Eafa turned at my approach, his face set and severe. I moved away, slipping inside the hall. It was almost empty now, still and hot after the refreshing wind from the sea outside. I found what I was looking for at the back of the room. On the board were several earthenware pitchers of ale. The third one I picked up was full. Carrying it outside, I turned away from the throng of people, all talking now, following Mancas’ and Runolf’s speeches.

“Is that all for you?”

I halted at the voice. I had been looking over my shoulder, so had failed to see Gwawrddur. The Welshman stepped from the shadows beside the hall. His face was a pale blur in the darkness.

“Spare some for me?” he said, holding out a wooden cup. His voice, always musical, seemed to be somehow softer than usual, the words stretched like warm leather.

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

“Tonight is a celebration.”

“And after all your talk of control.”

He pushed his cup towards the pitcher in my hand. After a brief hesitation, I poured a little.

“This jug is for Drosten and the others on guard.”

“Ah, yes, he took your duty and now you feel guilty. Such a soft heart, Killer.” He drained the ale and held his cup out again.

I shook my head.

“You’ve had enough, and this is not mine to give. What did you think of Mancas’ speech?” I asked, changing the subject.

“The man can talk, that’s for certain. Perhaps we stand a chance after all that he will be able to strike a deal with the king of Ryg— Ryga—”

“Rygjafylki,” I said.

“Easy for you to say.”

We both laughed.

“Mancas has surprised me,” I admitted. “If not for him, we would not have the ship ready so quickly. And I think the king chose him wisely. If anyone can convince the king of Rygjafylki,” I pronounced the name slowly and clearly for Gwawrddur, as one speaks to a child learning to talk, “it will be Mancas.”

“If we survive,” mumbled Gwawrddur. He stared into his empty cup, as if he hoped more ale might have miraculously appeared there.

Slowly, a thought dawned on me.

“You are scared of sailing,” I said.

He looked up, his eyes narrowed.

“I am scared of nothing.”

I had seen Gwawrddur throw himself into a line of Norse warriors, his sword flashing faster than the eye could follow. He had shown no fear in the battle for Werceworthe, it was true.

“Scared of no man, perhaps,” I said. “But I see it now. You are frightened of the sea.”

“I am not frightened,” he shouted. I stepped back, such was his sudden fury. He took a deep breath. “If you will give me no more of your ale,” he said, his voice blurry and soft once more, “I will go in search of a more generous friend.”