“But we saw no cub,” said Os. He let out a long breath. “I think it was a spirit of the forest. This journey has felt cursed from the beginning.”

“Shut your foolish mouth,” snarled Runolf. Os fell silent, and we rowed on.

I suspected that Beorn and Gwawrddur were right. I thought of Wulfwaru back at Werceworthe. She had been willing to kill to protect her family. If there had been a cub somewhere nearby and the bear thought we were a threat, then the savagery of its attack made sense. But there was still a part of me that couldn’t shake off Os’ words. He was right. This journey had been beset by many difficulties, and, as we pulled Gullbringa ever closer to the heart of our quest, it seemed as though we were not rowing on a river, but gliding through a nightmare towards death and fire.

I sensed that the others felt it too. The mood was gloomy and dejected. I stared into the darkness and thought of Bealdwulf.

“We should not have run,” I whispered. “If we had stood together against the bear, surely we would have prevailed.”

“Hush, Hunlaf,” said Gwawrddur. “We cannot change the past.”

Shame flooded me like a cold tide and I wondered whether Os’ talk of spirits and curses was his way of ameliorating his own feelings of guilt.

We carried on upriver, pulling on the looms without another word, the only sounds the drip of water and the occasional knock of the oars against the strakes. We rowed on like that for some time before Hereward called a halt.

“We need rest,” he said.

This time Ingvar did not argue. He steered us towards the eastern riverbank. We had travelled a long way from the attack, and whilst I was sure that a bear of that size could cross the river, I was glad for the water between us and the huge beast.

We moored the boat and climbed ashore. There was even less clear ground than in our previous campsite and the men stamped down areas of bracken and weeds, making hollows in which they could sleep.

“No fire now,” said Hereward, his voice not much more than a whisper. We were all subdued and hushed, but each sound we made echoed back from the trees and slope across the river. “We keep quiet tonight. How close are we, Ingvar?”

“We will reach Ljósberari’s steading tomorrow.”

Hereward crouched down close to the skipper. Runolf sat nearby, leaning his broad back against the bole of an alder.

“What are you thinking?” asked the Norse axeman.

“Tell us all you know of Ljósberari’s settlement,” Hereward said to Ingvar, who shifted his position, uncomfortable with the request. The two could understand each other well for the most part now, and they only occasionally turned to me to interpret.

“I know nothing really.”