He had tossed Wasp-Sting and her scabbard to one of his men, but kept my sword belt with Serpent-Breath’s scabbard for himself. He took off his own belt and sword, tossed them to a tall warrior, then buckled my belt about his waist. He took Serpent-Breath from the man who had disarmed me and ran a finger up the blood groove in her blade. ‘Mine,’ he said, almost crooning with joy, ‘mine,’ and I could have wept. Serpent-Breath! I had owned her almost all of my life, and she was a sword as fine as any in the world, a sword forged by Ealdwulf the Smith and given the sorcerous spells of a warrior and of a woman, and now I had lost her. I looked at her bright pommel where Hild’s silver cross glinted and all I could feel was despair and an impotent hatred.
Waormund laid my own sword’s blade against my neck and for a brief moment I thought his anger would make him cut, but instead he just spat again and then slid Serpent-Breath into her scabbard. ‘Back to the road!’ he called to his men. ‘Mount up!’
They would ride east to find the great road that led south to Lundene, the Roman road I had crossed that morning. Waormund led them through a gap in the hedge, though the gap was thick with brambles and the thorns ripped me as I stumbled after his horse. ‘Tread in my horse’s dung, earsling!’ Waormund shouted back at me.
The stubble of the pasture cut my feet as I staggered downhill. Twenty men rode ahead, Waormund followed, and another twenty rode behind us. Two horsemen, both with spears, flanked me. It had to be near midday, the sun was high and bright, and the road rutted with dried mud. I was thirsty, but all I could swallow was blood. I stumbled and the horse dragged me for a dozen paces, the mud and stones lacerating me until Waormund stopped, turned in his saddle and laughed as I struggled to my feet. ‘Keep up, earsling,’ he said and kicked his feet so the stallion jerked ahead and I almost fell again. The sudden jolt started blood from the wound in my left shoulder.
The road led through the coppiced beeches. Finan was hidden somewhere in this wood and I dared to hope that he would rescue me, but he had just six men, and Waormund had over forty. Waormund must have known that I had not been alone and I feared he would send men to find my companions, but it seemed he was content with his prize, his reputation was assured, and he would ride in triumph to Lundene where my enemies would watch me die in misery and pain.
We passed two priests and their two servants who were walking west towards Werlameceaster. They stood at the side of the road and watched me stumble by. ‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg!’ Waormund boasted to them. ‘Uhtred the Pagan! On his way to death!’ One of the priests made the sign of the cross, but neither spoke.
I staggered again, fell again, and was torn by the road again. I did it twice more. Slow them down, I was thinking, slow them down, though what that would achieve other than delaying my death I did not know. Waormund became angry with me, but then ordered one of his men to dismount and I was draped over the empty saddle, though still tied to his stallion’s tail. The dismounted man walked beside me and amused himself by slapping my naked arse, crowing with laughter with each slap.
We went faster now that I could no longer stumble, and the Roman road soon came in sight. It ran north and south through a wide and shallow valley, while far beyond it I could glimpse a silvery stretch of the River Ligan. The land here was good and plump, rich with pastureland and thick crops, with orchards heavy with ripening fruit, and stands of valuable woodland. Waormund ordered his men to trot, forcing my arse-slapping guard to hold onto the empty stirrup as he ran beside the horse. ‘We’ll make Lundene by nightfall!’ Waormund shouted at his men.
‘Use the river, lord?’ a man suggested. I gave a croak of laughter to hear Waormund addressed as ‘lord’. He did not hear me, but the man whose horse carried me did and he slapped me again.
‘I hate boats,’ Waormund snarled.
‘A ship might be quicker, lord?’ the man suggested. ‘And safer?’
‘Safer?’ Waormund sneered. ‘We’re not in danger! The only troops Pretty Boy has near here are at Werlameceaster, and they’re useless.’ He turned in his saddle to enjoy looking at me. ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘what do we do with the horses?’
I wondered how he had found the beasts. He had followed me up the river and there had been no horses in his big ship, yet now he had mustered forty or more. Had he somehow gone all the way back to Lundene to find the horses? That seemed unlikely. ‘We could take the horses back to Toteham, lord?’ the man suggested. ‘And you take the earsling to Lundene by river?’
‘Those lazy bastards in Toteham can piss into the wind,’ Waormund growled, ‘and we’ll keep their damned horses.’
I had no idea where Toteham was, but plainly it was not far away. I knew that Merewalh was in Werlameceaster, and I supposed that Æthelhelm had sent troops to watch him and harass his forage parties. Maybe those troops were at Toteham where Waormund had found his horses, but what did any of that matter? I was bloody, bruised, and naked, a captive of my enemy, and doomed.
I closed my eyes lest any of my enemies saw tears. There was a clatter of hooves on stone as the leading horsemen reached the Roman road and there we turned
