men behind him. “Form a shield wall around her!”
The Mercian warriors nearest to Ermenilda hurried to obey their king’s order. They unslung their limewood shields from their backs and formed a tight circle around Ermenilda and her maid. The hollow thud of wood overlapping wood momentarily obscured the sounds of the fight up ahead. Sensing her rider’s mounting panic, the palfrey danced nervously, snorting as the men formed a tight ring around them.
Murmuring soothing words, Ermenilda leaned forward and stroked the mare’s quivering neck.
Now that Wulfhere’s men surrounded them, she and Wynflaed could see nothing of the assault ahead. The noises told them that the fight was both violent and bloody—shouts, grunts, and screams, and the meaty thud of iron biting flesh. Arrows clattered against the perimeter of shields surrounding Ermenilda, and she bit back a scream when she saw one of the arrows find its mark.
The warrior directly in front of her gave a muffled cry. He toppled forward off his horse, an arrow in his belly.
Ermenilda caught a glimpse of the chaos beyond before the gap closed up. The men leading Wulfhere’s company had dismounted their horses and were engaging the attackers on foot. The opposite end of the bridge was a writhing mass of bodies. In her brief glimpse, Ermenilda had seen men fall off the bridge into the swiftly flowing river below, while others were trampled underfoot.
Next to her, Wynflaed had gone as pale as milk. Tight-lipped, the handmaid clung on to the reins. To her credit, she did not start to weep or shriek in fear—and to her own surprise, neither did Ermenilda.
Wulfhere cursed under his breath and glanced over his shoulder, to where a barrier of shields protected Ermenilda from view. She was too close to the fighting, but there was no way he could help her now.
They were trapped. The bulk of his company had already crossed onto the bridge before the attack. They now formed a barrier so that those in front had nowhere to go but toward the enemy.
The moment the bowmen, hidden in the woodland on the western bank, ceased their onslaught, warriors clad in boiled leather and mail had erupted from the trees. Wielding axes, spears, swords, and seaxes, the attackers rushed onto the bridge howling like nihtgengan—goblins—released from the underworld.
Wulfhere’s men had no choice but to meet them head on.
As soon as the first arrows sliced through the air, the king had swung down from the saddle and drawn Shield Breaker. Werbode and Elfhere fought at his side, their own blades slick with blood.
There were many attackers—but what had been their advantage quickly turned against them. The bridge was too narrow for the enemy to crowd onto all at once, and this diluted the strength of their assault.
Wulfhere slashed his way through the last group of attackers. His boots slid on the gore-covered surface, but he managed to keep his feet.
Howling his wrath, he ran at the few remaining men. One of the enemy warriors, suddenly realizing that he was almost alone on the bridge, lost his courage. One look at the face of the fair-haired warrior barreling toward him, sword raised, and the man leaped off the bridge.
As suddenly as it had begun, the attack was over.
An icy wind whistled across the bridge, mingling with the groans of the injured and the whimpers of the dying. Shortly after, the warriors surrounding the two women lowered their shields and moved away, giving Ermenilda a clear view of the carnage beyond.
At the foot of the bridge, she saw Wulfhere, splattered in blood, striding over to where his men had caught the attackers’ leader alive.
The captive was tall and broadly built, with golden hair. Ermenilda could see that blood flowed down his left arm and that he had a deep gash on his right cheek. He snarled and struggled against his captors as he watched Wulfhere approach.
The Mercian King was an intimidating sight, clad from head to toe in leather armor
The Mercian warriors nearest to Ermenilda hurried to obey their king’s order. They unslung their limewood shields from their backs and formed a tight circle around Ermenilda and her maid. The hollow thud of wood overlapping wood momentarily obscured the sounds of the fight up ahead. Sensing her rider’s mounting panic, the palfrey danced nervously, snorting as the men formed a tight ring around them.
Murmuring soothing words, Ermenilda leaned forward and stroked the mare’s quivering neck.
Now that Wulfhere’s men surrounded them, she and Wynflaed could see nothing of the assault ahead. The noises told them that the fight was both violent and bloody—shouts, grunts, and screams, and the meaty thud of iron biting flesh. Arrows clattered against the perimeter of shields surrounding Ermenilda, and she bit back a scream when she saw one of the arrows find its mark.
The warrior directly in front of her gave a muffled cry. He toppled forward off his horse, an arrow in his belly.
Ermenilda caught a glimpse of the chaos beyond before the gap closed up. The men leading Wulfhere’s company had dismounted their horses and were engaging the attackers on foot. The opposite end of the bridge was a writhing mass of bodies. In her brief glimpse, Ermenilda had seen men fall off the bridge into the swiftly flowing river below, while others were trampled underfoot.
Next to her, Wynflaed had gone as pale as milk. Tight-lipped, the handmaid clung on to the reins. To her credit, she did not start to weep or shriek in fear—and to her own surprise, neither did Ermenilda.
Wulfhere cursed under his breath and glanced over his shoulder, to where a barrier of shields protected Ermenilda from view. She was too close to the fighting, but there was no way he could help her now.
They were trapped. The bulk of his company had already crossed onto the bridge before the attack. They now formed a barrier so that those in front had nowhere to go but toward the enemy.
The moment the bowmen, hidden in the woodland on the western bank, ceased their onslaught, warriors clad in boiled leather and mail had erupted from the trees. Wielding axes, spears, swords, and seaxes, the attackers rushed onto the bridge howling like nihtgengan—goblins—released from the underworld.
Wulfhere’s men had no choice but to meet them head on.
As soon as the first arrows sliced through the air, the king had swung down from the saddle and drawn Shield Breaker. Werbode and Elfhere fought at his side, their own blades slick with blood.
There were many attackers—but what had been their advantage quickly turned against them. The bridge was too narrow for the enemy to crowd onto all at once, and this diluted the strength of their assault.
Wulfhere slashed his way through the last group of attackers. His boots slid on the gore-covered surface, but he managed to keep his feet.
Howling his wrath, he ran at the few remaining men. One of the enemy warriors, suddenly realizing that he was almost alone on the bridge, lost his courage. One look at the face of the fair-haired warrior barreling toward him, sword raised, and the man leaped off the bridge.
As suddenly as it had begun, the attack was over.
An icy wind whistled across the bridge, mingling with the groans of the injured and the whimpers of the dying. Shortly after, the warriors surrounding the two women lowered their shields and moved away, giving Ermenilda a clear view of the carnage beyond.
At the foot of the bridge, she saw Wulfhere, splattered in blood, striding over to where his men had caught the attackers’ leader alive.
The captive was tall and broadly built, with golden hair. Ermenilda could see that blood flowed down his left arm and that he had a deep gash on his right cheek. He snarled and struggled against his captors as he watched Wulfhere approach.
The Mercian King was an intimidating sight, clad from head to toe in leather armor
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