“Run,” he said, drawing his short sword and turning his back to the tree. “Go on, run!” He made an urgent movement with his arm; he meant me to go on alone, while he fought them off. “Go, damn you, go!” I found I could not move; and then it was too late. They were all around us, stepping out from cover, men with the field armor my brothers wore, men with the long clever faces and dark curling hair of my own people. Men with hatred and vengeance in their eyes. One was reloading a longbow; the others had drawn swords. They took their time advancing.

“There’s a knife in my left boot,” muttered Red, moving his sword from hand to hand. “Take it. Use it. And run if you can.” I snatched it and he glanced at me sharply before he stepped forward, thrusting me behind him, and the first of our attackers charged, yelling and wielding his blade in a maneuver I recognized well from the practice yard at home. My brothers would have responded by ducking, and slashing at the opponent’s knees. Red didn’t duck. Instead his boot came up, lightning swift, and he knocked the sword out of his opponent’s hand, catching it neatly in his own. In an instant, it seemed, he sent the man reeling away with blood staining his right sleeve.

They gathered in a semicircle, not too close. Among them were men I had seen before, at my father’s table. I stayed behind Red, as far as I could.

“He can fight,” said one. “The bastard can fight. Who’s next?”

It was like the tale of Cu Chulainn, when his son comes to do battle. But I had not realized men still played such deadly games. A sort of single combat, where each took his turn with the interloper, until at last he was vanquished, or they had enough and moved in together to finish him off. It could be a slow way to die.

“I’ll take him on,” said another, hefting his sword. “My brother died in the ambush on Ardruan; aye, and many a good friend as well. Let him pay in blood for the blood that was spilled there.” The archer stood back, his bow drawn; it was clear that, while they might choose to have each his turn with the Briton, there could be but one end result. The second man set grimly to the fight; he had more skill than the other, and his tactic was clear—to edge Red out from cover, away from the rowan at his back and into a more vulnerable position. But Red had the advantage of them all in both height and weight; and he was no mean hand with the sword himself. In addition, he was light on his feet for such a big man, and the clashing of blades and sound of labored breathing went on for some time. The men who were watching kept up a running commentary; derisive of their own when he made an error, and Red’s blade drew a delicate scarlet line across his cheek; foul and abusive when they addressed the Briton. They accused him of the vilest things. It was a cruel sort of sport.