“They go on.”

The words came from the warrior beside the tall and rangy man; this one was both short and slight, and wearing a bronze-studded leathern cap that covered brow and cheeks, ears and nape.

“Aye. Ours be no business of theirs. It’s a broad sea, and it bears up many peoples. Those be neither Gaul nor Pict, and if it’s Celts they are-not likely-it’s not from Eirrin but Britain they sail.”

“Britain!” called up one of the men at the oars. “The Britons be no seafarers!”

“Some fare asea.”

The small beardless warrior spoke nervously: “Could… might their destination be the same as ours?”

“No no, dairlin’ girl,” the tall man said. He too was beardless, his narrow-slitted eyes giving him a peculiarly sinister aspect. Though he was of Eirrin, his squarecut hair was black as the shaggy mops of the men in their hideboats round about them. He wore neither beard nor jewellery.

He went on, “How could they be knowing of it? Samaire-heim be not known in their land-nor any other, save wherever it is Wulfhere may be. Nay, they be reavers as I was, though Crom and Manannan only know what they do so far south-HA!”

His shout was elicited by the arcing up of an arrow from one of the little hideboats that sought to encircle his vessel of fourteen oars; the flint tipped shaft fell short.

“HA!” the tall man barked out again. “Try on, Picts-once one of ye comes close enough to bounce one of your puny sticks off this ship, I’ll huff and puff until I blow over your snailshell!”

A cry of rage was the reply from the archer; the dark, squat men of Pictdom were not known for sense of humour.

In the Irish craft, a man called. “A fine threat, Cormac. But… what do we do? There be fourteen of these ‘snail-shells’ as ye’re after styling them, and us between them like a man running the Behlfires!”