‘Does anyone else want to argue?’ I asked. No one did. ‘Those men,’ I pointed the blood-streaked blade at our pursuers, ‘will sell you! I will free you. Now row!’ The death of one man spurred the others to renewed effort and Brimwisa surged forward against the river’s swirling current. ‘Folcbald,’ I shouted, ‘take this oar! Aldwyn!’ The boy ran to me and I gave him Serpent-Breath. ‘Clean it.’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Dip the blade in the river,’ I told him, ‘then wipe off every drop of blood and water. Bring it back when it’s dry. Really dry!’

I had not wanted to kill the man, but I had sensed resentment among the bone-weary oarsmen who had been trapped in a struggle that was none of their business. The dead man, whose body now floated belly down towards our pursuers, could have roused that resentment into outright refusal. Even now, as the oarsmen pulled desperately on their looms, I saw the distrust on their faces, but then Irenmund, standing proud at the stern, called out. ‘Lord Uhtred is right! We’d just have been sold again! So row!’

They rowed, but even with the new energy born of fear, they could not outpace the men hurrying across the marsh. I counted them. Twelve men carrying two spears each. Waormund was not among them, he was still on board the pursuing ship that was being heaved off the mudbank. I could just hear him bawling orders.

Then the leading spearman decided to chance his arm. It was a long throw, but he hurled his spear and it soared across the river, aimed at Irenmund, and I heard it thump into Finan’s shield. The other men kept coming, then two stopped and threw their spears. One fell short, plunging into the river, the other struck Brimwisa’s hull and quivered there.

Waormund had been clever enough. He had realised that spearmen on foot could catch us and cripple us by slaughtering enough oarsmen, but he had not been clever enough to tell them that their best chance was to throw their spears together. A man can dodge a spear or catch it on his shield, but a shower of spears is far more deadly. One by one the men threw the heavy blades, and one by one we either stopped them or watched them fly high or low. Not every spear missed. One oarsman was hit in the thigh, the blade gouging a deep cut that Father Oda hurried to bandage. Another glanced off the iron rim of my shield and scored a long shallow wound across a man’s naked back, but most of the spears were wasted, and still we rowed on, nearing the next bend that would take us north again. North into Mercia.

Waormund had freed his ship and had his men hauling on their oars again, but Irenmund was already taking us into the sharp curve. I saw Beornoth readying to hurl a spear back at the frustrated men who could only watch as we rowed away from them. ‘No!’ I called to him.