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Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
  3. BY MATTHEW HARFFY
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright
  6. Dedication
  7. Maps
  8. Epigraph
  9. Contents
  10. Place Names
  11. One
  12. Two
  13. Three
  14. Four
  15. Five
  16. Six
  17. Seven
  18. Eight
  19. Nine
  20. Ten
  21. Eleven
  22. Twelve
  23. Thirteen
  24. Fourteen
  25. Fifteen
  26. Sixteen
  27. Seventeen
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Twenty-One
  32. Twenty-Two
  33. Twenty-Three
  34. Twenty-Four
  35. Twenty-Five
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. Thirty-Two
  43. Thirty-Three
  44. Thirty-Four
  45. Thirty-Five
  46. Thirty-Six
  47. Thirty-Seven
  48. Thirty-Eight
  49. Thirty-Nine
  50. Forty
  51. Forty-One
  52. Forty-Two
  53. Forty-Three
  54. Forty-Four
  55. Forty-Five
  56. Forty-Six
  57. Forty-Seven
  58. Forty-Eight
  59. Forty-Nine
  60. Fifty
  61. Fifty-One
  62. Fifty-Two
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Sixty-Two
  73. Author’s Note
  74. Acknowledgements
  75. About the Author
  76. An Invitation from the Publisher

“Keep pulling,” shouted Runolf, an edge of desperation I had never before heard in his voice. We needed that sail up so that we could catch the wind and sail before it, turning the stern towards the waves. Brymsteda would then cease the dangerous and stomach-twisting rolling, and would be able to surf the huge crests, instead of being buffeted by them. I knew that without pausing to reef the sail, the mast would surely have splintered, or the sail would have torn asunder, either possibility disastrous for us, but every moment the sail was not raised, the more likelihood we had of being swamped or capsized by one of the great waves towering above us.

The hemp rope was rough, wet and cold in my hands as I heaved with everyone else, leaning back as if I was pulling on one of Brymsteda’s long oars, and lending my strength to raise the yard. But something was wrong. It was getting harder to move the rope and men were shouting, their words lost over the rage of the storm. Looking up, I saw that somehow, perhaps while Alf’s men had hurried with the reefing, one side of the sail had become tangled in a rope. It was snagged and would not drop to catch the wind.

Alf was shouting at his men and Runolf’s voice rose above the storm and the men’s fearful cries. He fought to remain calm, but I could hear the edge of panic there.

“Lower the yard and free that sail,” Runolf shouted. “Now!”

We brought the yard back down and once again the ship rolled terribly, unstable and rocking with the long yard and heavy sail resting across her beam. The instant the yard was lowered, one of Alf’s crew clambered up onto it and shimmied along to where the sail was snagged. The man clung on as the sea crashed against the ship, dousing him more than once in the waves. With a start, I recognised Gwawrddur, and recalled the conversation I’d had with Leofstan. Perhaps this was the Welshman’s way of confronting his fear of the sea.

Whatever the reason for his actions, there could be no denying his bravery. He was far out over the dark waters now, clinging on with one hand and tugging at the ropes that were preventing the sail from being lowered correctly. Another man scrambled onto the yard behind Gwawrddur. It was Os, the jester, but he was serious now. The two men shouted at one another, but I could not make out their words from where I watched. Then I understood their plan. Alf handed Os a knife, which in turn he passed to Gwawrddur. Moments later, Gwawrddur had sawn through the rope, untangling the sail.