After the tumult of the day, the thrashing of the waves, the lashing of the rain and wind, and the accidents and incidents that had beset the ship, it had come as a shock when the wind had dropped out of the air that afternoon. The sea had lost its ferocity, and the sail we had needed to reef, so as not to risk snapping the mast, now hung limp. With the wind unable to fill the sail, it fell to us to propel Brymsteda back towards land. We divided the crew into two shifts, one pulling on the long oars, while the other rested.

It was shortly after the fifth change of rowing crews when we reached Orkneyjar. I was at the oar, my back and arms screaming from the exertion, and all I wanted was to be able to let go of the oar’s handle that had blistered my palms, to lie down and sleep. But I continued to heave on the oar, my muscles complaining with each movement, as my eyelids drooped. The ship was quiet. Oars knocked and grated in the oar holes. Once in a while Runolf called out for the men on one side or the other to halt their rowing or to speed up, aiding his steering of the vessel, which was especially helpful after the leather strap holding the rudder had broken. A few of the men grumbled and muttered, but as dusk had descended, so the crew had become subdued, like men rowing into a dream.

From time to time I’d glanced over at Gwawrddur. In the late afternoon, his shuddering had subsided. Now he slept, cocooned beneath a pile of blankets and cloaks. He had been excused his turn at the oars by Runolf. The Norseman had said nothing, but I could tell he was worried about the slender swordsman. I too was concerned for Gwawrddur. That afternoon, after the storm had blown itself out and the sun had pushed its way from behind the dark clouds, I had spoken to Leofstan in hushed whispers.

“When will the shivering stop?” I’d asked, nodding towards the Welshman, who still sat, his back against the strakes, swaddled in blankets and shaking. His eyes were closed, but I did not think he was asleep.

“Only God can answer that,” Leofstan said, “but…” His voice faltered and he looked out at the brightening sky and sea to the north.

“But?”

“Gwawrddur was underwater for a long while.” He stared at me fixedly, as if trying to say something without words. I frowned, unsure of his meaning. Leofstan sighed and went on. “Ahmad says that sometimes, when a man is rescued from the deep and reminded to breathe,” he whispered, “his lungs can forget again.”

“He might forget to breathe?” The thought horrified me.

“It happens,” he replied, his expression doleful.

I swallowed down my fear at the idea.

“And he would just cease to breathe?”