The Vikings stood watching, amused, unhurried. Gudrid heard Askold, her husband, speculating with the others about the women: which were the best looking, which would put up a fight. Mothers were easier to catch because they were always slowed down by their children, but they were looser than virgins.

Bjarni watched his daughter’s reaction to this talk. ‘I told you not to come.’

One man came striding out of the village. He was tall, lean, with a streak of grey in his blond hair. Gudrid judged he was a few years younger than her father. He carried a crude woodcutter’s axe. Other men of the village hung back, watching, weapons in hand. This was the challenge, then. The Vikings grinned.

The man faced Bjarni. His tongue was unfamiliar, but it was sufficiently alike Gudrid’s own that she thought she could make out the words. ‘My name is Guthfrith. This is my home. All we have is a few cattle and sheep, and the fruits of the sea. You are welcome to eat with us, sleep in our homes. But if you intend to rob us - please, take what you want and leave us. We can do you no harm.’

Bjarni eyed him, sighed, and turned to Askold. ‘We’re here for the monks, not this starveling lot. But we don’t want trouble at our backs. If we make an example of this one it might be enough to scare off the rest.’

Askold nodded.

Guthfrith understood what was happening. Gudrid could see the hardness in his eyes, the realisation that his life was already over. With a roar he raised his weapon.

The Vikings rushed him. He didn’t land a single blow. The Vikings took his arms, easily removing his weapon. They threw him to the ground, face down, and four of them pinned his limbs, holding him spreadeagled. All this happened in a heartbeat.

Then Askold bent over and plunged his knife into Guthfrith’s tunic at the back of his neck and cut down to his backside. He worked briskly, like a butcher. Guthfrith howled, and blood spurted, for the knife had cut a groove into his flesh, but Askold’s purpose was to cut through his clothes. He spread aside the woollen cloth, exposing a heaving back already slick with blood.

Then Askold took his axe and hefted it, standing astride over Guthfrith’s torso. One of his fellows called, ‘One blow, Askold. Show this dirt-digger some skill.’

Askold grinned. Then, his tongue protruding from his lips, he brought the axe down on Guthfrith, almost delicately, a single strike that chopped through flesh and muscle and bone with a firm, meaty, satisfying sound. Guthfrith’s howls turned to a gurgle as blood spilled from his mouth.