“Now,” Leofstan said, “it looks as though another wishes to speak to you.” He moved away, leaving me with Drosten.

The Pict positioned himself beside me, gripping the top strake in his broad hands and staring out over the waves. The water hissed and sighed along the ship. The sail luffed briefly, as the wind shifted, before filling again with a fresh gust. I hoped that did not spell a change in the wind’s direction. With a sidelong glance, I noticed the scars on Drosten’s knuckles, pale, taut and shiny against the tanned skin of his hands. His tattoos curled about his wrists like shackles.

“I said we should not come here,” he said, speaking without looking at me. “I knew something like this would happen.”

Drosten seldom spoke of himself, and I could see that to do so pained him. But after the events of the morning, I felt I deserved an explanation. Perhaps he felt the same way.

“I don’t think any of us could imagine your name would be so well-known,” I said. “Pictland is a big place.”

“My infamy is also large.”

“So it would seem.” I fell silent, thinking about Leofstan’s words and all that had been revealed that morning in the mist. “Did you do the things they accuse you of?” I blurted out, not allowing myself long enough to think too deeply about the question, for fear I would not dare to ask it.

Drosten tensed beside me and for the first time he turned to look into my eyes. His expression was blank, but his eyes held a darkness I thought I might understand.

“Would it matter to you if I had?”

His answer shook me. I had expected him to deny the claims. This man had stood with me against the Norse when they came to Werceworthe. He had fought as hard as any there, risking his life for people he barely knew. He was sullen and surly, but I had never seen him do anything that would make me doubt his intentions. I recalled Leofstan’s words and shook my head.

“No. Your past is between you and God. When you stood with us at Werceworthe, a bond was forged that cannot be so easily broken.”