Word had reached us of his death just before the Crístesmæsse feast. As he’d predicted, he had not made it past midwinter. Hereward had made no comment about the tidings, but he had drunk himself into a stupor that night. Two days later, when the storm, which had been lashing the coast, abated, he had saddled up his tan mare and ridden north. That had been a fortnight before and we had begun to wonder if he would return.

When he came riding out of the dusk, an icy wind at his back, he was accompanied by the six warriors, all good fighting men, well-known to Hereward.

“We will need doughty men once that ship is finished,” Hereward said, introducing the grim-faced warriors. His mood was still sombre, but he was pleased with himself, and clearly glad of the company of men he had known for many years. We too were gladdened by the arrival of the new recruits, and also by Hereward’s return. We had drunk even more than normal to celebrate their arrival, and my memories of the night were a blur. I can only recall one other time in my life when I have been drunker, but that was still far off in my future, in the smoke-filled tent of a Kumyk leader who insisted we drink a potent concoction made from fermented mare’s milk. After that night, on a far-off, sun-beaten, windswept plain, I awoke beside one of the leader’s daughters and was led to believe that I had agreed to take her as my wife. But that is another tale. On this particular morning, my head felt as though it had been used to hammer rivets, and my stomach curdled at the sight and smell of food.

Gwawrddur nudged the bowl towards me.

“Eat,” he said. “Drink.”

I held my head in my hands for a time, before relenting and picking up the cup of water.

“I worry about you, Killer,” Gwawrddur said, his voice quiet.

His use of the name he had coined infuriated me, but I was too weak and sickly to react. I took a small spoonful of the porridge.

“Why?” I asked when I was sure I would keep the porridge down.

“You have been through much these last months,” he said. “You have learnt much about the sword. About life.” He sighed. “And death. And about yourself.”

I grunted and ate a bit more of the warm oatmeal. I could feel it settling my stomach and I welcomed the easing of the sensation that I might throw up at any moment.

“You have taught me well,” I mumbled.

He shook his head.

“Do not forget yourself, Hunlaf. You do not need to become what you are not.”

I stared at him. His words confused me. I remembered Fridwin at the scriptorium, turning me away. What was Gwawrddur telling me?