They Came On Viking Ships

by Jackie French

  The woman stood up. ‘Yes, Hekja. I will tell them.’

  Hekja finished the milk, then with some soft leather sponged away the blood that seeped from under Snorri’s bandage and stared at him, as though storing up the sight to last her all her life. Then Snorri opened his eyes. For a moment he did not seem to see her. And then his gaze steadied and he gave an almost smile.

  ‘Valkyrie,’ he whispered.

  Hekja frowned and bent closer to hear what he had said. ‘What is that?’

  ‘The maidens who take dead warriors to paradise,’ whispered Snorri.

  ‘I would rather live with a warrior here than carry off a dead one,’ said Hekja firmly, but her eyes were gentler than her words.

  Snorri tried to smile then grimaced instead. ‘Maybe you are a berserker then,’ he whispered. ‘How is it that you sit with me now, when you scorned me before?’

  ‘Because I saw you dead,’ said Hekja softly, ‘and knew my life was empty. Wherever home is, it is with you.’

  Snorri nodded drowsily. Hekja wondered how much he had understood. But there was happiness in his smile now as well as pain. And when he slept this time somehow his hand was holding Hekja’s.

  Hekja beckoned Helga with her other hand. She came at once, even though she was free born.

  ‘What’s a berserker?’ asked Hekja softly.

  Helga smiled. She guessed what Snorri had whispered. ‘They are the greatest warriors of all. They dress in animal skins and fight with such ferocity that no one can touch them, for they are protected by Odin.’42

  Hekja shook her head. ‘Freydis and I were not dressed in animal skins,’ she said quietly.

  Then Freydis screamed.

  * * *

  42 The Greenlanders were mostly Christian now, but old beliefs and myths lingered.

  Chapter 40

  A CHILD IS BORN

  It was not a scream like the one that she had given before. This was a cry of pain.

  Helga left Hekja and ran outside. The other women followed her. Hekja glanced at Snorri, to check he was still sleeping, then ran as well, with Snarf at her heels.

  Freydis stood by the first tall posts of the new stockade, clutching her belly. At her feet was a pool of water and blood.

  Snarf whined, frightened by the new smell. But to Hekja’s relief the older women didn’t seem worried. Two of the women and Hekja helped Freydis indoors and up onto her bed platform, while another fetched fresh cloths and yet another warned the men to stay outside.

  For all that day Freydis strained and gasped. But apart from that first scream, she made no other noise at all. Hekja divided her time between checking on Snorri and patrolling the stockade, to make sure Freydis’ orders were carried out, then reporting back to Freydis.

  Even as the sweat ran down her face Freydis gasped out instructions: ‘The…gate…must…be…as…high…as the…fence. A shield about the…lookout.’ Freydis strained again and clenched her hands. ‘To keep him safe from arrows. I want a…lookout…Now!’

  Each time Hekja checked on Snorri she found Snarf with him, his head on Snorri’s furs. Snarf looked up as though to say, ‘Don’t worry. I’m guarding him for you. Nothing—not even death—will get past a dog like me.’

  The shadows were thickening as Freydis’ child was born. Freydis did scream then, but as much in triumph as in pain. Hekja fetched Thorvard—he had been trying to work on the stockade and listen for the sounds indoors too. He knelt beside Freydis and looked at the red face of his son.

  ‘His name is Erik,’ said Thorvard. ‘Erik Thorvardsson.’ He glanced at Freydis, hoping the name would please her. But his wife didn’t seem to notice her son had her father’s name.

  ‘I am glad he is a boy,’ said Freydis wearily. ‘It is so much easier to be a boy.’ And then she shut her eyes and slept.

  Freydis was up and in command again the next afternoon. It was not what women did, but Freydis was not like other women, and there was no one in the camp to dispute that now.

  She fed her son that morning but let another of the women who had a month-old child of her own nurse him as well. Snorri was also sitting up, though Hekja would not let him move much. Snorri let her order him about. He seemed half in pain and half amused.

  That first day Freydis checked the stockade and ordered the men to build another, even wider than the first, which would include some fields as well, where the cattle could be brought for safety. She spoke to each man, praising their bravery, and never mentioning that they were about to flee till strengthened by her courage.

  It was time to bury the dead now. Freydis had ordered each of them a hero’s funeral, with their graves marked out like ships with stones, as there were no spare ships to bury them with.

