I rounded the broad bole of a birch tree and, with a bellow, I rushed at the closest of them. He was a slender man, young, with sinewy arms and a straggly beard. He held a bow and was fumbling to nock another arrow. There was a small axe in his belt, and seeing me hurtling towards him, he dropped the bow and arrow and reached for the weapon. His indecision cost him his life. I was upon him before he could free the axe’s head from his belt. His eyes widened and he tried to fling himself out of my path, but I swept down with my sword. The blade bit deeply into the base of his neck. Dark blood spurted from a severed artery and he collapsed with a moaning wail.

With the heightened alertness that always came over me in combat, I saw Gwawrddur parry a poorly timed sword blow, then strike down his opponent with a backhanded cut to the throat. The dying man fell to his knees, clutching at his neck in a pathetic attempt at halting the flow of his lifeblood.

Gwawrddur ignored the dying man and carried on beside me, towards the remaining four attackers. None of the men wore armour, but three of those left standing carried shields and they formed a small shieldwall, blocking our path between two trees. Behind them, the fourth man turned and ran northward, into the gloom of the forest.

Cursing in his people’s musical tongue, Gwawrddur sprang forward. Without hesitation, I joined him. The men before us were brave and strong, but in those first instants, as we probed with our blades for signs of weakness, it became clear that our adversaries were no warriors. With incredible audacity, Gwawrddur moved in close to the shields. Sending a feint high to draw the left-most defender’s attention up, the Welshman reached with his left hand for the hide-covered wooden board. Without pause, he yanked it to the side, uncovering his opponent’s body, and plunged his sword into the man’s belly.

With the litheness of a cat, Gwawrddur quickly skipped back out of the reach of the central man in the crumbling shieldwall.