Those of us who had not sailed before grew in confidence. Some soon appeared to feel more at home aboard ship than on land, surprising even themselves. Drosten took to sailing as naturally as he had to carving. Even when Brymsteda yawed over in a strong wind, seeing men clinging to the wales and shrouds to keep their footing, Drosten would hurry along the deck with the uncanny balance of a cat.

“Are you sure your father was not a Norseman?” shouted Runolf to the Pict one day when Drosten had effortlessly run along the deck to snatch up a loose rope that had slipped from Cumbra’s grasp.

“My father was Galanan,” shouted Drosten, his tattoos accentuating his scowl at Runolf’s comment. “I am no son of a Norseman.”

Runolf laughed and held up his hands.

“I meant no offence, friend,” he said. “But you walk the deck like one born aboard a wave-steed!”

Drosten glowered, still unsure if he, or his family, was being insulted.

“I don’t know which I would be more upset about,” said Os, loud enough for all to hear. “To be fathered by a Pict or a Norseman!”

Pendrad and Oswald laughed, but quickly fell silent as both Runolf and Drosten, the two most imposing warriors on board, turned their furious faces towards Os. The Northumbrian mumbled something about only jesting and found a knot in the rigging that he suddenly felt the need to check.

Only two members of the crew did not seem pleased with our progress. The first was Eadmaer.

Eadmaer performed his duties as ordered, but he was never quick about it and his face wore a perpetual frown. When Runolf was nearby, the fisherman from Lindisfarnae grew sullen and withdrawn, watching the tall Norseman from under his brows. He never spoke out against him, but it was clear to everyone that he resented Runolf and how he had made an example of him on our first voyage.

One evening, just after we had moored at the staithe and the men were making their way to the hall and their homes, I pulled Eadmaer to one side. As I tugged at his sleeve, he spun about and for a heartbeat, I thought he might strike me. When he saw it was me, he sighed and shook his head. Turning, he followed the others to trudge up to the hall.

“Wait,” I called, but he did not slow. I hurried along and fell into step beside him. I had barely spoken to him since he had arrived, but I could see that his feelings of resentment would fester over time if they were not dealt with. “Runolf is a good man,” I said. “You would do well to believe that.”

“A good man?” he hissed, spinning to face me. “His kind killed my brother.” His face was dark with hatred. “He almost killed me.”

I shook my head.