“If you try anything else,” whispered the leader, his lips close to my ear, “I will kill you.” To emphasise his words he pressed his blade into my throat, just above my Adam’s apple. I felt the sting as the knife broke my skin and the warmth as blood trickled down to my chest. Trusting that his warning would be heeded, he shoved me onward. He held me close, his knife never wavering from my throat. I was in no doubt that if fighting commenced, I would be the first to die.

We stepped into the small clearing beside Gullbringa. Ulf growled deep in his throat. Ingvar tapped the beast on the nose and hissed a command. The dog fell silent. There was some starlight here, filtering in from the open sky above the river. I could make out the shadowed shapes of the trees across the water. The dawn must already be colouring the eastern sky. Most of the night had passed. Again, I felt the pang of guilt at failing my comrades.

Although it was still dark, after the absolute blackness beneath the trees, I could see the men clearly enough. Their faces were pale in the gloom as they all turned in our direction. I groaned, trying to warn them that there were more men in the forest. I stared at Runolf, eyes wide and pleading, willing him to understand.

The leader’s grasp on me tightened.

“Hunlaf,” said Leofstan in Englisc, “are you hurt?”

In the darkness they could not see that my mouth was bound. I moaned behind my gag.

“What have you done to him?” asked Runolf, his tone still calm, but taking on an edge of threat now that he saw he was dealing with only one adversary.

“He is well enough,” said the man who held me, “but if you do not drop your weapons, his blood will soak the earth before sunrise.”

Before anyone could respond, there was a snapping of twigs from the other side of the clearing. Ulf began to bark again, a cutting yelping that rent the night. Runolf and the others turned to see who approached. Gwawrddur and Hereward hurried out of the forest, their swords drawn.

It only took moments for them to understand what had happened. They joined Runolf and the others. Ingvar again snapped at his dog, silencing it.

I was desperate to make them all understand that there were many more enemies out there in the forest. Even now they must have been creeping quietly towards us from every side. But I could do nothing more than whimper behind my gag, as my captor applied painful pressure to his knife’s blade.

“Drop your weapons now,” he said, his voice dripping with danger, “or the boy’s blood flows. The time for talking has passed.”

“You speak strangely,” said Runolf. “Are you Ljósberari’s lackey? The Frank called Chlotar?”

The man clutching me stiffened.