They came slowly. The poets tell us that men charge into battle, welcoming the slaughter as eagerly as any lover, but a shield wall is a fearsome thing. The men of Wessex knew they would not break us with a wild charge, but would only reach the gate behind us by keeping their ranks tight and their shields overlapped and firm, and so they walked to us, their faces watchful and grim above the iron rims of their stag-painted shields. Every third man carried a shortened spear, the others came with either a seax or an axe. I had left Wasp-Sting in Waormund’s belly, and I needed her. A long-sword is no weapon for a shield wall, but Serpent-Breath was in my hand and she would have to serve.

‘Our king is coming!’ I shouted. ‘Hold them!’

‘Kill them!’ Ælfweard’s high-pitched voice screamed. ‘Slaughter them!’

The West Saxon spears were lowered. I had thought their rear ranks might throw spears, but none came, though Wihtgar’s men hurled spears over our heads. The blades thumped into West Saxon shields. ‘Break them!’ Æthelhelm shouted, and they came forward, still cautiously, men stepping around Waormund’s massive corpse. Their shields made a constant clatter, edge touching edge. They were close now, so close. They stared into our eyes, we stared into theirs. Men took a breath, steeling themselves for the clash of shields. Harsh voices were ordering them onwards. ‘Kill them!’ Ælfweard shouted excitedly. He had drawn a sword, but was staying well back from the fight.

‘For God and for the king!’ a West Saxon shouted, and then they came. They screamed, they shouted, they charged the last two paces, and our shields met with a thunder of clashing wood. My shield was pressed back, I heaved. An axe hacked at the rim, narrowly missing my face, a warrior with gritted teeth and a badly mended helmet was grimacing at me, just inches from my face. He was trying to thread a seax past my shield’s edge as the axeman attempted to pull my shield down, but the axe’s blade slipped from the rent it had made and I heaved again, pushing the grimacing man back, and Finan must have lunged his seax into him because he sank down, giving me space enough to lunge Serpent-Breath at the axeman.

Men were shouting. Blades were clashing. Priests were calling on their god to kill us. A Mercian spearman behind me thrust past my shield. I heard Æthelhelm’s voice, touched with panic, yelling at his men that they must close the gate. I looked up when he shouted and caught his eye an instant. ‘Close the gate!’ His voice was shrill. I looked away from him as an axe thumped on my shield. I shook the blade off as a Mercian spearman thrust a spear past me. I rammed Serpent-Breath forward, felt her strike wood and lunged again, but my elbow was jarred by Rumwald who had staggered against me. He was whimpering, then his shield fell and he sank down, the spearman behind me tried to take his place, but Rumwald was thrashing wildly, suddenly screaming in agony, and so stopped him. A West Saxon spear pierced Rumwald’s mail, then a merciful axe split his helmet, shattered his skull. The spearman lunged at Rumwald’s killer, but a West Saxon seized the ash shaft and tugged until Serpent-Breath skewered his armpit.