“It will be some time before any of us can get dry and warm,” called Runolf from where he stood at the helm. “We must run before this storm for a while yet. Get those wet clothes off him and wrap him up well. The sea’s cold grip remains on a man for a long while after he has been plucked from the waves.”

I helped Leofstan pull off Gwawrddur’s sodden kirtle and breeches, finding another blanket and a damp cloak of Scurfa’s to wrap him in. Gwawrddur was shivering uncontrollably now, but he looked into my eyes and thanked me, speaking through the chattering of his teeth.

“Don’t thank me,” I said. “It was Eadmaer who saved you.” I glanced over at where Ahmad grappled with the rigging, his teeth bright as he grimaced with the effort. “And Ahmad,” I added.

Mancas brought a small flask of mead and we poured some of the sweet liquid down Gwawrddur’s throat. He struggled to swallow it at first, choking and coughing again. But when he managed to keep it down, it seemed to soothe and warm him, and his trembling subsided somewhat.

By this time the ship was sailing well again, and it appeared that any imminent danger had passed.

Mancas beckoned Eadmaer over. The fisherman had shed his wet tunic and he now wore an expensive looking kirtle with patterned edging. I recognised it as belonging to Arcenbryht, and I thought again of the strength of the bonds that are formed at sea. I could not imagine a warrior of Arcenbryht’s status lending his good clothes to one as lowly as the fisherman from Lindisfarnae under normal circumstances.

“You did well,” Lord Mancas said, pouring a cup of mead and offering it to Eadmaer. “What you did showed great courage.”

“It showed great stupidity,” shouted Runolf from his position at the steerboard.

Eadmaer drained the cup. He scowled at Runolf’s words, but before he could reply, Mancas held up a hand.

“Perhaps it was foolhardy to leap into the sea,” he said, “but there can be none here who can doubt that it was also brave. Would you not throw yourself into the fray to aid a comrade in peril, Runolf?” The Norseman glowered, but said nothing. “And it would seem that Eadmaer has a skill that many of us lack.” Runolf raised a questioning eyebrow. “He can swim!” Mancas laughed and, though there was little of mirth in his words, several of the men joined in with gusto, seemingly anxious to feel laughter’s release.

Gwawrddur’s recovery buoyed the crew’s spirits. One of our own had been plucked from certain death. This was surely a good omen. In spite of the sudden wrath of the storm that had threatened to engulf us, we told ourselves that God was on our side and had answered our prayers when Eadmaer hauled Gwawrddur out of the deep.