Every part of his body was battered and bruised. The Mercians galloped south, scattering flocks, swinging spears and swords at man or beast that got in their way. These men were pagans who worshipped Woden and Thunor the thunder-god. They made horrible blood sacrifices and he was terribly afraid that they meant to sacrifice him. Penda stopped at noon in a small village that they terrorised with threats and demands. The poor inhabitants ran to bring bread, cheese, smoked pigs’ haunches and their best ale. After another brief rest they rode southwards again and Egfrid fell into a deep, creeping misery. When darkness came, they stopped again, throwing the boy into a patch of heather. He lay helpless as the men rushed to assist Penda down from his horse. Egfrid shut his eyes and prayed that he’d wake to find he’d been riding the nightmare. If his father heard how he’d opened his mouth and stupidly given himself away, there’d be little sympathy from him for his plight. What a fool he’d been.
