that would tell him where we were, but we did not move, we made no noise, we waited.
I beckoned Oswi to my side. He was young, lithe, cunning, and savage. He had once been my servant before growing old enough and skilled enough to join the shield wall. ‘Sneak up the back of the cottages,’ I told him, pointing southwards, ‘go as far as you can, show yourself, stare at them, show them your naked arse, and then pretend to run away.’
He grinned, turned, and disappeared behind the southern hovel. Finan was lying flat at the street corner, peering towards the tavern through a patch of nettles. Still we waited. The rain was pelting, bouncing in the street, cascading from the roofs, and swirling in the gusting wind. Thunder crackled and faded. I pulled my hammer amulet free, clutched it, closed my eyes briefly and prayed that Thor would preserve me.
‘They’re coming!’ Finan called.
‘How?’ I needed to know whether Wighelm had stayed in the shield wall or was hurrying to catch us.
‘They’re running!’ Finan called. He wriggled back out of sight, stood and wiped mud from Soul-Stealer’s blade. ‘Or trying to run!’
It seemed that Oswi’s insult had worked. Wighelm, if he had possessed an ounce of sense, should have sent two or three men to explore the village, but he had kept his shield wall together and now hurried his men in pursuit of Oswi who, he must have assumed, was running with the rest of us. So Wighelm had broken his own shield wall and now chivvied his men up the street in what he fondly imagined was a pursuit.
And we burst from our alley, screaming a war cry that was as much a protest against the cold and wet as a challenge to the red-cloaked men. They were straggling in the muddy street, miserable because of the weather, and, best of all, scattered. We struck them with the force of the storm itself and Thor must have heard my prayer because he released a sky-splintering hammer of thunder directly over our heads, and I saw a young man turn towards me, terror on his face, and he raised his shield that I hit with my full weight, driving him down into the mud. Someone, I assumed it was Wighelm, was bellowing for the West Saxons to make their shield wall, but it was much too late. Berg passed me as I kicked the youngster’s sword arm away and the day’s gloom was lit by a bright spray of blood as Berg’s savage blade sliced the fallen man’s throat. Berg kept running, hamstringing a burly man who was shouting incoherently. The man screamed as Berg’s sword sliced through the back of his knees and then shrieked as Gerbruht lunged a sword into his belly.
I was running towards Wighelm who turned his spear towards me. He looked as terrified as his men. I knocked the spear aside with my sword, body-charged his shield, and threw him down into the mud. I kicked his head, stood over him and held Serpent-Breath at his throat. ‘Don’t move!’ I snarled. Finan snatched Wighelm’s spear and lunged it left-handed at the shield of a tall man half crouching to meet Folcbald’s charge. The spear struck the bottom edge of the shield, tipping it downwards, and Finan’s fast sword slashed viciously across the man’s eyes. Folcbald finished the blinded man with a savage two-handed thrust that pierced mail and ripped up from belly to breastbone. The flooded rut in the street turned red, the rain hammered and splashed pink, and the wind howled over the marshes to drown the agonised sobs.
Berg, usually so lethal in a fight, had slipped in the mud. He fell, sprawling, desperately trying to kick himself away from a red-cloaked spearman who, seeing his chance, raised his spear for the fatal lunge. I hurled Serpent-Breath at the man and the blade, whirling through the rain, struck him on the shoulder. It did no damage, but made him look towards me, and Vidarr Leifson leaped to grab his spear arm then pulled him and turned him, dragging him into Beornoth’s sword. Wighelm, seeing I had no weapon, tried to slam his shield against my thigh, but I put a boot on his face and pressed his head into the mud. He began to choke. I kept my boot there, leaned down, and plucked his sword from its scabbard.
I had no need of Wighelm’s sword because the fight ended swiftly. Our attack had been so sudden and so savage that Wighelm’s miserable, wet men stood no chance. We had killed six of them, wounded four, and the others had thrown down their shields and weapons and were begging for mercy. Three fled into an alley, but Oswi and Berg hunted them down and brought them back to the tavern where we stripped the prisoners of their mail and sat them in a wet, miserable huddle at one end of the biggest room. We fed the hearth with more fuel. I sent Berg and Gerbruht to discover a small boat, then to cross the creek and bring Spearhafoc back with the men who had been left to guard her, and Vidarr Leifson and Beornoth were set to watch the road from Fæfresham. Oswi was cleaning Serpent-Breath while Finan was making certain our prisoners were securely tied with sealhide ropes.
I had spared Wighelm’s life. I drew him away from the other prisoners and sat him on a bench close to the hearth that was spitting sparks from the driftwood fuel. ‘Free his hands,’ I told Finan, then held out my own hand. ‘Eighteen shillings,’ I said, ‘for grandpa.’ He grudgingly took the coins from his pouch and put them in my palm. ‘And now the rest,’ I demanded.
He spat mud from his mouth. ‘The rest?’ he asked.
‘The rest of your coins, you fool. Give me all you’ve got.’
He untied the pouch and gave it to me. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘I told you, Liudulf of Frisia. Believe that and you’re a bigger fool than I already think you are.’ Thunder sounded loud and the seethe of rain on the roof became stronger. I tipped the coins from Wighelm’s pouch onto my hand and gave the money to Finan. ‘I doubt these bastards have paid the tavern keeper,’ I said, ‘so find him and give him this. Then tell him we need food. Not for them,’ I looked at the prisoners, ‘but for us.’ I looked back to Wighelm and drew a short knife from my belt. I smiled at him, and drew the blade across my thumb as if testing the edge. ‘Now you’re going to talk to grandpa,’ I told him, and laid the flat of the blade on his cheek. He shuddered.
Then he talked and so confirmed much of what I had guessed. Eadgifu’s declaration that she was travelling to Contwaraburg to pray at the shrine of Saint Bertha had not deceived Æthelhelm for a moment. Even as the queen and her small entourage travelled south Æthelhelm’s men were galloping toward Wiltunscir where they roused a troop of his household warriors. Those men, in turn, went to Lundene where Æthelhelm kept ships which had brought them to this creek on the muddy shore of Cent where, just as Æthelhelm had surmised, Eadgifu had taken shelter. ‘What are your orders?’ I asked Wighelm.
He shrugged. ‘Stay here, keep her here, wait for more orders.’
‘Orders that will come when the king dies?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You weren’t told to go to Contwaraburg? To order the queen’s brother to stay quiet?’
‘Other men went there.’
‘What other men? Who? And to do what?’
‘Dreogan. He took fifty men and I don’t know why he went there.’
‘And Dreogan is?’
‘He commands fifty of Lord Æthelhelm’s household troops.’
‘What about Waormund?’ I asked.
The mention of that name made Wighelm shudder. He made the sign of the cross. ‘Waormund went to East Anglia,’ he said, ‘but why? I don’t know.’
‘You don’t like Waormund?’ I asked.
‘No one likes Waormund,’ he replied bitterly, ‘except perhaps Lord Æthelhelm. Waormund
