They were both strong men and neither was a stranger to combat, their bodies equally scarred with the memories of past battles. Bets were placed, and again Hroar called out to me to wager with him so that he could win back his seax. Again, I declined. I felt I owed it to Bealdwulf though to place a wager on him. I bet a small piece of hacksilver that he would win, not really caring if I lost it, as long as I kept Hroar’s knife.

At a shout from the man who had bound their hands, the two men began to fight. At first they each showed some skill, stepping in close when needed, blocking and dodging to avoid the worst sting of the blows. But each man was soon bloody, the bindings on their fists soaked red. What prowess they had shown was now replaced with sheer brute strength and determination to win. They pummelled each other, blood splattering the closest spectators and streaming down the fighters’ chests from gashes on their cheeks and eyebrows.

I could not believe how long the fighting went on, with both Hroar and Bealdwulf dealing countless blows that would have felled lesser men. In the end, there was no deciding strike that knocked one of the fighters from his feet. Instead, Bealdwulf held up his hands. Blinking, Hroar stepped back. With a groan, Bealdwulf lowered himself down onto one knee.

“You are the victor,” he said, his teeth stained with blood. He spat a gobbet of red phlegm onto the grass.

The crowd let out a ragged cheer, some glad to win their bets, others feeling let down by the anticlimactic end to the bout.

Hroar heaved Bealdwulf to his feet and embraced him. They slapped each other’s backs for a time, and then separated. Hroar accepted his winnings, and the praise of his friends and kin.

Bealdwulf staggered back to Brymsteda’s crew. Someone passed him a skin of mead. He took it clumsily in his wrapped fists, drinking deeply.

I marvelled that he could still stand after the beating he had taken.

“Are you hurt?” asked Leofstan.

I thought this a strange question. Bealdwulf’s face was slick with blood. There was a deep gash above his left eye, and another cut on his left cheek. But to my surprise, the Northumbrian smiled.

“Do not fret, monk. I’ll live.”

“Then why end it?” I asked.

Bealdwulf’s left eye was already swollen closed and he twisted his head to peer at me.

“That whoreson is as tough as old leather. He was never going to fall.” He took another swig of mead. “And neither was I. And unless I’m mistaken that’s Hereward, Runolf and Mancas coming up the hill.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Sure enough, the three men, accompanied by Tannskári and several others, were almost at the standing stones.

“I still don’t understand why you would stop the fight.”