“Wistan will never grow old, that is for sure,” Eafa said, his face haggard in the dim firelight. He took in a deep breath, in an attempt to calm himself. “It may not have been Hunlaf who killed him, but my boy is dead.” I wondered whether Eafa knew how close I had come to slaying Wistan. “Wistan was slain by one of those heathen whoresons. What peace can we hope for from such people?”

“I understand, and share your anger,” said Mancas, “but the Norse are no different from us. They seek shelter and food for their families, just like you or I. They are formidable fighters, with ships that can reach further than anything we have built.” He flicked a glance at Runolf, who stood a head taller than everyone else. “Until now. God guided the king to spare Runolf’s life, that he might aid us against these heathens. And he has done that. Do you deny the king’s wisdom?”

Eafa glowered from the shadows, but said no more.

Mancas nodded, seemingly content that the matter had been set aside for now.

“Runolf has stood beside us in our fight,” he said. “Is he not a man, like you? He has taught us how to build ships like those of his people. And now that the ship has been completed, we will face new challenges. We must first learn to sail Brymsteda and then, soon enough, we will head out onto the North Sea to voyage to…” Mancas turned to Runolf. “What is the name of your people’s kingdom?”

“Rygjafylki,” rumbled Runolf.

“Yes, there,” said Mancas to scattered chuckles from the audience. Some of the tension ebbed from the gathering, carried away on that nervous laughter.

“Along with Hereward and his heroes from Werceworthe, we will be joined by more warriors from Bebbanburg, strong, brave men one and all.”

Mancas nodded to where Bealdwulf, Ida, Gamal, Oslaf and Sygbald lounged together near the hall’s entrance. The last of their small band, Pendrad, was down by the river on guard duty with Drosten and the others who had drawn the short straws. Ida raised his cup in silent salute to Mancas.

Mancas smiled in acknowledgement.

“And my own hearth-warriors. Beorn, of the sweet voice—”

“And not so sweet face,” shouted a man called Os, prompting more laughter and further easing some of the strain brought on by Eafa’s outburst. One of Mancas’ men, Os was round of face, but tall and slender of frame, and always seemed to be jesting and laughing. He struck me as a buffoon, but Mancas trusted him enough to have him travel with us as part of his retinue, and I had noted Os’ spear was bloody after the fighting on the riverbank. His full name was Oswald, named after that most saintly of kings of Northumbria, but as there were two warriors with the same name in Mancas’ warband, everyone called him Os.