I do not know how Cwenswith thought that day would end. Did she truly wish to see me kill the man she was intended to wed? Whatever she thought, the final betrayal of her taunting words snapped Wistan’s head up. The day before, as he had raged at me, he had convinced himself that Cwenswith was innocent, that I had forced myself on her. The sadness in his eyes was burnt away now by his ire; his anger at me, and surely at Cwenswith too.

With a roar, Wistan leapt forward, swinging his sword clumsily overarm. There was great power in that swing. Years of hewing oak and ash, and the sudden realisation of Cwenswith’s duplicity gave Wistan a terrible strength. If his blade had connected, it would have cleaved me from shoulder to navel. But he was no swordsman. So ponderous was his attack that I did not even need to raise my shield. I took two darting steps backwards, keeping my stance long and my balance low, as I had been taught.

With a great effort, Wistan managed to keep his sword under control, avoiding slicing into the gravelly earth at our feet. For a heartbeat he was leaning forward, his head, shoulders and neck exposed. I could have slain him then, but truly, I did not wish to take his life.

I waited for him to right himself. I do not know whether he understood that I had spared him. If he did, it made no difference to him. He bellowed and rushed at me again, this time scything his sword from my right. I twisted my body, catching his blade on my shield’s rim, and deflecting it away.

He carried on forward, and again I could have killed him. Once more, I held back. His shield clattered against mine, the bosses clanging like anvil and hammer. Bracing myself, I shoved him back, hard. He was stronger than I, but unbalanced and untrained, so he staggered away.

“I do not wish to slay you,” I hissed at him. “Drop your weapon. End this.”

“There is only one way to end this now,” he yelled. His face was pallid, his eyes glimmering in the bright early morning sun.

Unless he turned away from this course, he was right. I could not defend against him indefinitely. If I waited too long, his brawn and rage would overcome me at last. He was unarmoured, so I had not donned my byrnie. One strike from Wistan could easily prove fatal.

Springing at me again, he attempted a feint, but he signalled his intention with his eyes and his footwork, so my shield was there to parry the attack. This time, I flicked out my sword and opened up a gash on his side, beneath his shield.

I skipped away, seeing the pain reach his eyes.