“With luck they’re all together, as we are, and can shelter well enough till morning,” Eirik said. “A pity we can’t make a fire, they might see that. It’ll be a long, cold night.”

As Eyvind lay miserably awake, shivering under his wolfskin, the last thing he saw between the shreds of mist before the light faded was the straight-backed figure of Brother Tadhg, sitting with his wooden cross in his hand and his lips moving in prayer.

Morning came, and there was no sign of the others. Eyvind was eager to begin a search, for there was a chill feeling of dread creeping over him that could only be banished by immediate action. Engus made them wait. The mist still lingered, though a faint sun tried to pierce the veil; it was not yet safe to venture forth. Eyvind paced, biting his nails to the quick. Eirik watched him, frowning.

“All may be well,” said Brother Tadhg. “If they are as wise as King Engus, they will be sheltering in a place of safety as we are. We may see them approaching as soon as the day clears.” But there was a pallor about his features, and his fingers seldom left the cross.

At last the mist began to lift. They divided into four groups, two men in each, one of the islanders and one of Ulf’s party. King Engus himself set off with Eirik; Eyvind was paired with a silent, black-bearded fellow, who moved swift and sure on the difficult terrain. The only man left behind was Brother Tadhg. If the others returned before the search parties, he could explain what was happening and so prevent a pointless exercise of tracking in circles.

Eyvind and his partner went northward and inland. The pace was relentless. When they could run, they ran. With what breath they could spare, they shouted the names of the lost men. They could hear the other searchers in the distance calling the same names, but there was no reply. Time passed. They rested briefly, and Eyvind shared the contents of his skin water bottle with the islander. They went on. Rain fell for a time; the rocks underfoot became slippery, and Eyvind was glad they had not taken the clifftop route. Yet perhaps they should have done. A long time ago, he had helped find straying stock and, on occasion, lost children in the mountains above Hammarsby. Maybe what he should do was go back, and look where nobody else was prepared to look. A pox on Somerled. It would be just like him to be sitting there neat and cool when they returned, saying with an air of faint surprise, Oh dear, Eyvind. It was only a game.

The sun was at midpoint. They had been searching all morning, and were heading back to the start with nothing to show for themselves.