“I told you I was not frightened of the sea,” he said, his voice jagged from the shaking that still had a hold of him. I thought of how he had climbed out along the yard to free the sail. I nodded.

“I should never have accused you of being frightened.”

“Oh, I am frightened, sure enough,” he replied, chuckling through his clicking teeth. “But not of the sea.”

His words confused me.

“Then what are you scared of?”

“Drowning!” he said, and let out a barking laugh that quickly became a coughing fit.

Shaking my head, I picked my way past Gersine, Sygbald, Scurfa and Ahmad, whose dark skin was sallow from his exertions, and moved to where Runolf was leaning against the steerboard’s tiller.

“How does he do?” he asked.

“He’s not one to complain.” I looked past the high stern. The world behind us was enveloped in darkness. There was no sign of land. White gulls swooped in the sky and dotted the waters of our wake. “He needs fire. I fear for him if he can’t get warm soon.”

Runolf grunted.

“He’ll be getting no warmth for a while.” He pushed his thick red hair out of his eyes. “But when the winds lessen, I will turn us back towards the coast.”

I stared along the length of the ship. The dark sea rolled away to the grey horizon.

“Could we not just continue on east until we reach your homeland?”

Runolf laughed.

“No, Hunlaf. Rygjafylki is closer from the northern tip of Pictland. From there, with a favourable wind, it will still take us perhaps three days to cross the Whale Road. If we do not turn back, how long do you think Gwawrddur would last without any warmth? The nights are colder than you can imagine out here. No, we will head back to land.” Runolf swept the crew with his gaze. “I fear it is not just Gwawrddur that needs time to recover from his ordeal.”

I nodded. Runolf was right. We were all tired, wet and cold.

“Is it always like this?” I asked, thinking of the sudden changes in weather and fortunes. The shouts of terror as Brymsteda went from stable sea-stallion, slipping across the waves, to lurching, rolling hulk at risk of sinking.

“No,” said Runolf, “it is not always like this.”

I let out a breath, relieved.

Runolf snorted. “Sometimes it is much worse.”

“Worse?” I said, wondering if he was trying to make me nervous.

“If you think that was frightening, wait until you are sailing in a storm.”

“What was that then? Was that not a storm?”

“That was just a squall.” He sniffed. “It was over in moments.”

“So not a storm?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. It had felt like a very long time to me since we had been on calm waters.