In the days that followed, as Runolf pushed us ever harder to test us and Brymsteda to the limits, I watched Gwawrddur become more taciturn and surly. I contemplated speaking to him of his fears, but in the end thought better of it. Some battles a man must face alone. Perhaps, I hoped, once we had crossed the North Sea, he would feel that he had conquered this particular adversary. There was certainly no doubt that he was brave. His face was ashen whenever we put to sea, and yet he did not complain and his movements were not sluggish or reserved. When called upon, he acted without delay. And yet all the while I could see that he was swallowing his terror of the deep, biting back the scream of horror that threatened to burst from his throat.

Despite Gwawrddur and Eadmaer being less than elated by the prospect of the upcoming voyage, the preparations proceeded with pace. Mancas and his steward had amassed provisions enough for several days. Barrels of smoked herring, salted hams, ale and water, were brought down to the river’s edge by cart, and then loaded aboard. We also took gifts for the king of Rygjafylki and trade goods, items to show the quality of produce Northumbria could provide. There were bales of good wool cloth wrapped in oiled leather against the rain and sea, barrels of precious woad pigment and a finely carved coffer that contained exquisite silverware made by the best craftsmen in Eoforwic. By the time we had finished lading Brymsteda, she sat low in the water and Runolf grumbled that she would no longer handle like a serpent atop the waves but more like a pig wallowing in mud.

Runolf’s comment did nothing to allay whatever fears Gwawrddur had, and the Welshman scowled as we made our way aboard.