  Hikki was buried on his hill, as Hekja had ordered. He had no possessions to be buried with, Hekja realised. He had died before he’d found the wealth and freedom that he dreamt of. She sat by Hikki’s grave after the others had left, and tried to grieve for him, and for what might have been. He deserved that, at least, and so much more. But her mind was too full of worry for Snorri, and Freydis. Instead of thinking of Hikki she found she was looking at the harbour, to see if the Skraelings were coming back. So she went back down the hill to see if Freydis needed help.

  Freydis was still everywhere, checking this and ordering that. Hekja persuaded her to lie down again, and let the women change her bloody pads and bring her baby to her, while Hekja took her orders to the men. Finally Freydis beckoned Hekja to sit beside her while her baby fed.

  Freydis was silent for a while, stroking her baby’s fine red hair. And then she said, ‘Why? Why should they attack us now?’

  ‘Perhaps they were waiting until after harvest,’ suggested Hekja, ‘so they could take what’s in our storerooms.’

  Freydis shook her head. ‘Then why trade peaceably for so many months? To go from friend to enemy in just a few weeks? No, something must have happened to turn them against us.’

  The baby was almost asleep now, though he still sucked at Freydis’ nipple. Freydis gazed at him for a moment, then said, ‘Finnbogi.’

  Hekja shivered at Finnbogi’s name. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  But Freydis shook her head. ‘Tomorrow,’ she whispered, her face suddenly whiter than it had been before. ‘Tonight I am too tired.’

  Next morning Freydis ordered the women to bring her best dress, her chains of gold and brooches and bangles too. Hekja was to wear her other dress, the one that was not stained with blood.

  Freydis looked her up and down, as though to make sure Hekja was dressed correctly, then smiled. Her face was still white, but the shadows beneath her eyes were not as dark as before.

  ‘We must get you more dresses,’ she said. Freydis pulled the curtain aside then walked out into the main hall, with Hekja behind her. The room was full of men, swallowing their breakfasts, and women bringing them horns of ale or slabs of bread.

  ‘Listen!’ cried Freydis.

  The hall fell silent.

  ‘Now I have a son!’ called Freydis, and her voice was clearer than a bird call. ‘His name is Erik the son of Thorvard. I call on you all to witness that I have a daughter too. Her name is Hekja.’

  Hekja gasped, and stepped back, but Freydis grabbed her hand and held it high. Then she released it, and instead lifted the heaviest of the gold necklaces over her head and draped it over Hekja’s shoulders. ‘Today you are my daughter,’ she promised, and kissed her. ‘Hekja Thorvardsdöttir.’43

  Thorvard looked a bit surprised, then smiled and nodded. ‘Granddaughter of Erik,’ added Freydis, looking pointedly down at Snorri lying on his furs. ‘A heroine from a line of heroes.’

  Someone thumped their sword on the ground. Suddenly the room was cheering. Snorri was cheering too, despite his wound.

  Years later Hekja would remember it as perhaps the most terrifying, happy, proud and confusing moment of her life.

  As for Snarf, there was a haunch of venison by the fire and no one w
as paying any notice. He’d finished the lot before anybody thought to look.

  * * *

  43 The ending döttir means daughter. Adopting teenagers or adults into your family was much more common then; it was a way to make important alliances, and ensuring loyalty. Today we take it for granted that women take their husband’s names. This used to be the case only in England, where a husband legally had all his wife’s property. In the rest of Europe, and Scotland too, a woman kept her father’s name, and could still own property after marriage.

  The English practice spread to Scotland and then with colonists to North America and Australia. By 1800 the English style was fashionable in Europe too, and it spread still further, till now the peculiar legal habits of a tiny island have affected women’s names across much of the world.

  Chapter 41

  FINNBOGI

  In all this time no one knew what had happened to Finnbogi’s camp. Had they been attacked as well? Perhaps destroyed?

  Finnbogi’s men had stayed well clear of Freydis’ camp all summer. Now Freydis decided that she and Hekja would go and see how Finnbogi’s camp was faring.

  ‘No!’ Thorvard banged his drinking horn against their bedroom wall, so its end shattered and the skyr ran everywhere. ‘You’re still too weak,’ he said. ‘I will go, with half the men. The others will stay here and protect you.’

  Freydis’ face was white but her mouth still looked determined. ‘Bodily strength has nothing to do with it,’ she stated. ‘If I take men with me I admit that I need them. No, my daughter and I must go by ourselves. Our weakness is our strength.’

