A growl of anger rippled through the gathered men, as if they were a pack of hounds, sniffing a hare on the wind.

“We care nothing for the man’s battle-fame,” said Hereward to Runolf. “What we need is information.”

Runolf glanced over at Hereward and nodded.

“You sailed with Øybiorn, no?” Runolf asked.

I continued to interpret their words in a hushed commentary for the men listening.

“Aye,” said Torfi. “Some skipper he was. He led us to one defeat after another and then wrecks his ship. The gods alone know why such a fool should gain so much wealth. To have his own ship and warband, but never know victory.”

“He knew victory well enough,” said Runolf, “when he was a young man. And Øybiorn was no fool.”

“Tell that to Orm and all the others who died today.”

“You cannot blame Øybiorn for the weather. That storm came from nowhere. None could have predicted it.”

Torfi spat.

“Perhaps. His luck had changed of late, for sure. And I do blame him for leading us to defeats. The holy men of the White Christ are rich and soft, and yet still Øybiorn failed us.”

“He was wise to turn away last year,” Runolf said. Øybiorn had sailed his ship with Skorri to Werceworthe, but had left in search of easier prey after our first clash when we had killed several of the Norse.

Torfi’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps. But if we had stayed, things might not have gone so badly for Skorri.”

Runolf shrugged.

“Anything is possible. But my brother and all those with him are now dead. It seems to me that Øybiorn gained you another year of life.”

“I am not dead yet.”

Runolf shook his head.

“You will never leave here with your life,” he said. “These people will not allow it.”

A log shifted in the fire, settling with a crack. Torfi flinched at the sound. A flurry of sparks flew into the dark sky to be lost in the stars that glimmered there. Once again, Torfi cast his gaze around, taking in the hard faces of the men surrounding him.

On hearing my translation of Runolf’s pronouncement, the warriors, fishermen and craftsmen around the fire nodded and grumbled.

“You yet live,” Torfi stated, staring up at Runolf.

“I do. But you are not me,” he replied. Was there a hint of sadness in Runolf’s tone? “But I can offer you something.”

“What?” Torfi’s tone was eager. He sensed a way out of this.

“If you tell me what I want,” said Runolf, his voice as gravelly and dark as the beach where we had slaughtered Torfi’s countrymen, “I will place a blade in your hand when the time comes.” He paused, holding Torfi’s gaze. “And I will make your death quick. I know you to be a brave man. I think Óðinn would want you at his table.”