“Aelfwyn is my kin,” he’d said. “I have travelled all the way from Lindisfarnae, and I will not be left behind if there is a chance she yet lives.”

Runolf had stared at him for a long while. Turning to Scurfa, who was already prepared to come with us, he whispered something, and the sailor shrugged and nodded.

“Very well, Eadmaer,” Runolf said. “You come in Scurfa’s stead. But you will obey my orders, or you will not be returning with us.”

We all remembered his rage at Eadmaer on that first day of sailing all those weeks before. No further threat was needed. Eadmaer nodded tersely and, scowling, clambered aboard Grágás.

“Who knows if any of us will return?” said Os, who was one of Lord Mancas’ hearth-warriors who would travel north. Nobody laughed at his poorly timed jest. Along with Gersine, the other of Mancas’ men was Beorn. I wondered whether he would have any opportunity to sing and play his lyre. Perhaps he could recount the tale of Beowulf, or maybe he would spin the tale of our search for Ljósberari into a new song.

From the men who had come from Bebbanburg, Bealdwulf and Sygbald joined the company. Hereward’s place had never been in question. Both Runolf and Mancas respected his leadership and his battle-skill.

The rest of the survivors of the battle of Werceworthe were all deemed worthy of embarking on the perilous journey, and not one of us would have countenanced being left behind. I was glad we would have Gwawrddur’s sword, and Drosten’s stalwart strength, and I was equally pleased to see Leofstan also climbing aboard Grágás. Despite my misgivings, I would welcome his counsel, and being able to pray with the old monk would certainly ease my worries. Though I cannot deny I was surprised he had been called by Runolf for such a dangerous mission.

When we were underway, the banks of oars sweeping like rippling wings, dipping into the dark water as Grágás slid northward, leaving Hjorleif’s huge hall dwindling in the distance, I joined Leofstan at the prow.

“You are shocked to see me,” he said, staring out at the tree-covered slopes of the craggy land to starboard.

“We will be needing swords where we are going,” I replied. “Not prayers.”

“Prayers are always welcome.”

I nodded, chastened by his reply.

“Of course. But we will not take Ljósberari’s head without fighting. If there are as many thralls around him as we have been told, I am not sure any of us will return.” The thought filled me with a cold fear, but I pushed it away. I had chosen the life of a warrior. Fear was something I must live with.

“All the more reason for prayer, it seems to me,” he replied with a smile.

His evasive answers irked me.