Brother Diaz crawled from the bitter Adriatic on his skinned hands and knees, like Saint Bruno vomited forth by the shark, chastened and repenting of his sins.

He struggled up the gently sloping beach as if it were a mountain, stung by spray and buffeted by breakers, the passages of his throat all pitilessly scoured by salt. He knelt quivering on all fours, gaping at the rubbery stripe of weed at the high-water mark, retching and spitting as the waves sucked greedily through the shingle. He slumped back on his knees, naked but for the vial of Saint Beatrix and his clinging braies, their still slightly ink-stained wool turned so baggy by water he felt like a babe in a man’s drawers. Exhausted, aching, disbelieving, his leaden head rolled about on his jelly neck as he took mute stock of his surroundings.

They were not promising.

To either side grey sweeps of beach stretched into hazy obscurity, chewed at by the grey sea, scattered with patches of grey rock, streaked with breeze-rippled puddles in which the grey heavens were uneasily reflected. Ahead, rising shingle gave way to scrubby dunes, wind-whipped grass, a few crippled trees all bowing one way, like a procession of geriatric monks abasing themselves before a cardinal.

He felt a chilly prickling on his shoulders. It had begun to rain.

‘Seriously?’ he screamed at the heavens.

The only reply was the careless gulls calling, up on the high wind.

He took a few heaving breaths. Sobs, if he was for once being honest. Then with a groan he fought his way up first to one foot, then the other. He stood swaying, arms hugged about himself, and turned groggily to look out to sea.

God, how far had he swum?

The galley still burned near the horizon, the column of smoke streaking into the white sky to drift off as a watercolour smear. He turned back to the beach and frowned. Was there a pale speck, among the rocks? He began to totter forwards, grimacing as the pebbles jabbed at his soles, narrowing his eyes against the wind—

It was a foot. A bare foot, tattooed with a line of runes.

‘Vigga!’ And he broke into a lurching run. If recent experience should’ve taught him anything it was that the best direction to run in relation to a werewolf is always away, but he found himself instead sprinting towards, scattering shingle with every stride. Maybe, at that moment, anything seemed better than being left alone on that blasted shore.

She lay face down in a rock pool, one foot up on the limpet-speckled stone, torn cloth hanging from her ankle, hair floating around her in a black cloud.

‘Vigga!’ He slopped into the pool beside her, caught one tattooed shoulder with the intention of heaving her over.

‘God!’ The weight. How could she float? He couldn’t even get her face clear of the water at first. He had to brace his legs, hook her under one arm and around her neck, his chest pressed against her back, slippery skin slapping like pigs in a puddle, less a rescue than a wrestling match with no winner.

‘Sweet …’ he wheezed, straining, ‘Saint …’ he moaned, heaving, ‘Beatrix – gah!’ He finally managed to roll her and flopped back on the rocks, partly smothered by her dead weight, partly smothered by a faceful of her salt-wet hair.

‘Vigga!’ He wriggled halfway out from under her, barnacles ripping at his bare back. ‘Wake up!’ He twisted to scrape the hair from her face, her head tipped back and her mouth wide open. ‘Vigga!’ His voice getting higher and higher as he slapped at her tattooed cheek. ‘Don’t be dead!’

‘Uh.’ He was shocked by the surge of relief as she twitched, grunted, lifted one scabbed hand to brush him away. ‘Uh.’ Her face crunched up, and she started to tremble. ‘Uh!’ And she cried, heavy shoulders shaking with sobs, fat tears leaving streaks through the sand stuck to her face.

Fear, shame, and disgust were undoubtedly among the alloy of emotions Brother Diaz felt at that moment. It would have been a lie to say he gave no thought to desperately wriggling free. But in the end, he stayed where he was, patting Vigga awkwardly on the shoulder. Only an hour before he had wrenched an arrow from that spot, but somehow the only trace of it was a little star-shaped scab. He made deeply unconvincing calming hoots, like a man who’d never held a baby left holding the baby.

Was not a priest’s first duty to help those in need, after all? Were not the Saviour’s mercy and forgiveness infinite, and should her followers not strive to imitate her? Were not the cursed and outcast in need of compassion? More than anyone, indeed. Somehow, in the fog of his own disappointments and ambitions, he had lost sight of that. Like some ancient denizen of his monastery to whom all beyond the page he was illuminating was a blur.

He realised now, at this desperate pass, that there was comfort in giving comfort.

Also, she was the only source of warmth within ten miles.

‘I’m thirsty,’ whimpered Vigga, after a moment, and blew a snotty bubble.

‘Well, you know how it is,’ said Brother Diaz, lying on a rock in the thickening rain in his soaking-wet underwear with a naked werewolf sobbing in his arms. ‘God loves to test us.’

‘We should head on down the coast,’ he coaxed, squinting up at the sky. The light was very definitely fading. ‘The others are likely scattered on these beaches.’ He forced himself not to add, ‘The ones that survived, anyway,’ and then to further add, ‘if any.’

