When Hroar reached the fighting area, another man stepped forward, producing long strips of cloth that he proceeded to wrap about Hroar’s hands. I was glad I had fought the temptation to accept his challenge. I might have stood a chance with the wooden blades, but Hroar did not mean to use the practice swords. His weapons were his fists and I was sure I would have lost that fight against the burly warrior.

“Who will face me?” he called out while his hands were being bound.

“Where is Drosten?” shouted Os, standing and looking about the circle of stones theatrically, as if searching for someone. Noisy and outspoken when sober, Os’ words were slurred and I realised that the group of men he sat with had found a skin of mead from somewhere.

I caught Leofstan’s eye. We both remembered how Drosten had beaten a man much larger than Hroar in Eoforwic. I had never seen anyone fight better with his fists. But Drosten would not leave the ship, and he had been anxious ever since we had arrived here. While Tannskári’s people were Norse, Orkneyjar was still part of Pictland, and Drosten had vowed never to return.

Os had heard tell of Drosten’s prowess with his fists over the winter months and he now saw a chance to put those skills to the test.

“I would wager this silver amulet,” he held up a gleaming hammer-shaped necklace that he had taken from one of the fallen Norsemen at Uuiremutha, “that Drosten could beat any of you.”

“Who is this Drosten?” asked Hroar.

“A Pict,” called out Os. “Fastest fists in the land. He would ugly you up even more. If such a thing were possible.” He laughed at his own words, pointing at Hroar’s squashed and twisted nose.

Hroar frowned, clearly understanding enough of Os’ words to reply.

“I would fight this Pict.”

A tension was growing in the afternoon air. I could sense that Os’ drunken shouts were angering our hosts, and I was sure that Drosten would not be pleased to hear that his name had been bandied about.

“Fight me,” shouted a new voice. I turned to see Bealdwulf push himself to his feet. He looked at me and shrugged, as if we had both had similar thoughts and he had decided to step in before matters got out of hand.

“What of the Pict?” called out Os.

Bealdwulf glowered at him.

“Sit down and be silent, Os,” he said. “You have said enough.” Os hesitated only a moment, before obeying the older man.

Pulling his kirtle over his head, Bealdwulf threw the garment down onto the grass and accepted the strips of cloth from the man beside the fighting square. He rolled his shoulders and neck a few times while his hands were bound tightly, then stepped past the rope and faced Hroar.