“The Romans, lord . . .” Bledod began, then faltered.

“The Romans what?” I asked.

Another word of command and the ring shrank again. Spears were leveled at the man and his branded horse. A score of Æthelstan’s warriors were now guarding the prisoners, herding them to one side of the arena while the dead made a tideline of bloody corpses by the entrance.

“The Romans should have stayed in Britain, lord,” Father Bledod said.

“Because?” I asked.

He hesitated, then gave me his sly grin again. “Because when they left, lord, the sais came.”

“We did,” I said, “we did.” We were the sais, we Saxons. Britain had never been our home any more than it was home to the Romans. They took it, they left, and we came and we took it. “And you hate us,” I said.

“We do indeed, lord.” Bledod was still smiling and I decided I liked him.

“But you fought against the Romans, didn’t you? Didn’t you hate them?”

“We hate everyone who steals our land, lord, but the Romans gave us Christianity.”

“And that was a good exchange?”

He laughed. “They left! They gave us back our land, so thanks to the Romans we had our land and we had the true faith.”

“Then we came.”

“Then you came,” he agreed. “But maybe you’ll leave too?”

It was my turn to laugh. “I think not, father. Sorry.”

Cynlæf was turning his horse continually, plainly fearing an assault from behind. His shield was limewashed white without any symbol. His helmet was chased with silver that glinted in the wintry sun. He wore his hair long like the Danes so that it flowed down his back. Æthelstan called out again, and once again the ring of spearmen contracted, men leaving the front rank as the weapons and shields tightened on Cynlæf.

“So what will happen now, lord?” Bledod asked.

“Happen?”

“To us, lord. To King Gruffudd’s men.”

“King Gruffudd?” I asked, amused. His kingdom was probably the size of a village, a patch of scrubby land with goats, sheep, and dung heaps. There were as many kings in Wales as fleas on a dog, though Hywel of Dyfed, whom I had met and liked, was swallowing those petty kingdoms to make one great one. Just as Wessex was swallowing Mercia, and, one day, would swallow Northumbria. “So he’s a king?”

“His father was before him,” Bledod said, as if that justified the title.

“I thought Arthfael was King of Gwent?”

“So he is, lord. Gruffudd is king beneath Arthfael.”

“How many kings does Gwent have?” I asked, amused.

“It’s a mystery, lord, like the trinity.”

Cynlæf suddenly spurred his horse forward and slashed down with his sword. He had little room to move, but doubtless he hoped he could cut his way through the circle of men, though he must have known the hope was desperate, and so it was. The sword crashed into a shield and suddenly men were all around him, reaching for him. Cynlæf tried to draw the sword back, but one of Æthelstan’s warriors leaped up and seized his sword arm. Another snatched the horse’s bridle, while a third seized Cynlæf’s long hair and dragged him backward. He fell, the horse reared and neighed, then the men backed away, and I saw Cynlæf being pulled to his feet. He was alive. For now.