Bedwyr said, “Aye.”

“Picts,” Cynwas said from the stern.

“This far south? What be Picts doing this far south of their damned heather?”

“Or this far east,” Bedwyr said. “Mayhap they be Picts from far side Hibernia.”

Silent had been the third man who was not rowing, and him nigh-naked. Now he spoke.

“Eirrin, ye corn-headed ass. Eirrin! Ye talk like a Roman… miss ye your masters so much, ye Briton molester of ewes?”

The blond at the prow turned to stare at the speaker. He was a great burly giant of a man with a red mane and full bushy beard.

“Ye talk foolishly free for a man bound to a ship’s mast, Dane! Be ye so anxious to be oped up for the sun to bake your drunkard’s gizzard?”

The bound man grinned. He wore only a dirty tunic that had been red before its dyes succumbed to wear and sun and salt water and sweat. Now, but for the soil, it was lighter in colour than his full beard.

“It were better than having to list to your stupidity, Briton.”

Bedwyr of Britain cheated his captive, who was bound so that he must remain standing and stare straight ahead, like a strange bow ornament moved back amidships. The blond Briton only grinned, and turned away.

“Row. An they see us, they all be far too busy-and about to be busier still-to trouble us. Nor need we have worry of them.”

The oarsmen rowed. The ship of Britons-and captive Dane-swept on to the south and east, well east of the Eirrinish craft “leaguered about by wolves.”

Aboard that beleaguered ship from the land of Eirrin, caught by the same calm and now by the swift boats of its harriers, a man watched the vessel from Britain. A tall, rangily built man he was, deep-chested and manifestly strong, his eyes deeply planted and slitted, grey as steel or ice. The distance was too great for faces to be seen; had there been aught of the crew of the other craft he knew, he’d not have recognized him. The hair of the ax-man at the prow seemed sunwhite from this vantage.