‘You go,’ mumbled Vigga, fumbling with the buttons on her damp shirt. ‘Leave me.’ Each button grew more difficult. ‘You’d be better off … without me.’ And she gave up, and let her hands flop hopelessly in her lap, and her lip wobbled, and she started to blub again. ‘I’m so thirsty!’

Brother Diaz issued a pained sigh and let go of his trousers to rub at his temples, but that allowed his trousers to slump down his arse, and he was forced to hitch them up yet again.

They had stripped the corpses of two drowned oarsmen washed up on the beach, while Brother Diaz tried not to look at their faces. Tried not to wonder if they had families back home waiting for them. His newfound compassion for his allies was causing him enough trouble, compassion for his enemies was a luxury he could ill afford. The smaller oarsman’s trousers were too big for him, wet cloth flapping loose but still managing to chafe. The larger oarsman’s shirt, meanwhile, was too small for Vigga, cheap material strained across her chest to bursting.

‘God almighty,’ he muttered, ‘what a pair.’

She glanced up at him.

‘Of people!’ he said, hurriedly. ‘You and I.’ Making sure he was gazing purposefully off towards the dunes and not at all towards her overworked shirt. ‘That is the pair I was thinking of. We really should head on down the coast—’

‘You go. Before I kill you, too.’ Vigga mournfully dipped her fingers in the rock pool. ‘I’m not safe.’ And she wretchedly raised them to her mouth and miserably sucked them. ‘I’m not clean.’ She tipped her head back, closing her eyes, tears squeezed down her cheeks, and howled at the spitting skies. ‘It’s all salty!’

‘Yes,’ said Brother Diaz through clenched teeth, ‘it’s the sea. Why am I having to explain how the shore works to a Viking? Scandinavia is all shore!’

He pressed at the bridge of his nose. Losing his temper wouldn’t help. The one thing it might achieve, in fact, was making Vigga lose her temper, and that definitely wouldn’t help. Someone would have to be calm, strong, and confident. Someone would have to actually lead. It said everything about the lamentable failure of their mission thus far that the person best equipped to do it … was him.

‘Listen to me.’ He squatted beside Vigga, and reached out, paused, and finally patted her awkwardly on the arm. God, it was firm, like patting a warm tree. ‘I couldn’t leave you even if I wanted to. Her Holiness made you my responsibility, and … I owe you, and … the truth is I’m utterly lost, and … these trousers don’t fit at all, and … without you I’ll likely get killed ten strides off the sand.’ Vigga gave a great sniff and blinked at him with wet eyes. ‘I’ll admit you’re an embarrassment at a dinner, and far from helpful on a pilgrimage, but we likely have fights ahead of us and no one could deny … in a fight …’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘You’re magnificent.’

Vigga gave a last, thoughtful sniff. When she wiped her face, she was left looking slightly smug. ‘Magnificent is a good word.’

‘It is a good word.’ Brother Diaz grinned ever so slightly, too. He felt a sensation he only dimly remembered, from the time before he took his vows. Was he … proud of himself? He gripped Vigga’s shoulder a little more firmly. ‘Now. Did you see any of the others get off the ships?’

She winced, as if thinking back was a painful effort. ‘I remember blood … I remember oarsmen running … more blood …’

‘That does tally,’ Brother Diaz licked his lips, ‘with my recollection—’

‘Wait.’ Vigga frowned at him. ‘Did you stand up to the wolf?’

‘Well … when Jakob did it, at the inn—’

‘Jakob can’t die. You can.’

‘I am …’ Brother Diaz ever so gently peeled his hand from her shoulder. ‘Acutely aware of that fact.’

Vigga considered him through narrowed eyes. ‘You are much braver than I thought.’

His turn to look slightly smug. ‘Oh. Well—’

‘Also much stupider.’

‘Oh. Well—’

‘Don’t tempt the wolf, Brother Diaz. Not ever. You cannot trust it. You cannot bargain with it.’ Vigga clapped a hand onto his shoulder so hard she nearly knocked him on his back. ‘I will keep that bastard muzzled from now on. But you need to stop this whining!’ She pushed herself up so firmly she nearly dragged him onto his face. ‘We have to head on down the coast. The others …’ She planted one bare foot on a rock and glared off southwards, jaw set. ‘Are likely scattered across these beaches.’

‘Thank God you’re here,’ muttered Brother Diaz, only a little sour. ‘You think they’re still alive?’

‘Alex is, at least.’ Vigga held up her wrist, the brown streak across it barely visible between the various scars and tattoos. ‘Pope Benedicta’s binding. Still tugging on me.’

‘That’s good news!’ said Brother Diaz, jumping up.

‘I know! Thank God I’m here. I mean … she could be about to die.’

Brother Diaz felt the distinct sinking sensation that always came hard on the heels of any relief. ‘Right.’

‘She could be bleeding from a dozen wounds, or horribly burned, or in the clutches of … I don’t know … goblins?’

‘Goblins?’ asked Brother Diaz, alarmed.

‘If you say so. But she’s alive!’ And Vigga strode off purposefully towards the dunes. ‘For now.’