He stared at me. Ælfweard stared and Waormund stared and slowly it dawned on all three that, dishevelled as I was, I was their enemy. And for a heartbeat I swear I saw fear on Æthelhelm’s face. It came and it went, but he did edge his horse backwards. He said nothing.
‘I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg!’ I was talking to the West Saxons shield wall now. ‘Many of you have fought under my banner. We fought for Alfred, for Edward, for Wessex, and now you would die for that piece of weasel shit!’ I pointed Wasp-Sting at Ælfweard.
‘Kill him!’ Ælfweard squealed.
‘Lord?’ Waormund growled to his master.
‘Kill him,’ Æthelhelm snapped.
I was full of anger. Guthfrith ruled? Grief was thick inside me, threatening to overwhelm me, but I was angry too. Angry that Æthelhelm should think to give away my land, that his filthy nephew would be king of Bebbanburg’s fields. I just wanted to kill.
But Waormund wanted to kill too, and he was the bigger man, and I remembered his speed in a fight. He was skilled too, as skilled as any man with a sword, a spear, or an axe. He was younger, he was taller, he outreached me, and he was probably faster. I might have matched him for speed if my body had not been racked by his horse dragging me across fields, but I was sore, I ached, and I was weary.
But I was also angry. It was a cold anger holding grief at bay, an anger that wanted to destroy both Waormund and his reputation that had been made at my expense. He was walking slowly towards me, his heavy boots crunching the gravel of the road leading to the gate, his scarred face grinning. He carried no shield, just my sword.
I let my shield drop to the road, put Wasp-Sting into my left hand and drew the borrowed sword with my right. Finan made one last effort to stop me, coming towards me with an outstretched arm.
‘Step back, Irish scum,’ Waormund growled, ‘you’re next.’
‘My fight,’ I told Finan.
‘Lord …’
‘My fight,’ I said again, louder.
It occurred to me as I walked slowly towards my enemy that Æthelhelm had made a mistake. Why had he waited? Why had he not tried to overwhelm us and close the gates? And by letting Waormund fight me he gave Æthelstan more time to reach us. Or perhaps Æthelhelm knew more than I did, that the men he had sent to the western gates were already fighting the Mercian army beyond the walls, and that Æthelstan was too busy to come. I saw Æthelhelm look again to the walls, but again he showed no alarm. ‘Kill him, Waormund!’ he called.
‘Cripple him!’ Ælfweard commanded in a high voice. ‘I must kill him! Just cripple him for me!’
Waormund had stopped. He beckoned me with his left hand. ‘Come!’ he crooned as if I were a child. ‘Come and be crippled.’
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
