He drew level with the oak that had concealed him, and began to hope that he would get away without being noticed. A moment later that hope was dashed. He saw two men and a woman running from the alehouse toward the river. By their dress he knew they were villagers. A man-at-arms came after them, sword in hand, and Edgar recognized Bada. Fighting had broken out.

Edgar cursed. He could not pass them: they were faster than the raft. This was dangerous. If he was captured, Garulf would not let him leave Outhenham. He was known to be an associate of Ragna’s, and in the middle of a coup that might be enough reason for Garulf to kill him.

One of the peasant men stumbled and fell. Edgar saw that he had floury white streaks in his dark beard: he was Wilmund the baker, and the two with him were his wife, Regenhild, and their son, Penda, now nineteen and taller than ever.

Regenhild stopped and turned to help Wilmund. As Bada raised his sword she flew at him, weaponless, her hands extended to scratch his face. He swung his sword through the air uselessly and pushed her away with his left hand, raising his right to strike at Wilmund again.

Then Penda intervened. He picked up a rock the size of a fist and hurled it. It hit Bada in the chest, hard enough to throw him off balance so that his second sword stroke also went wild.

The raft drew level with the fighters.

Edgar was full of fear, and desperate to get away, but he could not watch and do nothing while people he knew were murdered. He dropped his pole, leaped from the raft to the bank of the canal, and drew his iron-headed hammer from his belt.

Wilmund got to his knees. Bada thrust with his sword and this time hit his target, though obliquely. His point entered the soft part of Wilmund’s thigh, next to the hip, and went in deep. Regenhild screamed and knelt beside her husband. Bada lifted his weapon to dispatch her.

Edgar ran at him, hammer raised high, and hit him with all his might.

At the last moment Bada moved to the left, and Edgar’s hammer landed on his shoulder. There was an audible snap as a bone broke. Bada roared with pain. His right arm went limp and his sword fell from his hand. He dropped to the ground, groaning.

But Bada was not alone. Pounding steps from the village alerted Edgar. He looked back to see another man-at-arms approaching. It was Stiggy.

Regenhild and Penda got Wilmund to his feet. He was crying out in agony but he managed to put one foot in front of the other and the three of them staggered away. Stiggy ignored the helpless peasants and headed for Edgar, who with his hammer in his hand was evidently the one who had wounded Stiggy’s comrade Bada. Edgar knew he was only moments away from death.

He turned and dashed toward the canal. The raft had drifted several yards. He heard running steps behind him. Reaching the edge he leaped through the air and landed on the stones.

Turning back, he saw the baker’s family disappear into the houses. They were safe, at least for now.

He saw Stiggy picking up rocks from the ground.

Fighting down panic he lay flat, sticking his hammer into his belt, and rolled into the water on the far side of the raft just as a large rock flew over his head. Brindle jumped into the water alongside him.

He grabbed the side of the raft with one hand and ducked his head. He heard a series of thuds and guessed that Stiggy’s rocks were hitting the quarry stones. He heard Buttress’s hooves stamp, and hoped his pony would not be hurt.

His feet touched the far bank of the canal. He turned in the water and pushed the raft in the direction of the river as hard as he could. He put his face above the surface just long enough to fill his lungs, then submerged again.

He noticed a slight change in the water temperature and guessed he was at the end of the canal and feeling the colder river water.

The raft emerged from the mouth of the canal and he felt the current. He put his head up—and saw Stiggy leap from the bank toward the raft.

The distance looked too great, and he allowed himself to hope that Stiggy would land in the water or, even better, miss by an inch and injure himself on the timbers. But Stiggy just made it. For a moment he stood precariously on the edge of the raft, windmilling his arms, and Edgar prayed he would fall backward into the river; but he regained his balance and crouched with both hands flat on the cargo of quarry stones.

Then he stood up and drew his sword.

Edgar knew he was in danger, more danger than he had faced since he confronted a Viking in Sunni’s dairy at Combe. Stiggy was standing on the deck with a sword in his hand and Edgar was in the water with a hammer in his belt.

Perhaps, he thought hopefully, Stiggy would jump into the river to grapple, thereby losing the advantage of a solid footing. In the water, the short-handled hammer would be easier to deploy than the long sword.

Unfortunately there was a limit to Stiggy’s stupidity. He remained on the raft and thrust at Edgar. Edgar dodged the sword and ducked under the raft.

Here Stiggy could not hurt him, but on the other hand Edgar could not breathe. He was a strong swimmer and could hold his breath for a long time, but eventually he would have to put his head up above the surface again.

He might have to abandon the raft. He still had Ragna’s money and the hammer. He swam as deep as he could go, hoping to get beyond the length of Stiggy’s sword, then turned away from the raft and moved toward the far bank, fearing that at any second he would feel the point of the sword in his back. The water became shallower and he knew he was at the river’s edge. He rolled over and surfaced, gasping.

He was several yards from the raft. Stiggy stood on the deck, sword in hand, looking around desperately, not seeing Edgar lying in the shallows.

If Edgar could crawl a few yards and vanish into the woods before Stiggy spotted him he could get away. Stiggy would not know where he had gone. Edgar would be sorry to lose Buttress, but his life was more precious. Alive, he could build another raft and buy another pony.

Then Brindle came out of the water, shook herself dry, and barked at Stiggy, who looked at the dog, then spotted Edgar. Too late, Edgar thought, and got to his feet.

Stiggy sheathed his sword, picked up the pole, and pushed the raft toward the bank.

Edgar was no match for Stiggy, who was taller and heavier and well practiced in violence. He realized his only chance would be to attack Stiggy as soon as he jumped, before he had the chance to steady himself on land and draw his sword.

Edgar drew the hammer from his belt and ran along the bank after the raft, which was slowly drifting downstream. Stiggy poled toward the water’s edge. They were on a collision course.

Stiggy drew his sword and jumped, and Edgar saw his chance.

The man-at-arms landed in the shallows and Edgar lashed out with his hammer; but Stiggy stumbled and Edgar missed, landing only a glancing blow on Stiggy’s left arm.

Stiggy stepped onto the riverside mud and reached for his sword.

Edgar was quick. He kicked Stiggy, striking his knee. It was not a severe blow but it sufficed to keep Stiggy off balance. Drawing his sword, Stiggy swung wildly, missing Edgar, then slipped on the mud and fell.

Edgar jumped onto Stiggy’s chest, landing with his knees, feeling ribs break, getting too close for Stiggy to use his long sword.

Edgar knew he probably had the chance to strike one blow, no more. The first might be the last, so it had to be fatal.

He swung the short hammer as he did when forcing an oak wedge into a crack in the limestone quarry, putting all the power of his right arm into the one blow that had to save his life. His arm was strong, the hammerhead was iron, and Stiggy’s forehead was mere skin and bone. It was like breaking thick ice on a winter pond. Edgar felt the hammer smash the skull and saw it plunge into the soft brain beneath. Stiggy’s body went limp.

Edgar remembered Seric, the wise headman, the caring grandfather, and he saw again the way Stiggy had plunged his sword into that good man’s body; and as he looked at Stiggy’s smashed head he thought: I just made the world a better place.

He looked across the river. No one had seen the fight. No one would know who had killed Stiggy. Garulf and his men did not know that Edgar was in the vicinity, and the villagers would not tell them.

Then he realized that the raft was a giveaway. If he left it here it would be obvious that he had killed Stiggy and fled.

He waded to the raft, accompanied by Brindle, and climbed aboard. He gave the trembling Buttress a reassuring pat. He retrieved the pole, which Stiggy had dropped in the water.

Then he pushed off, heading downstream toward Dreng’s Ferry.

* * *