I thought about that day as I watched Cynlæf’s men die. All had been stripped of their mail, stripped of anything of value. They shivered as, one by one, they were led to their deaths. Æthelstan must have remembered that distant day too because he used his youngest warriors as his executioners, doubtless wanting them to learn the lesson he had learned beside that ditch, that killing a man is hard. Killing a helpless man with a sword takes resolve. You look into their eyes, see their fear, smell it too. And a man’s neck is tough. Few of the thirty-three died cleanly. Some were hacked to death, and the old arena smelled as it must have smelled when the Romans filled the tiered seats and cheered the men fighting on the sand below; a stink of blood, shit, and piss.

Æthelstan had killed Eardwulf quickly enough. He had not tried to hack off the rebel’s head, but had instead used Serpent-Breath to cut Eardwulf’s throat, and I had watched the ditch turn red. And Eardwulf had been Eadith’s brother, and Eadith was now my wife.

Cynlæf died last. I thought Æthelstan might kill the rebel leader himself, but instead he summoned his servant, a boy who would grow to be a warrior, and gave him the sword. Cynlæf’s hands were bound, and he had been forced to his knees. “Do it, boy,” Æthelstan ordered, and I saw the youngster close his eyes as he swung the sword. He slammed the edge into Cynlæf’s skull, knocking him sideways and drawing blood, but Cynlæf had hardly been hurt. His left ear was sliced open, but the boy’s blow had lacked force. A priest, there were always priests with Æthelstan, raised his voice as he chanted a prayer. “Swing again, lad,” Æthelstan said.

“And keep your eyes open!” I shouted.

It took seven blows to kill Cynlæf. Those of his men whom Æthelstan had spared would swear new oaths to a new lord, they would be Æthelstan’s men.

So the rebellion was defeated, at least in this part of Mercia. The fyrd, dragged from their fields and flocks, had gone to their homes leaving only melting snow, the ashes of campfires, and Gruffudd’s Welshmen who waited beside Cynlæf’s tents.

“He calls himself a king,” I told Æthelstan as we walked toward the tents.

“Kingship comes from God,” Æthelstan said. I was surprised by that response. I had merely been trying to amuse him, but Æthelstan was in a grim mood after the killings. “He should have told us he was a king last night,” he said disapprovingly.

“He was in a humble mood,” I said, “and wanted a favor. Besides, he’s probably king of three dung heaps, a ditch, and a midden. Nothing more.”

“I still owe him respect. He’s a Christian king.”

“He’s a mucky Welsh chieftain,” I said, “who calls himself a king until someone who owns two more dung heaps than he does comes and slices his head off. And he’d slice your head off too if he could. You can’t trust the Welsh.”