Men were rushing past us, through the doors and into the early morning light outside.

“What is the meaning of this?” Runolf bellowed from outside, his huge voice echoing like thunder in the dawn.

A voice replied, but I could not make out words over the din in the hall.

Then came another voice. Loud and hard. The sound of its command cut through my confusion. I had learnt to obey that voice without question. It was Hereward, and he was calling the men of Brymsteda.

“To me! Shieldwall!”

“What is it?” asked Gersine, rising from his blankets nearby.

“Trouble,” I said, grabbing him by his kirtle and dragging him to his feet. “Come on!”

I ran for the doors, glancing longingly as we passed at the great locked chest that was filled with the crew’s weapons. The only way into it would be to break the padlock or to take the key from Tannskári. But there was no time for either course of action. We had left our shields and spears on board the ship and the only weapon I had was my seax. Dropping my hand to my belt, I felt the carved ivory handle of the seax I had won from Hroar. Without pause, I tugged it out of its scabbard and handed it to the dazed Gersine, who only had a small eating knife on his belt.

“Here,” I said. “Better than nothing.”

I had been worried that the door wards might have tried to hold us inside, but nobody hindered our passing. It appeared clear that treachery was afoot, but whatever was taking place, it did not seem to be well organised.

The sky and land were shrouded in thick cloud, the light flat and dull as ash. Distant sounds were muted in the sea fog that had come up in the night. The men gathered outside Tannskári’s hall were not far away and their shouts were strident.