“How bad is it?” whispered Hereward, pulling Leofstan and me aside, and out of Sygbald’s hearing.

“I had thought it just bruising,” said Leofstan, flicking a nervous glance back at Sygbald, who was propped up on some of the baggage. “How he managed not to cry out throughout the day is beyond me.”

“He is a strong man,” said Hereward. “And brave.”

“Well, his bravery may well bring his death,” hissed Leofstan.

“So bad?” Hereward’s words caught in his throat.

“I fear his lung may be pierced.”

“Pierced? How? We have not been in battle.”

“The oar must have struck him with more force than we at first believed. I cannot be certain, but I believe his rib may have cracked and ruptured his lung.”

Hereward rubbed a hand over his face.

“Will he live?”

Leofstan made the sign of Christ’s cross. His concern was clear on his features.

“Sygbald’s life is in God’s hands. There is nothing I can do for him. But I am sure of one thing.”

“What?” Hereward’s face was red in the last light of the sun.

“He cannot go on. Without rest he will surely die. No matter how much we pray for him, he cannot walk any distance, let alone row or fight.”

Behind us, Drosten was kneeling near Sygbald. He had kindled a fire and was feeding twigs into the first hungry flames.

For a time nobody spoke. Then Hereward sighed.

“It will be dark soon,” he said. “Let us see what the morning brings.”

Darkness came late, as it did so close to midsummer in this northern land, but when it finally arrived, it fell quickly, as if God Himself had wrapped a shroud over the sky. Before the darkness had enveloped us, I had gone back to helping Gersine collect the firewood. We barely spoke. He asked me briefly about Sygbald. I shook my head. My expression must have been bleak, for Gersine, ever happy to talk, fell silent.

We ate some of the dark bread and dried haddock we had brought with us from Sand, the firelight flickering in the gloom, making the shadows of the trees dance. The men spoke in whispers, as if they thought they might be overheard. The fire was warm, the night pleasant. On another night perhaps we would have laughed at Os’ riddles. Beorn might have sung. But we were subdued and worried. It seemed that the river itself had become an enemy, impeding our progress. I prayed silently for Sygbald, and I am sure that more than one of the warriors thought of our mission and wondered whether this Ljósberari, who thralls followed as if he were a god, might command some arcane power over the land itself, turning it against us.

Hereward had wanted to wait till the morning to make a decision, but it was Sygbald who broke the hush.