So I stopped and stood still. If Æthelstan was to come then I must give him as much time as I could. And so I waited. Sweat stung my eyes. The helmet was hot. I hurt.

‘Frightened?’ Waormund asked, then laughed. ‘He’s frightened of me!’ He had turned and was shouting to the West Saxons behind Æthelhelm. ‘That’s Uhtred of Bebbanburg! And I’ve already beaten him once! Dragged him naked at my horse’s arse! And this is his sword!’ he held Serpent-Breath high. ‘It’s a good sword.’ He turned his dull, cruel, animal eyes to look at me. ‘You don’t deserve this blade,’ he snarled, ‘you gutless turd.’

‘Kill him!’ Æthelhelm called.

‘Cripple him!’ Ælfweard demanded in his shrill voice.

‘Come, old man,’ Waormund again beckoned me, ‘come!’

Men watched. I did not move. I held my sword low. She did not have a name. Sweat ran down my face. Waormund charged.

He charged suddenly and, for a big man, he was quick. He held Serpent-Breath in his right hand, his left hand empty. He wanted the fight to be over swiftly and I was not making it easy by standing still, and so he had decided to charge me, to swing Serpent-Breath in one mighty blow to batter down my parry and then hit me with his full weight so that I would be thrown to the ground where he could disarm me, then give me to Ælfweard’s mercy. So do the unexpected, I told myself, and took a half step to my right, which he did expect, then hurled myself straight at him. I hit him with my left shoulder and the pain was sudden and fierce. I had hoped Wasp-Sting would pierce his mail, but he moved into me at the very last instant and her lunge slid past his waist as we collided and I smelled the ale on his breath and the stink of the sweat-soaked leather under his mail coat. It was like throwing my weight against a bullock, but I had been expecting the impact and was ready for it, Waormund was not. He staggered slightly, but still kept his footing then turned fast with Serpent-Breath swinging. I parried her with Wasp-Sting, saw his left hand reaching for me, but he was still off balance and I stepped away before he could grasp me. I turned to lunge with the borrowed sword, but he was too quick and had backed away.

‘Hurry!’ Æthelhelm called. He must have realised that this fight was wasting time, time he might not have, but he also knew that my death would dispirit the Mercians and make them easier to slaughter, so he would let Waormund finish me. ‘Get it done, man!’ he added irritably.

‘Piece of northern shit,’ Waormund said, then sneered, ‘they’re all dead in the north! You will be soon.’ He took a half step towards me, Serpent-Breath raised, but I did not move. I had been watching his eyes and knew it was a feint. He stepped back. ‘Good sword this,’ he said, ‘better than a turd like you deserves.’ Then he came for me again, for real this time, lunging Serpent-Breath and again hoping to knock me off my feet with his weight, but I used my long-sword to throw Serpent-Breath off to my right and stepped left. He back-swung the blade as he turned towards me, I parried with my sword and felt the jolt of steel on steel, then I stepped to the right, still close to him, stepping into his sword arm, and I kept moving, and as I moved I stabbed Wasp-Sting at his belly.