Then the leader of the horsemen saw us and held up his hand to check his men. The horses turned towards us, their big hooves churning the wet turf to muddy ruin. ‘What’s on the shields?’ I asked Finan.

‘Some are showing a bull’s head,’ he answered, ‘with bloody horns, and the rest are crossed swords.’

‘Then they’re Centishmen,’ I said, feeling relief, and just then the newcomers saw our shields showing the leaping stag, they saw our dark red cloaks, and their swords slid free of scabbards, their spurs went back and the spears were lowered.

‘Drop your weapons!’ I shouted to my men. ‘Drop the shields!’ The big horses were lumbering up the damp slope, spear-points glittering. I ran a few paces towards them, stopped, and rammed Serpent-Breath point first into the turf. ‘No fight!’ I shouted at the approaching horsemen. I spread my arms to show that I carried no weapons or shield.

The leading horseman curbed his stallion and held his sword aloft to check his men. The horses snorted and scraped at the wet pasture with heavy hooves. I walked on down the gentle slope as the Centish leader nudged his horse towards me. He stopped and pointed his sword towards me. ‘Are you surrendering, old man?’ he asked.

‘Who are you?’ I demanded.

‘The man who’ll kill you if you don’t surrender.’ He looked past me towards my men. If it had not been for the silver cross hanging at his neck and for the symbols on his men’s shields I might have taken him for a Dane or a Norseman. He wore his black hair very long, cascading to his waist from beneath his fine silver-chased helmet. His mail was polished, while his bridle and saddle were studded with small silver stars. His tall, mud-spattered boots were of the finest leather and carried long silver spurs. His sword, which he still held towards me, had delicate golden decorations on its crosspiece. ‘Are you surrendering or dying?’ he asked.

‘I’m asking who are you?’ I said harshly.

He looked at me as if I were a piece of dung while he decided whether or not to answer. He finally did, but with a sneer. ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Awyrgan of Contwaraburg. And you are?’

‘I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ I said, just as arrogantly, and that answer provoked a satisfying reaction. Awyrgan, his name meant ‘cursed’ so I assumed he had chosen the name himself rather than been christened with it, lowered the sword so that it pointed at the wet grass, then just stared at me in astonishment. He saw a bedraggled, grey-bearded, mud-covered warrior in battered mail and with a scarred helmet. I stared at him and saw a handsome young man with dark eyes, a straight long nose, and a clean-shaven chin. I suspected Awyrgan of Contwaraburg had been born to privilege and could not imagine a life without it. ‘Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ I added, stressing the ‘lord’.

‘Truly?’ he asked, then hastily added, ‘Lord.’