And the last horseman to come was Waormund.
I had met him only once before that fight in the old house beside Lundene’s river, and at that first meeting I had humiliated him by slapping his face. It was an ugly face, a flat face slashed from his right eyebrow to his lower left jaw by a battle scar. He had a bristling brown beard, eyes dead as stone, and a thin-lipped mouth. He was a huge man, taller even than me, a man to place at the centre of a shield wall to terrify an enemy. This day he rode a great black stallion, the bridle and saddle trimmed with silver. He leaned on the pommel, staring at me, then smiled, except the smile looked more like a grimace. ‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ he said.
I said nothing. I gripped Serpent-Breath’s hilt. I prayed that I would die with the sword in my hand.
‘Lost your tongue, lord?’ Waormund asked. I still said nothing. ‘We’ll cut it out before you die,’ he promised, ‘and cut your balls off too.’
Everything dies. We all die. And all that is left of us is reputation. I hoped I would be remembered as a warrior, as a just man, and as a good lord. And perhaps this miserable death by a hedge would be forgotten. My screams would fade, and reputation would echo on in the songs men sang in the hall. And Waormund? He had a reputation too, and his renown was cruelty. He would be remembered as a man who could dominate a shield wall, but who delighted in making men suffer and in making women suffer. Yet just as I was known as the man who had killed Ubba by the sea and as the warrior who had slain Cnut, so Waormund would be known as the man who had killed Uhtred of Bebbanburg.
He dismounted. He wore mail beneath the red cloak. Around his neck was a silver chain, and his helmet was ringed by silver, the symbols that showed he was one of Lord Æthelhelm’s commanders, a warrior to lead warriors, a man to fight his lord’s battles. For a moment I dared hope he would face me in single combat, but instead he gestured for his troops to dismount. ‘Take him,’ he said.
Eight long ash-hafted spears surrounded and threatened me. One blade, its edge touched by rust, was at my throat. For a heartbeat I thought to raise Serpent-Breath and beat that spear away and hack at the men who faced me, and perhaps I should have fought, but fate had me in her grip, fate told me I had come to the end, and everything ends. I did nothing.
A frightened man stepped between the spears and took Serpent-Breath from me. I resisted, but the rust-edged spear-blade pricked my throat and I let my sword go. Another man came from my left and kicked my legs, forcing me to my knees. I was ringed by enemies, Serpent-Breath was gone, and I could not fight back.
Everything ends.
Ten
It seemed I was not to die by the hedge. Waormund wanted reputation. He wanted to be known as Waormund Uhtredslayer, and a killing by a hedge would not inspire the poets to write songs about his prowess. He wanted to carry me in triumph to his master, to Æthelhelm my enemy, and he wanted the news of my death to be carried along the Roman roads till all Britain knew and feared the name of Waormund Uhtredslayer.
Yet if my death was not to be swift, I was still to be humbled. He walked towards me slowly, relishing the moment. He said nothing, just nodded grimly to a man standing close behind me. I thought for a heartbeat that was my end, that a knife was about to slice my throat, but instead the man just lifted off my helmet, and Waormund slapped me.
That was revenge for the slap I had given him years before, but this slap was no mere insult as mine had been. It was a fearful blow that threw me sideways, as bad and painful a blow as the stone that had been hurled from Heahburh’s high wall to split my helmet and lay me low. My sight suddenly blackened, my head spun, while my skull filled with sound, darkness, and pain. And that, perhaps, was a blessing, because I was not really aware as they ripped the hammer amulet from about my neck, unbuckled my sword belt, took Wasp-Sting, stripped my mail coat, tugged off my boots, slit my shirt, then kicked my naked body. I could hear men’s laughter, felt the warmth as they pissed on me, and then I was forced to my feet, my head still ringing, and they lashed my wrists in front of me and tied the rope to the tail of Waormund’s horse. They wove the stallion’s tail into two plaits that they tied into a loop of the rope to make sure I could not drag the tether loose.
Waormund, towering above me, spat into my face. ‘Lord Æthelhelm wants to speak with you,’ he said, ‘and his nephew wants to make you scream.’
I said nothing. There was blood in my mouth, one ear was pain, I was staggering with dizziness. I suppose I must have looked at him, one of my eyes half-closed, because I remember he spat again and laughed. ‘King Ælfweard wants to make you scream. He’s good at that.’ I said nothing, which angered him and he hit me in the belly, his face distorted with hatred. I folded over, breathless, and he seized my hair and dragged my head up. ‘The king will want to kill
