“You cannot beat me,” I said. My words were arrogant, but we both knew them to be true. He met my gaze and did not flinch. He was brave. I respected that. He knew he would die, but could see no other way out of this without being branded a coward.

He had every right to be furious. I am not proud of it now, but I was young then, and I revelled in my newfound strength and ability. I had found my purpose it seemed to me, and as my skill with a blade increased and my muscles hardened, so I embraced the new life I had seized for myself. A sharp seax hung from my belt across my loins, and a deadly sword was scabbarded at my side. No longer did I wear the coarse woollen habit of a monk. I had a blue kirtle trimmed with yellow and red tablet weave, and when I trained, I donned a heavy byrnie, the iron rings as light as a second skin to me now. I was a warrior, and with my new status came a swagger and self-belief that now, looking back with the eyes of an old man, makes me both envious and ashamed.

“Go on, Hunlaf,” came a shrieking voice from the throng that had gathered around us, “cut him!”

Both Wistan and I flicked a glance over at the rosy-cheeked woman. Her hair was the colour of spun flax, and her eyes the green of summer clover. Her dun dress was cinched at her narrow waist, accentuating her shapely hips and the swell of her breasts.

She was lovely, of that there was no doubt, but her tone was as harsh as the croak of a crow. I longed for Wistan to step away from this fight. I didn’t wish to kill him; didn’t want the blood of a good man on my soul. Over the years I have seen how often the affections or rejections of a woman cause bloodshed. Leofstan used to say that it all stemmed from the original sin that has resided in mankind since Eva partook of the forbidden fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. I have never been so sure, but what I know for certain is that men, both young and old, can find themselves acting like fools around a comely woman.

And I was no exception.

I had given up the rigours of life as a monk and thrown myself fully into the ways of the warrior. For a few weeks after the Norse attack, whilst we had remained at Werceworthe, the minster that had been my home for the past years, Brother Leofstan’s calm presence had kept my more lusty behaviour in check. He had still prayed with me at least once a day, encouraging me to think of Christ and his teachings.