The Sword of Wayland by Gavin Chappell

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  ‘Godiva!’ cried Oswald, searching desperately for her face amongst the yelling mob. ‘It’s a lie! A lie!’

  As he whirled his sword back and forth to keep back the surge of the crowd, who were intent on tearing to pieces the man who had insulted their beloved queen, he glimpsed Godiva’s father dragging her away. She cast a frightened glance over her shoulder, and their eyes met across the roaring crowd. Oswald’s heart sank as he saw in that brief flash of contact pain, anger, shame, and accusation. Did she believe the queen’s lies?

  Then the crowd rolled forward, a seething mob of flailing fists and roaring mouths. Though Oswald had to swing his sword back and forth to drive them away, they were blocking the way of the king’s men who were trying to get through the press and apprehend him.

  But Oswald’s sword-arm was aching. He couldn’t keep them back much longer. They were pelting him with the missiles they had brought to fling at the condemned man.

  He started hunting for an avenue of escape.

  The crowd encircled him, kicking and punching at him, eager to get under his guard and bring him down. It wasn’t often that they got their hands on a noble. Snarling like a wolf at bay, Oswald launched himself at those furthest from the struggling horsemen.

  A single flash of his blade and one was writhing in the mud, gushing blood from a gash that had opened him from gullet to midriff. Another slash and a second man fell back with a cry. Immediately, the crowd was fighting to get away from the swordsman.

  Oswald set upon them in a flurry, hacking a bloody swathe through the fleeing ranks. Throwing a look over his shoulder, he saw the king’s thanes were still forcing their way through the crowd. But now that the churls had seen Oswald’s mettle they were melting away, and so the passage of the horsemen was eased.

  Oswald turned tail and fled through the dispersing crowd.