"That's it!" thought Ned. "I can get along well enough, where it's an every-day matter for one fellow not to understand another of the same kind. They'll pay it no attention."
That night was a warm one, and the fleet sailed along comfortably before a fair wind. So it did during the next day, and the next. The swarm of keels kept pretty well together, and Ned, the son of Webb, of York in Northumberland, the young friend of Tostig the Earl, wondered more and more at the size, the swiftness, and the good handling of those strangely modelled war-ships. Sailing down the North Sea appeared, thus far, as a very agreeable summer excursion, except for the crowded condition of the Serpent. That, however, was only a temporary inconvenience, which everybody had calculated upon beforehand, and the men endured it with general good humour.
Altogether different became the tone of public feeling, so to call it, when a gale swept down from the north, lashing the sea into foaming surges. The ships of the Vikings were constructed to stand against stormy weather, but all the sails had to be taken in. Then, for the first time, Ned, the son of Webb, began to appreciate the thole-pins and the great oars. To each of the latter, long-handled, broad-bladed, two, or even three, strong men were ordered. On the high deck at the stern stood an officer, shouting loudly in a hoarse cadence like a song, and stamping time with his feet, that all the rowers might pull together. At regular intervals the oarsmen were changed, so that all on board, except men of high rank, might take turns at this hard and disagreeable work. Even such celebrated warriors as Sikend the Berserker were called upon to do their share. Ned, himself, was half afraid that he might be given an oar, and he may have escaped quite as much on account of his age and size as by reason of his supposed aristocracy.
Harder and harder blew the wind as the sun went down, and the most important consolation was that it was all the while driving them toward England. The night which followed was full of discomfort. In the morning the rain-drenched and weary Vikings were grumbling all over the ship. It was as if King Harold Hardrada and Tostig the Earl were to be held responsible for not having provided better weather and smoother water.
"A fine lot of men they are," scornfully remarked Father Brian. "Look at them! Who would have expected to see so many of them seasick at once? I was never like that, any time."
An hour or so later, Ned saw his reverence leaning dolefully over a bulwark between two dripping war-shields, with all the roses gone from his cheeks.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "What did I eat, to-day? It's not the motion of the ship I care for. She's a bad one to pitch and roll, anyhow. They build better ships than this in Ireland."
The great fleet had been increased from day to day, as it was joined by squadrons from other ports. It was necessarily scattered far and wide by this rough weather. When, at last, land was seen to the westward, word was passed rapidly around, by swift rowboats, that all should draw well together, and make for the wide bay, known as the Humber, for there the landing was to be made. All disaffection among the overcrowded Vikings instantly disappeared, as the good news spread among them, and there was an immediate cleaning of all weapons and armour.