing to follow their oathsworn ealdormen. ‘The king expects you to fight for him, not to linger at the rear.’ His words have no urgency, but they thrum with intensity.

  ‘But…’ I stumble.

  ‘Aye, do as Wulfheard says. Now, tie up Brute’s reins on your saddle. I don’t want him tripping if he gets spooked or has to run.’

  I do as ordered, sparing a thought for Brute. The animal eyes me warily. Brute knows better than I do what’s about to happen. I don’t doubt that he has more experience as a warrior’s mount than I have as a warrior.

  The men from the back of the procession, those who’ve walked or run down Watling Street from our muster at Tamworth, hurry past me as I finish my task and prepare to send Brute on his way to the rest of the horses. I watch those men. They have much less equipment than I do. They have no byrnie, perhaps only a spear, and not a seax, and some don’t even have a helm. Yet they’ve fought for Mercia more times than I have. Or, at least, I hope they have. I need to rely on someone other than myself.

  ‘Hurry up.’ Ealdorman Ælfstan’s voice has lost its sympathetic edge.

  With a final rub down Brute’s long nose, which is battered aside as though I’m a fly come to annoy him, I amble to a quick run, a slap to Brute’s rump sending him to the back.

  The last time I faced the enemy, I did so knowing that I could hasten to my uncle once they were dead. There’s no such impetus this time. Instead, terror threatens to turn my legs to lead, my arms to dead weights, and I don’t believe I’ll be as lucky as I was before.

  2

  I rush past the king and two of Mercia’s ealdormen. They remain mounted, King Wiglaf and, of course, Ealdormen Sigered and Muca: the two men who don’t like to risk their lives but are happy enough to urge others to the task.

  A handful of the king’s especial warriors remains to protect them. One holds aloft Mercia’s banner of an eagle on a blood-red background.

  Ahead and slightly down the slope, I can see where some of the ealdormen have taken command of the shield wall that’s forming up. Ealdorman Tidwulf is to the right, Ealdorman Beornoth to the left and, in the middle, Ealdorman Ælfstan has overtaken me and shouts orders to the men that are his to command.

  There’s no sign of the king’s son, Wigmund. He’s remained in Tamworth with his mother, Lady Cynethryth. Right now, I think Wigmund’s the more intelligent out of the two of us, for all I’ve been happy to despise him, as have the other warriors, on the journey south.

  ‘Come on, men. Take your places.’ Ealdorman Sigered’s distinctive voice rises above everyone else’s, and I know I’m not alone in turning to glare at him, mounted and showing no inclination of actually entering the coming battle at all. He might be old and lined, but that’s no excuse for not taking up his shield and seax.

  ‘Skinny bastard should get off his arse and fight,’ one man calls to another just in front of me. The second man tuts loudly enough that everyone can hear. These are the men who have no horses to sit upon.

  ‘He doesn’t know his arse from his elbow,’ another calls, and they’re all laughing. I think it would have been better had Ealdorman Sigered kept his thoughts to himself rather than face such ridicule from men who will stand in the shield wall and risk their lives for the king, and for Mercia.

  I wish I knew more of the men who are Wiglaf’s warriors or who owe their sword to the king’s ealdormen. I’d hoped to come to know them better while we travelled south, along Watling Street, towards Londonia. But Ealdorman Ælfstan has eagerly resumed my training, begun when he assisted me on our journey from Bardney to Tamworth and then to the border with the Welsh kingdoms. He’s determined that I should fight as well as anyone, even though my training’s being crammed into a short period of time, and some of them have laboured on it since old enough to hold a wooden sword. If I’m to stand in a shield wall, I should know how to use seax, sword and spear. Ealdorman Ælfstan says my uncle should have trained me, although there’s no malice in such a complaint. My uncle allowed me to follow my desire to become a healer, not a killer. How times have changed.

  During the day, I’ve been too exhausted to speak, content to allow Brute to have his head, provided that head doesn’t take me careering through the fields being harvested by the men and women of Mercia. The damn bugger has helped himself to more than one unearthed turnip, much to the outrage of those who’ve planted and reaped the crop.

  Instead, each night I’ve slept at the fire Wulfheard has chosen, ensuring I stay close enough that men such as Oswy are content to leave me alone. They resent me for being so unskilled and for winning the grudging regard of their king. Wynflæd would assure me it was all my fault for saving King Wiglaf’s life in the borderlands, fighting the Wessex warriors. When King Wiglaf was alone and unprotected, I ran to his aid when no one else saw the danger. Wulfheard lays the blame at the other warriors’ feet. Either way, I know I’m not yet enough of a warrior to have earned anyone’s respect.

  ‘Oswy’s an arse. He’s survived so many battles, more by luck than chance. Like Ealdorman Sigered, he’s learned which ones to fight in. But, now that King Wiglaf has gathered his ealdormen and their warriors together, he has less chance of keeping out of the thick of it.’ Wulfheard’s words are meant to reassure.

