Sword of Kings (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 12)

many had died in the fighting, the Danes who survived had known which way fate’s wind was blowing and so had converted to Christianity. They then swore loyalty to the new Saxon lords who took over the wide estates. Æthelhelm the Elder, who had died while my prisoner, had been given vast tracts of East Anglia and had raised an army of hard-bitten Danes to defend it. Those were the men who, with their Saxon comrades, had come to Lundene this night.

‘We’ll not be getting out of the city this way,’ Finan said sourly.

Varin’s men had captured the gates, the bridge, and the Roman fort, which meant Lundene had fallen. Merewalh had been lured northwards, Bedwin had failed to guard the eastern roads, and now squads of Æthelhelm’s warriors began to probe into the deep alleys and streets of the city to end any hope of resistance from Bedwin’s defeated troops. We were trapped.

And I had made a second mistake that night. The first was the vain attempt to reach Spearhafoc, the second was to try to leave by a northern gate, and my best hope now was to find a boat and escape downriver. ‘Get us back to the wharves,’ I told Oswi, ‘east of the bridge.’ I wanted to be downriver of the bridge, which had perilous narrow gaps between the stone piers where the water seethed, churned, and had capsized many a smaller boat.

‘Bastards were swarming down there,’ Finan warned me.

‘Then we hide!’ I snarled. My anger was with myself, not with Finan. I felt like a rat trapped by terriers; still fighting but with no place to run.

No place to run, but there were places to hide, and Oswi knew Lundene like a rat knows a stable yard. He led us quickly, keeping to the small alleys that the enemy had not yet reached. We went eastwards now and, though we had still not met the enemy, we could hear them. We could hear shouts and shrieks, the clash of blades, the laughter of men enjoying an easy victory. Some people had fled to the churches to seek sanctuary and, as we skirted one wooden church, I heard a woman wailing and a baby crying.

We had to cross the wide street that led from the bridge to the big market square at the top of the hill. Torches burned on either side of the street, spewing dark smoke into the troubled air. There were groups of men beneath the flames, their swords sheathed and their shields stacked against walls. One group had rolled a barrel from the Red Pig tavern and an axeman stove in the lid to provoke cheers. A woman screamed, then abruptly went silent. Lundene had fallen and the captors were enjoying the spoils, but then a red-cloaked horseman spurred up from the river. ‘To the palace, lads!’ he called. ‘Leave that ale, there’s plenty more!’

The street emptied slowly, but it was still dangerous. I peered downhill and saw there were men guarding the bridge and some of them began to climb towards us. I guessed that this main street would stay busy all night, yet we had to cross it if we were to find a ship on the wharves to the east of the bridge. ‘We just stroll across,’ I said.

‘Stroll?’ Father Oda asked.

‘We don’t run. We don’t look frightened. We just stroll.’

So we did. We walked across the street slowly, as if we had not a care in the world. Benedetta was still with Father Oda, and one of the men coming from the bridge saw her. ‘You found a woman?’ he shouted.

‘A woman!’ a half-dozen voices echoed.

‘Share her!’ the first man called.

‘Keep going,’ I said, and followed Oswi through a half-broken arch that led into another alley. ‘Now hurry!’ I called, but hurrying was treacherous because it was pitch dark, the alley was narrow, and its footing nothing but earth and broken stone. I heard our pursuers shout again. They had reached the arch and were following us into the darkness. ‘Finan,’ I said.

‘A pleasure,’ he answered grimly, and the two of us let the others go past.

‘Bring her here!’ a man shouted. He received no answer, he could hear nothing but stumbling footsteps. ‘You bastards!’ he called again. ‘Bring the bitch here!’

Again he received no answer and so he came towards us, followed by four men. We could see them outlined against the small light from the main street, but they would have seen little of us because their looming shadows obscured our drawn swords. ‘Bring her here!’ the man bellowed again and then made a mewing sound as Serpent-Breath pierced his mail, tore through the muscles of his belly, and then twisted in his guts. He collapsed into me, his sword clattering on the ground, his right hand clutching at my mail coat. I brought my right knee up into his chin and the scream that had just begun became a bloody gurgle. I stepped back and wrenched Serpent-Breath free. Finan, with his usual lightning speed, had put his man down with no noise except for the hoarse bubbling gasp of a cut throat. I saw the blood spurt black across the alley and some splashed on my face as I stepped over the gut-slit man to thrust my blade into another. He tried to twist aside, but Serpent-Breath sliced across his ribs, tearing mail, then he tripped on the first dying man, and Beornoth, behind me, hammered down with his sword’s pommel to break the man’s skull open like an egg. Finan had taken a man’s eyes, and that man was screaming, hands clutched to his bloody face.

The last man stopped, then fled from the alley. Finan started after him, but I seized his arm. ‘Back,’ I said, ‘back! Leave him!’ The fugitive had already reached the wider torch-lit street.

We ran, looking for Oswi. I turned right into another alley, tripped, skinned my left hand on a wall, turned left again. Sudden shouts came as men