“She’s not designed to reach England,” said Shef. “If she gets us through the narrows and round to the Frisian shore, she’ll have done her job.”
Just past the Braethraborg will do, thought Hagbarth, but did not say the words. He himself had no intention of risking that dangerous passage. He had a draft on Shef and Alfred’s treasury for the price of the Aurvendill, and hoped only to collect it.
Shef wondered, indeed, who he had the right to ask to share his dangers. The English men and women who had come so far with him would continue, hoping to reach home, as would Karli, eager to tell his tales of travel in the Ditmarsh. So would Hund. Thorvin too insisted on going. Hagbarth and his small crew would travel as far as Smaaland in the south of Sweden, showing the landlubbers how to sail the boat as they did so.
As the snow melted and people thought of departure, Cuthred came to see his master.
“Do you want me to travel south with you?” he asked.
Shef stared at him. “I thought we would take you home. To Northumbria.”
“There’s no-one in Northumbria for me. My king is dead. I do not know if my wife is alive, but even if she is—I am no good to her now. I would rather live here in the waste. There are people here who would take me as I am. People who do not measure a man in only one way.”
The terrible bitterness was in his voice again, Shef heard. And yet—he did not dare to let Cuthred go. He was worth a catapult on his own, or a case-hardened breastplate. He would be needed before they won south, of that Shef was sure.
“Do you remember the mill?” he asked. “When I released you from that, you said you were my man.”
Cuthred had been a king’s champion for much of his life. He understood loyalty and service, and accepted both as lasting to the death.
“See me through the Skagerrak and I will free you to return, to live in the waste, however you wish,” said Shef.
Cuthred stared down at the slush. “I will see you through the Skagerrak,” he agreed. “And past the Braethraborg. There will be someone waiting for me here.”