Waormund, towering above me, spat into my face. ‘Lord Æthelhelm wants to speak with you,’ he said, ‘and his nephew wants to make you scream.’

I said nothing. There was blood in my mouth, one ear was pain, I was staggering with dizziness. I suppose I must have looked at him, one of my eyes half-closed, because I remember he spat again and laughed. ‘King Ælfweard wants to make you scream. He’s good at that.’ I said nothing, which angered him and he hit me in the belly, his face distorted with hatred. I folded over, breathless, and he seized my hair and dragged my head up. ‘The king will want to kill you, but I’ll make it easy for him first.’ He reached out and forced my jaw open, paused, then spat into my mouth. That amused him.

He had tossed Wasp-Sting and her scabbard to one of his men, but kept my sword belt with Serpent-Breath’s scabbard for himself. He took off his own belt and sword, tossed them to a tall warrior, then buckled my belt about his waist. He took Serpent-Breath from the man who had disarmed me and ran a finger up the blood groove in her blade. ‘Mine,’ he said, almost crooning with joy, ‘mine,’ and I could have wept. Serpent-Breath! I had owned her almost all of my life, and she was a sword as fine as any in the world, a sword forged by Ealdwulf the Smith and given the sorcerous spells of a warrior and of a woman, and now I had lost her. I looked at her bright pommel where Hild’s silver cross glinted and all I could feel was despair and an impotent hatred.

Waormund laid my own sword’s blade against my neck and for a brief moment I thought his anger would make him cut, but instead he just spat again and then slid Serpent-Breath into her scabbard. ‘Back to the road!’ he called to his men. ‘Mount up!’

They would ride east to find the great road that led south to Lundene, the Roman road I had crossed that morning. Waormund led them through a gap in the hedge, though the gap was thick with brambles and the thorns ripped me as I stumbled after his horse. ‘Tread in my horse’s dung, earsling!’ Waormund shouted back at me.

The stubble of the pasture cut my feet as I staggered downhill. Twenty men rode ahead, Waormund followed, and another twenty rode behind us. Two horsemen, both with spears, flanked me. It had to be near midday, the sun was high and bright, and the road rutted with dried mud. I was thirsty, but all I could swallow was blood. I stumbled and the horse dragged me for a dozen paces, the mud and stones lacerating me until Waormund stopped, turned in his saddle and laughed as I struggled to my feet. ‘Keep up, earsling,’ he said and kicked his feet so the stallion jerked ahead and I almost fell again. The sudden jolt started blood from the wound in my left shoulder.