After several months of defence coaching, Asculf set aside his paternal affections and went on the attack, rapping his son’s knuckles hard enough to break his hand. The boy yelped, dropped his wooden practice sword and ran indoors in tears. The ealdorman’s lip curled into the faintest of smiles then he sat on an upturned barrel and waited. When Raedulf returned red-eyed, rubbing his hand and glowering, his father stood slowly to continue training. The boy snatched up his weapon and committed the error Asculf had deliberately provoked by hurting him. Rushing forward in a rage, frantic and vengeful, the novice swordsman, his pride throbbing more than his hand, lunged wildly, the wooden blade flailing. Expertly, with ease that increased the lad’s fury, the ealdorman parried every blow. Seeing
