“Very well,” Hroar said. “But I have no silver.” He looked down at my belt and the seax that hung from the scabbard there. My sword was still back at the hall, along with all our other weapons apart from knives. Pulling his own seax from its sheath, he handed it to me. “How about this? Your knife against mine.” I tugged my seax free and gave it to him, but my eyes were fixed on the knife now in my hand. The iron of the blade looked solid enough, and when I ran my thumb across its edge, it was sharp, with no rolls or nicks, but it was the handle that had captivated me. It was the colour of thick cream and seemed to be made from bone. It was exquisitely carved with runes and figures all around the base where the grip met the blade.

“It is from the tusk of a hrosshvalr,” Hroar said.

“A hrosshvalr?” The name was strange to me. “Part horse, part whale?” I could not imagine such a creature.

“Aye. They sometimes come to these shores. As common as sheep on some of the beaches further north. Huge beasts.”

Looking at the knife’s handle, intricately carved from a single tusk, I could barely fathom how large the owner of the tooth must have been. I could find no words to describe how I felt about the object in my hand. I had to possess that knife.

“A fool and his treasure are easily parted,” said Leofstan, perhaps noting my expression as I gazed at the seax.

Thurid, who sat nearby, appeared to understand him, and smiled at the monk’s words. Perhaps I was a fool, but the knife was a thing of beauty and I coveted it.

“The bet is agreed,” I said and shook hands with Hroar.

We placed both knives on the grass before us, and it took a great effort to drag my gaze away from the ivory handle of Hroar’s blade to watch the fight that would determine whether it would become mine. We had thought to remain seated, but the onlookers, sensing that this fight would be special, crowded forward, impeding our view.

Grumbling, Hroar picked up the seaxes, handing mine to me. Rising, we hurried forward as we heard the first clatter of oaken blade against willow board. Shouldering our way through the throng, I clutched Thurid’s hand in mine, pulling her with me. Her fingers gripped me tightly, her palm was cool. Gersine was close by, but I noted Thurid had not reached for his hand, and my heart soared.

For a heartbeat I could think of nothing else save for Thurid’s hand in mine, but then the two fighters closed together for the second time, and my focus narrowed to Gwawrddur and Toki, facing each other across the expanse of the roped off area, wooden swords striking and parrying with blurring speed.