‘East Anglians?’ The horseman curbed the stallion just in front of us. He was young, his mail was finely made, his horse’s trappings were polished leather studded with silver, and his sword was in a silver-coated scabbard. A thin gold chain circled his neck. His horse, a fine stallion, was nervous and stepped sideways, and the rider patted it with a gloved hand on which two rings glittered.

‘We’re East Anglians and West Saxons,’ Brihtwulf said arrogantly, ‘and you are?’

‘Edor Hæddeson, lord,’ the horseman said, then glanced at me, and for a heartbeat there was a startled look on his face, but it vanished as he looked back to Brihtwulf. ‘I serve in Lord Æthelhelm’s household,’ he explained. ‘Where’s Hyglac?’ He had evidently recognised the fish shields.

‘He stayed at the fort,’ Brihtwulf said. ‘The pretty boy’s troops gave up and walked back westwards, but Hyglac kept enough men there in case they come back.’

‘They went westwards?’ Edor asked. ‘Then that’s where we need you, all of you!’ He patted his skittish horse’s neck again and looked back to me. If he served in Æthelhelm’s household then it was likely he had seen me at one of the meetings between King Edward and my son-in-law, Sigtryggr, but I had always been in my war-glory, my arms thick with the rings of silver and gold. Now I wore ragged mail, carried a shield scarred with the cross, and my face, still lacerated from Waormund’s treatment, was half hidden by the leather cheek-pieces of my rust-touched helmet. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘Osbert Osbertson,’ I said, then nodded at Brihtwulf. ‘I’m his grandfather.’

‘Where do you need us?’ Brihtwulf asked hurriedly.

‘You’re to go west.’ Edor pointed to a side street. ‘Follow that street. You’ll find men at the far end, join them.’

‘Æthelstan’s going to attack there?’ Brihtwulf asked.

‘Pretty boy? Christ no! We’re going to attack him from there.’

So Æthelhelm planned to attack Æthelstan’s army, maybe not in hope of crushing the enemy, but at least to drive him away from Lundene and inflict casualties in the process. I felt in my pouch, took a step closer to Edor’s horse and bent down, grunting from the pain in my ribs. I touched the stone of the road, then straightened, holding a silver shilling. ‘Did you drop this?’ I asked Edor, holding the bright coin towards him.

For a heartbeat he was tempted to lie, then greed conquered honesty. ‘I must have,’ he lied, then reached down for the coin. I dropped the silver, seized his left wrist, and pulled hard, sending an agonising lance of pain through my shoulder. Finan’s sword, Soul-Stealer, was already sliding from its scabbard. The horse, alarmed, stepped away, but that only helped me pull Edor out of the saddle. He shouted in rage or alarm. He was falling, but his left foot was trapped in the stirrup and he was being pulled away. My shoulder, torn from being dragged behind Waormund’s horse, felt as if a red-hot poker was being thrust into the joint. Then Wihtgar seized the stallion’s reins, Soul-Stealer sliced down with the sun reflecting bright from her blade, and suddenly there was blood on the road. Edor was on the ground, coughing blood, moaning, and then Soul-Stealer struck again, point first, to pierce mail, leather, and ribs. Edor gave a high pitched gasp, his left hand seemed to reach towards me, made a clutching motion, then fell. He lay still, his eyes gazing sightless at the cloudless sky. Finan crouched, snapped the gold chain and tugged it free, unbuckled the rich sword belt with its weapon, then worked the rings off Edor’s gloved fingers.