The strong winds carried us south and east, away from land and out into the deep waters of the North Sea. Runolf held on tightly to the thrumming tiller, as Brymsteda rode the waves. He was grim-faced and sombre, concerned perhaps that we were being carried so far from the path he had set for us. But, despite Runolf’s tight-lipped worry, the mood aboard lightened from the doom-laden fear that had gripped us.

Now that the sails were set, there was little for us to do, so we concentrated on getting ourselves warm and fed. Scurfa handed out some dried ham and stale bread, and I chewed on it even though I had no appetite. We slid up onto the crest of a huge wave, and down the other side. Spray and surf splashed over the wale, drenching me and the bread in my hand. I bit off more, and chewed, grimacing at the taste of the sea.

“I find the salt gives it extra flavour,” said Scurfa with a grin.

I smiled in return, feeling some of the terrible tension leaving me.

“And the water softens it enough to allow me to chew it too,” I said.

Picking up some of the food, I carried it to Gwawrddur and Leofstan who sat together between two thwarts, their backs to the strakes. They were huddled close, covered by blankets and cloaks, Leofstan giving his warmth to the shivering Welshman. I crouched down beside them as they chewed the bread and ham. The sounds of the wind and waves were muffled here, and the gale didn’t reach down into this hollow. The rain had mercifully stopped, and I wondered if that meant we were outrunning the clouds. But even down here, we were still very exposed, and from time to time spray spattered the deck around us. The voices of the crew were distant and muted, but there were new sounds here. The rush of water sliding along the strakes, causing the ship’s timbers to flex and groan like a living, breathing thing.

“How do you fare?” I asked Gwawrddur.

He nodded, shivering as he chewed. Despite the dry blankets, and the relatively secluded position on the ship, without a fire, Gwawrddur would not find warmth. I wondered how long he could go on shivering so. His skin was the pale colour of a mackerel’s belly.

I handed him the small leather flask of mead that Mancas had left with us to help warm the men who had been submerged. With shaking fingers, Gwawrddur took the flask, but he failed several attempts to unstopper it. His fingers fumbled at the neck of the vessel, clumsy, finding no purchase. Eventually, he raised it to his mouth and yanked out the stopper with his teeth. Taking a long draught of the mead, he smirked.