‘We’re East Anglians and West Saxons,’ Brihtwulf said arrogantly, ‘and you are?’
‘Edor Hæddeson, lord,’ the horseman said, then glanced at me, and for a heartbeat there was a startled look on his face, but it vanished as he looked back to Brihtwulf. ‘I serve in Lord Æthelhelm’s household,’ he explained. ‘Where’s Hyglac?’ He had evidently recognised the fish shields.
‘He stayed at the fort,’ Brihtwulf said. ‘The pretty boy’s troops gave up and walked back westwards, but Hyglac kept enough men there in case they come back.’
‘They went westwards?’ Edor asked. ‘Then that’s where we need you, all of you!’ He patted his skittish horse’s neck again and looked back to me. If he served in Æthelhelm’s household then it was likely he had seen me at one of the meetings between King Edward and my son-in-law, Sigtryggr, but I had always been in my war-glory, my arms thick with the rings of silver and gold. Now I wore ragged mail, carried a shield scarred with the cross, and my face, still lacerated from Waormund’s treatment, was half hidden by the leather cheek-pieces of my rust-touched helmet. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘Osbert Osbertson,’ I said, then nodded at Brihtwulf. ‘I’m his grandfather.’
‘Where do you need us?’ Brihtwulf asked hurriedly.
‘You’re to go west.’ Edor pointed to a side street. ‘Follow that street. You’ll find men at the far end, join them.’
‘Æthelstan’s going to attack there?’ Brihtwulf asked.
‘Pretty boy? Christ no! We’re going to attack him from there.’
So Æthelhelm planned to attack Æthelstan’s army, maybe not in hope of crushing the enemy, but at least to drive him away from Lundene and inflict casualties in the process. I felt in my pouch, took a step closer to Edor’s horse and bent down, grunting from the pain in my ribs. I touched the stone of the road, then straightened, holding a silver shilling. ‘Did you drop this?’ I asked Edor, holding the bright coin towards him.
For a heartbeat he was tempted to lie, then greed conquered honesty. ‘I must have,’ he lied, then reached down for the coin. I dropped the silver, seized his left wrist, and pulled hard, sending an agonising lance of pain through my shoulder. Finan’s sword, Soul-Stealer, was already sliding from its scabbard. The horse, alarmed, stepped away, but that only helped me pull Edor out of the saddle. He shouted in rage or alarm. He was falling, but his left foot was trapped in the stirrup and he was being pulled away. My shoulder, torn from being dragged behind Waormund’s horse, felt as if a red-hot poker was being thrust into the joint. Then Wihtgar seized the stallion’s reins, Soul-Stealer sliced down with the sun reflecting bright from her blade, and suddenly there was blood on the road. Edor was on the ground, coughing blood, moaning, and then Soul-Stealer struck again, point first, to pierce mail, leather, and ribs. Edor gave a high pitched gasp, his left hand seemed to reach towards me, made a clutching motion, then fell. He lay still, his eyes gazing sightless at the cloudless sky. Finan crouched, snapped the gold chain and tugged it free, unbuckled the rich sword belt with its weapon, then worked the rings off Edor’s gloved fingers.
‘Jesus,’ Rumwald breathed.
‘The horse is yours,’ I told Brihtwulf, ‘you’re Lord Ealhstan, so mount up. Gerbruht!’
‘Lord?’
‘Drag that thing into an alley.’ I nudged Edor’s corpse with my foot.
‘No one saw a thing!’ Rumwald said in amazement.
‘Of course they did,’ I said, ‘they just don’t want us to know they saw us.’ I looked along the windows of the street and could see no one, but I was certain folk were watching us. ‘Just pray they don’t send word to Æthelhelm.’ I turned. ‘Oswi!’
‘Lord?’
‘Take us to the nearest gate to the north, and I want to avoid the palace.’
‘The Crepelgate, lord,’ Oswi said, then led us confidently, taking us through a maze of small streets and alleys. The Roman buildings gave way to newer houses, all made of timber with thatched roofs, then those houses ended and we were at the top of the city’s low eastern hill, and in front of us was a wasteland of ruins, hazel saplings, and weeds. I could see the palace a long way to the west, close to it were the remnants of the amphitheatre and, beyond that ruin, the fort at the city’s north-western corner.
And in front of us were the walls.
They are extraordinary, those walls. They ring the whole city, are built of dressed stone, and are three times the height of a tall man. Towers are built every two or three hundred paces, and the seven gates are flanked by great stone bastions. The walls have stood for three or four hundred years, perhaps longer, and for most of their length the ramparts still stand as the Romans built them. Some gaps have appeared across the years, and many of the towers have lost their roofs, but the gaps have been plugged with great timbers and the roofs replaced with thatch. There are stone stairs leading up to the ramparts and, where the wall has fallen into the ditch and been repaired in timber, there are wooden fighting platforms. Lundene’s wall is a marvel, making me wonder, as so often, how the Romans had ever lost Britain.
And in front of us, too, were men. Hundreds of men. Most were on the ramparts, from where they gazed northwards, but some, too many, were behind the gate. From where we stood we could only see one gate, the Crepelgate, with its two massive bastions looming over the roadway and Æthelhelm’s banner flying from the nearest tower, while beneath it, amidst tall weeds and the rubble of old walls, were troops. I could not see how many, they were sitting on crumbling walls or resting, but I could see enough to know they were too many. ‘They expect Æthelstan to attack here?’ Brihtwulf asked.
‘They probably have forces
