But I saw nought of the battle that was at Pen-Selwood, and even as I heard thereof from men who had left the levy, the greatest battle of all was being fought within a morning's ride of us, at Sherston.
Two days that battle raged, and all men say that Eadmund would surely have chased the Danes in the end to their ships, but for a trick of Edric Streone's.

It was another count in the long score against him, and I seemed to see that the words of the witch of Senlac were coming true--his shadow was over our king, for ill in all things.
The battle was going against Cnut--once Eadmund himself had cut his way through the press of Danes before their king, and had almost come to hand strokes with him, but had been borne back.

And then Streone's eyes lit on one Osmer, a warrior of the Danish host, standing near him, and he saw that he was like our king.

Therefore he slew him, and set his head on a spear, and rode forward to where the English line pressed most hardly on the Danish ranks.

There he raised the head aloft, shouting in his great voice: "Fly, English, fly! Eadmund is dead.