“You cannot hold yourself responsible for the actions of others,” I said, offering Leofstan’s advice to Drosten. “Not Eithne’s, nor her husband’s.” But when I spoke such words, my voice echoed in my ears, hollow and shallow, lacking the sage wisdom of my teacher. I don’t know what the Pict thought of my counsel, for he did not acknowledge my words.

“Much later,” he went on, “I heard that she had been found murdered in her bedchamber.” I glanced at his face and saw the haggard lines of grief, as he relived anew hearing the tidings of her death. I remembered how I had felt when I had believed Aelfwyn was dead. How bereft and raw. I wished to reach out and comfort him, but I held my hands still, gripping the sheer strake. Drosten was a proud man and I did not know how he would respond to a gentle touch of friendship.

“I can only assume,” he said, lost in the past and oblivious of my thoughts, “that Maelchon found out she had overheard his plotting. He quickly spread the word that I had been her lover. Everyone knew we had been close, so it was an easy lie to believe. I had been seen with her the morning of her death, so, when Maelchon found the necklace missing, everyone was certain I had stolen it before killing her. That day, my name became known as that of a thief and a murderer. It will never be safe for me to set foot in the land of my father again. And all the while, that whoreson, Maelchon, yet lives.”

He hawked and spat.

“I am sorry,” I said.

“Aye, so am I. Still, it is not all bad, Hunlaf.” A certain levity had entered his tone I did not think I had ever heard before. It was as though by recounting his sorry tale, some of its sorrow had been lifted from him.

“How so?”

“I may be a man in exile, far from kith and kin, but I have friends that I know will risk all for me.” Without warning he gripped my shoulder, surprising me. “Many men cannot say the same. I will never forget today, Hunlaf.”

“Nor will I,” I said, watching him walk away, lithely stepping over thwarts and chests, as he made his way back to his position before the mast.

I looked over at Runolf. He ignored me still, but I thought about Leofstan’s words. I could not change what Runolf felt. His anger saddened me, and I hoped that in time he would speak to me again, that we might be friends. But I clung to the fact that we were sailing once more and, whether Runolf approved or not, at the very least Drosten was alive because of me.