“We should take a ship down the Temes and up the Lygan,” the Aetheling Edward said. “You have a choice of ships moored here in the Stour.”
I blanched at the suggestion. Cowering against my father’s cloak on the roaring, ice-cold sea, comforted by his protective arm was a thing of the past. To command a long-ship over the horizon amid the salt waves tossing was another matter.
“Do I see fear in your face, Lord Ecgwulf?” Edward jibed.
Hot denial burnt in my cheeks, for I held back rash words, bitten off by a blessed residue of good sense. At least his request came in late spring with the weather set fair, I reasoned.
“There are several seaworthy vessels,” I agreed when I found my voice again.
“Then we should take as many around the Thanet ness and into the Temes as you can spare crews f
