Brihtwulf and Wihtgar had walked into the city at dawn. I had not known they were going and would have stopped them for fear that one of Heorstan’s six men might recognise them, but they returned safely to report that there had been frequent fights during the darkness. ‘West Saxons against East Anglians,’ Brihtwulf said.
‘Just tavern fights,’ Wihtgar said dismissively.
‘But men died,’ Brihtwulf added.
Both men sat on my barge’s deck and began to stroke their sword-blades with sharpening stones. ‘Not surprising, is it?’ Brihtwulf said. ‘The East Anglians hate the West Saxons! They were enemies not too long ago.’
It had not been that many years since the West Saxons had invaded East Anglia and defeated the Danish jarls. Those jarls had been squabbling, unable to choose their own king after the death of Eohric who, twenty years before Edward’s death, I had cut down in a ditch. I remembered Eohric as a fat, pig-eyed man who had squealed as we hacked him with our blades, and the squealing had only stopped when Serpent-Breath delivered the killing stroke.
And so had died the last true Danish King of East Anglia. Eohric had tried to preserve his kingdom by pretending to be a Christian, thus averting the power of Wessex, though I remember his hand desperately clutching the hilt of his broken sword in his death throes so that he would be taken to Valhalla. He had ruled a country of his own people, the Danish settlers, but they were outnumbered by Saxon Christians who should have welcomed King Edward’s troops. And many did welcome the West Saxons, until tales of rape, theft, and murder soured the conquest. Now those East Anglians, both Danish and Saxon, were expected to fight for Wessex, for Æthelhelm and for Ælfweard.
‘God-damned West Saxons,’ Wihtgar snarled, ‘strutting about as if they own the city.’
‘They do own it,’ Finan said drily.
Finan, Brihtwulf and Wihtgar were talking together while I mostly listened. Brihtwulf described how he had been challenged as he returned to the wharf. ‘Some arrogant bastard said we were going the wrong way. He said we should go to the walls.’
‘And you told him what?’ I asked.
‘That we’d go where we damn well liked.’
‘And maybe we should go,’ I said.
Brihtwulf looked puzzled. ‘Already? I thought you told Merewalh to wait till past noon.’
‘I did.’
Wihtgar glanced at the sky. ‘Long time till noon, lord.’
I was sitting on the great oak block where the barge’s mast would be stepped. ‘We have a westerly wind,’ I said, ‘and it’s brisk.’
Brihtwulf glanced at Wihtgar, who just shrugged as if to say he had no idea what I was talking about. ‘A westerly?’ Brihtwulf asked.
‘A westerly wind lets us leave the city,’ I explained. ‘We can steal three ships, fast ships, and we sail downriver.’
There was a pause, then Brihtwulf spoke with evident disbelief. ‘Now? We leave now?’
‘Now,’ I said.
‘Jesus,’ Finan muttered. The other two just stared at me.
‘Father Oda believes there may be three thousand men in Lundene,’ I went on, ‘so even if we succeed in opening a gate for Merewalh, we’ll be outnumbered by what? Five men to our one? Six to one?’ The numbers had haunted me through the short summer night.
‘How many of those are East Anglians?’ Brihtwulf asked.
‘Most of them,’ Wihtgar muttered.
‘But will they fight against their lords?’ I asked. Brihtwulf had been right when he said that the East Anglians hated the West Saxons, but that did not mean they would lift a sword against Æthelhelm’s troops. I had sailed to Cent hoping to raise a force of Centishmen to fight Æthelhelm, and that had failed, now I was pinning my hopes on East Anglians, a hope that seemed as frail as that which had faded in Fæfresham. ‘If I lead you into the city,’ I said, ‘and even if we succeed in opening a gate for Merewalh, we all die.’
‘And we just abandon Merewalh?’ Brihtwulf asked indignantly.
‘Merewalh and his horsemen will retreat north,’ I said, ‘and Æthelhelm won’t pursue too far. He’ll fear a trap. And besides, he wants to destroy Æthelstan’s army, not a handful of horsemen from Werlameceaster.’
‘He wants to kill you,’ Finan said.
I ignored that. ‘If Merewalh sees horsemen coming from the city he’ll retreat. He’ll go back to Werlameceaster.’ I hated abandoning the plans that we had persuaded Merewalh to join, but all night I had brooded, and the dawn had brought me to my senses. It was better we should live, than die uselessly. ‘Merewalh will survive,’ I finished.
‘So we just …’ Brihtwulf began, then paused. I suspect he was about to say that we would just run away, but he curbed the words. ‘Then we just go back to Werlameceaster?’
‘Serpent-Breath,’ Finan muttered to me.
I smiled at that. In truth I was wondering whether the west wind was truly a sign from the gods that I should abandon this reckless adventure and instead seize three good ships and fly in front of the wind to the sea and safety. I remember Ravn, the blind poet and father to Ragnar, often telling me that courage was like a horn of ale. ‘We
