Someone had lit a large fire and for a fleeting moment I wondered at the wasted wood, until I remembered the wrecked ships. There was surely enough detritus for a bonfire. The flames leapt high into the night sky, and the heat on my face brought back to my mind the afternoon’s toil at Gyruum. In the flickering light I could make out the inert form of a bearded man. He had been stripped. His pale skin was mottled with bruises and blood. His eyes were wide open. The flames’ reflection danced in them, giving the impression of movement.

“That one tried to run,” said Oslaf, nodding at the corpse. “He didn’t get far.”

Several men were gathered around the fire, their faces stern and sombre in the hot light of the flames.

We pushed our way through the crowd, until we were able to see what they were looking at. On the muddy earth, where that morning I had faced Wistan, knelt a thickset man. His hair and beard were fair and long. Blood trickled from his nose, but he appeared otherwise unhurt. To my surprise, I saw he was smiling, gazing up at the man looming over him.

It was Runolf. His bulk and red hair unmistakable, as was the massive battle axe at his side. His back was to me, but I could hear his voice and there was no warmth in his words.

“Do not grin at me, Torfi Sturlasson,” Runolf growled. “We are not well met here.”

The kneeling man licked his lips. His eyes darted to the naked man sprawled on the earth.

“I am doing better than Orm.”

Runolf shook his head.

“Orm fought.”

“And lost.” Torfi shrugged. “What good is there in that?”

“Mayhap he is now dining with Óðinn in his corpse hall, for the All-father loves the brave warrior above all else.”

“I am no coward,” Torfi said, his gaze twitching nervously to take in the grim faces of the men staring down at him. “You know this.”

Runolf sighed.

“It is true,” he said, nodding. “I heard tell of your hólmgang with Sokkolf the Quiet. They say he shattered all of your shields and still you fought on.”

“And I won.” Torfi puffed out his chest, attempting a boastful pose that was hampered somewhat by being knelt in the mud.

“What are they speaking of,” asked Sygbald from the gloom. Several of the others grumbled, adding their voices to the question. Runolf and Torfi were conversing in their native tongue and whilst it was possible for Englisc and Norse to understand each other using simple words and phrases, often with the aid of signs and gestures, I was the only Northumbrian there who understood the language of the Norsemen well.

“They are speaking of the man’s bravery in combat,” I said. “He won a great duel, it seems.”