  Not that every warrior has the same story as Oswy. Many of them have little more experience than I do, although they’ve been training for much of their lives. Unlike me. I’ve been training to heal and comfort, not to maim and kill. The change has come over me quickly since the summer months. I don’t truly welcome such a transformation. Not yet. But there’s no going back to who I used to be. I’m to be a warrior of Mercia. Whether I like it or not.

  ‘At least we know our place,’ I’ve heard more than one of them say when Brute has streaked past them and their slower mounts. I hardly think it my fault that the king gifted me such a horse. I think I’d sooner he hadn’t. But then, Wulfheard explained to me when I complained to him about it that Wiglaf is the king and he must be seen to recompense his warriors, or why would they lay down their lives for him?

  The words are meant to comfort me, but, instead, they remind me of what I did on that fateful day, of my uncle’s death and of the new path my life has taken in the short amount of time that has elapsed since then. I never wanted to be a warrior, but the king forced my oath to him, and now there’s no choice. I fear I might never reconcile myself to these huge changes that have befallen me.

  ‘Here, boy, get in the shield wall.’ Ealdorman Tidwulf thinks to call me to his side of the coming battle.

  ‘Icel, I’ve a place for you here.’ Ealdorman Ælfstan’s words flow over those of Tidwulf’s, from where he stands ready to enter the shield wall, giving final instructions to his oathsworn men. For a moment, I’m torn, until Wulfheard grabs my shoulder.

  ‘This way, you arse. It’s better in the centre. Did no one ever teach you that?’ Only, he pauses, flashes me a tight smile of apology. ‘I’ll teach you more when this is over,’ Wulfheard promises and, depositing me between two youths who can be little older than I am, he shoulders his way to the front.

  I eye the two youths. They fumble with shields and seaxes, just as I do, only then the one, with little more than a sliver of fur on his top lip, sneers at me.

  ‘It’s him. The one they’re all talking about,’ he announces loudly to his fellow warrior. Both of them look at me as though I’m little better than horseshit on their boots.

  ‘It’s the boy who thought to save a king by knocking himself out,’ the other jeers, strips of blond hair visible beneath the helm he wears. It’s dented. In fact, it’s more dent than round, and I can see where it seems to lift from the top of his head.

  ‘You need to get that hammered out,’ I inform him. If he takes a blow to the head, that helm isn’t going to be any help. It’s more likely to pierce him than save him.

  ‘Oh, listen to him. It seems he knows it all.’ The two of them both laugh, the sound sharper and deadlier than blades.

  I grimace. I don’t much want to stand beside the pair of them.

  ‘Get to the rear of the line in front.’ Ealdorman Ælfstan’s words are gruff as he continues with his instructions.

  Ahead of us, we’re faced with little more than the broad backs of Mercia’s more seasoned warriors. Or if not more seasoned, then at least older than we are. These men have trained all their lives for the honour of serving their king in war.

  From in front of the Mercian force, I can hear similar from the Wes
sex warriors. It always startles me that our enemy shares our tongue. Perhaps, I think, it would be easier if they were Raiders and spoke their harsher words.

  Immediately, I move forwards, the smell of the men in front making me appreciate I’m not the only one to fear what’s coming.

  Of course, the two other lads take their time in following the ealdorman’s instructions.

  ‘Frithwine, get in line.’ The growl comes from the man in front of me. I don’t know his name. ‘Garwulf, do the same.’

  At least I know their names now. They must be brothers, I decide. They share the same querulous jaw.

  I’d sooner be fighting for Ealdorman Tidwulf than stood beside these two jesters.

  I wish I could see more of what’s happening in front, but it’s impossible. Even as tall as I am, I can do little more than see the tightly packed helms of those just before me.

  I note that this time the numbers of Mercians are far higher than when last we fought the Wessex enemy. There are four lines of men between me and the curved edges of the shields. They glint in the gentle glow from the sun and I quickly get my head down. I don’t want to make myself an obvious target if one of the Wessex warriors should try their luck.

  ‘The Wessex scum will run back to Londonia soon enough,’ Frithwine jokes to his ally. Their words are high with excitement. I wish them luck with that.

  ‘Shields.’ King Wiglaf shouts the command from behind us all. I’d recognise his voice anywhere.

  I place my feet carefully. Ahead of me, the Mercians are doing the same. However, Frithwine and Garwulf aren’t beside me. I turn my head, thinking I should say something, but stop myself. I don’t want to face any more of their ridicule. They think I don’t know what I’m doing. They should take a look at themselves.

  From the far side of the shield wall, I hear a harsh cry from one of the Wessex warriors. I doubt it’s the king himself, but I might be wrong. King Ecgberht is a man I’ve never met, although I’ve seen him from a distance with his iron-grey hair, rigid back and warrior’s helm with its proud horsehair crown. I’ve no respect for him. He abandoned his wounded warriors to face the Mercians. He rode, as fast as his horse could take him, back to the perceived safety of Londonia. I do welcome him being ejected from Mercia. Perhaps, after all, I agree with Wiglaf’s decision to bring all of his warriors against the Wessex force maintaining a perilous hold on Londonia. Ecgberht of Wessex is the true enemy, even if Athelstan of the East Angles is the slayer of Mercia’s kings.

