“Don’t forget that,” he said, pointing back to the mud where my heaped byrnie lay. “I think it will be too late now, but you don’t want to be without it, should things get lively.”

I retrieved the shirt. It was still wet and very cold. The sun had not warmed it at all.

“Where are we going?” asked Gersine, sounding eager.

“Over there.” Hereward pointed across the wide river where the smoke still rose like a feather above the land, as if God Himself were writing on the parchment of the earth.

One of the fishermen, a quiet man called Heca, who always chewed a stick of hazel, ferried us across. From the water we could see the other side of the ship. It was clear why it had sunk. There was a hole in its hull that yawned dark as a cave. Runolf waved to us, grinning broadly as he worked to hack free the steering board from its frame. I raised my hand in greeting, but could not bring myself to smile.

Disembarking quickly, we made our way inland. Passing the stone edifice of Saint Peter’s, I thought of its coloured glass windows and the golden rood that stood atop its altar.

“If that wind hadn’t driven the ships onto the southern shore,” said Gwawrddur, “I doubt much of that glass would remain unbroken.”

“Perhaps God protected Fridwin’s minster after all,” said Hereward. I followed his gaze and understood his words. The smoke on the horizon was from further afield, not from the monastery of Uuiremutha, but from the more northerly buildings at Gyruum.

The same sombre mood I had felt ever since the attack descended on the others as we walked northward along the track. Bees and other insects, oblivious to the woes of mankind, flitted and droned over the comfrey and clover that grew in the thick hedgerows beside the path.

“Where is everyone?” asked Bealdwulf, who had picked up a long gash to his cheek in the fighting.

We had reached the minster buildings, but there was no sign of movement.

“Hiding like womenfolk,” said Gamal.

“What else were they to do?” I snapped, angered at his tone. “They are men of prayer, not warriors. They were surely praying for our deliverance, and we are alive, are we not?”

He raised his eyebrows at my outburst.

“What about the monks at Gyruum then?” he asked, nodding northward at the pall of smoke in the sky. “Are they not praying? Does God not listen to the brethren there? For I wager that smoke is not from burning bread.”