He stared at me. Ælfweard stared and Waormund stared and slowly it dawned on all three that, dishevelled as I was, I was their enemy. And for a heartbeat I swear I saw fear on Æthelhelm’s face. It came and it went, but he did edge his horse backwards. He said nothing.

‘I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg!’ I was talking to the West Saxons shield wall now. ‘Many of you have fought under my banner. We fought for Alfred, for Edward, for Wessex, and now you would die for that piece of weasel shit!’ I pointed Wasp-Sting at Ælfweard.

‘Kill him!’ Ælfweard squealed.

‘Lord?’ Waormund growled to his master.

‘Kill him,’ Æthelhelm snapped.

I was full of anger. Guthfrith ruled? Grief was thick inside me, threatening to overwhelm me, but I was angry too. Angry that Æthelhelm should think to give away my land, that his filthy nephew would be king of Bebbanburg’s fields. I just wanted to kill.

But Waormund wanted to kill too, and he was the bigger man, and I remembered his speed in a fight. He was skilled too, as skilled as any man with a sword, a spear, or an axe. He was younger, he was taller, he outreached me, and he was probably faster. I might have matched him for speed if my body had not been racked by his horse dragging me across fields, but I was sore, I ached, and I was weary.

But I was also angry. It was a cold anger holding grief at bay, an anger that wanted to destroy both Waormund and his reputation that had been made at my expense. He was walking slowly towards me, his heavy boots crunching the gravel of the road leading to the gate, his scarred face grinning. He carried no shield, just my sword.

I let my shield drop to the road, put Wasp-Sting into my left hand and drew the borrowed sword with my right. Finan made one last effort to stop me, coming towards me with an outstretched arm.

‘Step back, Irish scum,’ Waormund growled, ‘you’re next.’

‘My fight,’ I told Finan.

‘Lord …’

‘My fight,’ I said again, louder.

It occurred to me as I walked slowly towards my enemy that Æthelhelm had made a mistake. Why had he waited? Why had he not tried to overwhelm us and close the gates? And by letting Waormund fight me he gave Æthelstan more time to reach us. Or perhaps Æthelhelm knew more than I did, that the men he had sent to the western gates were already fighting the Mercian army beyond the walls, and that Æthelstan was too busy to come. I saw Æthelhelm look again to the walls, but again he showed no alarm. ‘Kill him, Waormund!’ he called.

‘Cripple him!’ Ælfweard commanded in a high voice. ‘I must kill him! Just cripple him for me!’

Waormund had stopped. He beckoned me with his left hand. ‘Come!’ he crooned as if I were a child. ‘Come and be crippled.’