Chapters (76)
- Cover
- Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
- BY MATTHEW HARFFY
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Maps
- Epigraph
- Contents
- Place Names
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- An Invitation from the Publisher
The crew were standing now, shouting encouragement at the men in the water, and urging Snell to throw true. He threw the rope a second time, and it snaked out towards the swimmer, but again fell short.
The watching crew groaned.
Quickly, but calmly, Snell reeled in the rope again, coiling it as it came.
“Come on,” I muttered. “Come on!”
I don’t know if Snell heard me, but a third time he sent the rope out towards the pair in the sea. Perhaps the ship, that was already turning and moving towards the south, had closed the gap slightly, or maybe Eadmaer’s valiant efforts had brought them slightly nearer salvation, or mayhap Snell’s throw was better. Maybe God listened to the prayers of those aboard. Whatever the cause, this time, just as Brymsteda’s sail caught the wind, pulling us forward with a surging motion, the wet rope slapped into Eadmaer’s face. He grasped the hemp cord and a great cheer went up from all the men watching.
I grabbed the rope and helped Snell pull the two men through the water. Leofstan and the others of the Aft crew caught hold of the rope behind us, lending their hands to the work. By the time we had pulled Gwawrddur and Eadmaer over the side, bedraggled, chilled and pale as death, Brymsteda was already sailing smoothly again, stern to the storm. We rode up a large wave, sliding down the other side. The rain still fell and the wind gusted, but the keel now slipped through the water, holding the deck relatively stable. After the recent tossing and rolling, the ship now seemed almost as solid as being on firm earth. With the sail hoisted and the ship underway once more, it felt possible that disaster had been averted. Perhaps we would survive this sudden storm after all.
Eadmaer was coughing, retching and spitting. He had been in the water for a long time and was now shivering uncontrollably. I could scarcely believe he yet lived. Someone wrapped him in a blanket, pulling him to his feet.
Looking down at the water-washed deck, my stomach clenched. I recalled what Runolf had said when he had named Brymsteda. That Njörðr always needed an offering. I shuddered. It seemed that the offering of mead had not been enough to appease the pagan sea god. A sacrifice of a life was what he desired. For there, at my feet, sprawled Gwawrddur, pallid and unbreathing.
Twenty-Two
I stared down, aghast at Gwawrddur’s pale face. His hair plastered his forehead and cheeks. His eyes were half open, white showing behind the parted lids. Brymsteda’s prow hit a wave and the ship trembled. I stumbled, but I could not drag my gaze away from the grey pallor of the dead Welshman.
“I can help him,” said a heavily accented voice.
It was Ahmad.
“What can you do?” I asked. “He is dead.”