  I just wish I wasn’t one of those who had to bear witness to it.

  The men in front of me lurch forwards. I’m not expecting to move, and yet it makes sense. The Wessex warriors are defending what they’ve stolen. The Mercians are the ones who need to claim it back. We must take the fight to them now that they’ve made it clear there’ll be no negotiation.

  We walk, or rather run, onwards, the ground threatening to trip, the long strips of summer-ripened wheat waiting to be harvested, ruined by our progress as we’ve moved aside from the passage of Watling Street.

  My breath rasps in my chest, the smell of sweat seeming to bloom from the men before me. I risk looking behind, but I can’t see King Wiglaf and the two ealdormen any more. I don’t know if he’s moved away from his high peak or if we’ve gone too low to be able to see him. It’s impossible to tell as I forge a path through the brown stalks. I’ve lost sight of Frithwine and Garwulf. I do glimpse Wulfheard at the front of the shield wall through a sudden slit that opens up between the men in front. He’s not easy to misplace with his distinctive blackened helm, so unlike the rest of the warriors, whose helms shimmer with the glint of iron.

  My eyes focused on where I step, I almost collide with the man in front of me, his byrnie darkened with sweaty streaks beneath his armpits.

  ‘Watch it,’ he growls, lips twisted as he glowers. ‘You should put your seax away if you don’t know how to fight with it.’

  The words cut me. I do know how to fight with it. I’ve saved the king’s life with it, but now isn’t the time for such a conversation.

  I shrug my shoulders at my contrariness. I both do and don’t want people to appreciate what I’ve accomplished on behalf of King Wiglaf.

  Bugger it. I’ll just have to prove myself one more time and live up to the memory of my warrior uncle, who lived when kings fell beneath the blades of the bastard king-slayer of the East Angles.

  3

  A thunderous sound, louder even than a Mercian oak being felled to provide sturdy support for a new hall or workshop, reverberates through my body. My heart thuds in my ears, the noise quicker than a herd of horses spurred to the gallop.

  The two shield walls have met. I know that, and so do the men in front of me who are ready for whatever might happen next. They’re braced, broad backs facing me, the murmur of their prayers or wails of terror a counterpart to the clash of shields and weapons.

  But I don’t include Frithwine and Garwulf in that. The pair continue to taunt one another where they stand to the rear of the engagement, as though they’re about to drink in a tavern, not fight for their lives. They’re not battle-ready, even now. Frithwine’s shield is upside down on the floor by his feet, the strap entirely out of reach, hidden in the depths of the soil. Garwulf has removed his helm and examines it to ensure it’s not as bashed as Frithwine’s. His gloved finger pokes at the iron of his helm as though he expects to see it come through the iron.

  ‘Get in position,’ I urge them.

  To the far side of the pair, there are more seasoned men, eyes forward. Their bodies already ebb and flow as they begin their dance to the death, mirroring the progress of the front-facing line of shields. A sudden retreat or advance won’t catch them unawares.

  ‘Bugger off,’ Frithwine sneers. ‘You’re not the bloody battle commander.’

  ‘And neither are you.’ This comes from one of the warriors. Blazing eyes settle on the boys. I want to call them men, but they’re acting like children. Even I know that. ‘Now, get in line. This is going to get bloody quickly.’

  Already, I can sense something occurring at the front. My thoughts turn to Wulfheard. I don’t want anything to happen to him. Apart from Ealdorman Ælfstan, he’s about the only person, other than Wynflæd, who seems to care about me now that my uncle is dead, and I’m alone, with no family to my name.

  Before Garwulf can argue with the man, the Mercian warriors surge once more. I’m part of it. I’ve no one to protect me to the left or right, so I move closer to the man to my left. He turns terror-filled eyes my way that bulge from behind his helm. He takes no comfort in my presence. I don’t take it personally.

  Looking down, I catch sight of a discarded seax, the sharp edge buried in the crushed wheat of the field, blood glistening on the blade. I follow the handle of the seax higher and grimace. A dripping finger clings to the bone handle, but nothing else.

  I think to bend and retrieve the seax, but Frithwine beats me to it. He smirks, forcing me aside in his eagerness to grip it so that I overbalance and fight to stay upright without dropping my shield to the ground.

  ‘Our first battle treasure,’ Frithwine gloats to Garwulf, his back to the men of the shield wall, only to shriek, the sound piercing above the duller tones and grunts of the battle. The damn fool hasn’t seen the severed finger. The seax flies through the air, just landing shy of my foot. A little closer and I’d be skewered in place as surely as the trampled wheat. ‘Did you see that?’ Frithwine demands of his ally, pointing to the discarded finger.

  But there’s no time for a reply. As quickly as the men advanced, they’re suddenly retracing those steps – one foot and then another. I wish I’d grabbed the hastily flung seax because someone’s going to sever their foot on the upturned blade.