  ‘Woof,’ said Snarf, from the floor.

  Freydis smiled. ‘And Ice Nose will accompany us,’ she added.

  ‘His name is Riki Snarfari,’ said Hekja softly.

  Freydis looked at her consideringly, then nodded. ‘Riki Snarfari will escort us,’ she corrected. ‘Who could have a better guard?’

  ‘I will not permit…’ began Thorvard, then shook his head helplessly. He watched Freydis dress herself in her best jewellery, with Hekja helping, then stride out into the hall.

  Hekja lingered. It would need courage of a different sort, she thought, for a husband to accept that the men would follow his wife, not him. ‘I’ll make sure she rests,’ she told Thorvard gently.

  Thorvard patted her hand with his big clumsy one. ‘Thank you, daughter,’ he said.

  Freydis’ brisk manner lasted till she and Hekja were just around the bend of the river. Then Freydis stopped. ‘I need to sit,’ she said quietly and sank onto the ground.

  Hekja knelt by her in alarm. ‘Shall I fetch help?’

  Freydis shook her head. ‘Back there I had to be strong. I will need to be strong for Finnbogi too. But just for a moment though, let me rest.’

  They waited till a bit of colour flowed back into her cheeks, then walked on, more slowly than before, resting often. Finally they came within sight of Finnbogi’s camp.

  ‘Well,’ said Freydis, staring.

  Hekja nodded. Finnbogi’s camp was smaller than theirs, with no fields of animals or grain. Instead there was a high stone wall, topped with a palisade of sharpened stakes, and a lookout high above it all.

  ‘So,’ said Freydis softly. ‘Finnbogi has known for a while that the Skraelings were a danger.’

  Suddenly Freydis drew a breath. She pointed.

  Two women knelt by the lake. For a moment, Hekja thought they were the thralls Finnbogi had brought from his farm. Then she saw that they were Skraelings.

  Hekja gasped. ‘Do you think the Skraelings have taken the camp?’

  ‘No,’ said Freydis softly. ‘Those women are captives. Thralls. Look at their faces.’

  Hekja bit her lip. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Free women never look like that.’

  The women hardly glanced at Hekja and Freydis. One had scars across her face, not from a sword, but as though she had been beaten many times, with no care how the blows fell.

  ‘State your business!’ someone yelled. It was the man up on the lookout.

  Freydis called out, ‘I am here to see Finnbogi!’

  Hekja could hear the sound of sliding wood as the gate was unbarred. Then it swung open and they entered.

  This camp was different from the one down on the river. The long house was small, and grass was worn to dirt by many feet. Flies buzzed about a great heap of deer guts that had been dumped by the store shed.

  ‘Look,’ whispered Hekja. Over by the far wall was a cross between a cage and a storehouse. There were women in it, and girls, and boys too young to have a beard. All of them were Skraelings. They were there to be taken back to Iceland, Hekja realised, and sold as slaves.

  Suddenly Finnbogi was before them, tall and confident as ever. He looked Freydis up and down, then inspected Hekja, lingering on the gold chain that shone about her neck. Then he looked at Snarf, as though wondering if he was near enough to kick. And then he grinned at them like they were some kind of a joke but didn’t know it. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not well, Finnbogi Throstsson,’ said Freydis calmly. ‘The Skraelings attacked us two days ago.’

  Finnbogi nodded, as though this was no surprise. His grin grew wider. ‘And you have come to beg for shelter?’

  ‘No,’ said Freydis shortly. She added, ‘We saw two Skraeling women as we came in. I see you have more over there.’

  ‘Perhaps you did,’ said Finnbogi carelessly. ‘My men need women.’

  ‘Then you should have brought some more,’ said Freydis.

  Finnbogi laughed at that. ‘Why waste good ship space on women? We needed women so we found some.’

  ‘And have made enemies of the Skraelings for us all,’ said Freydis.

  Finnbogi laughed at that. ‘There speaks a woman!’ he cried. ‘This is our land, and if we have to kill a thousand Skraelings to make it ours and have their women serve us we will!’

  Freydis was silent a moment then she said, ‘The land is rich enough to keep us all. Can I persuade you to reconsider, and let the Skraelings live in peace?’

  ‘Peace!’ boomed Finnbogi, as though it was the most absurd thing he’d heard, but his eyes were hard. ‘Peace? Skraeling men and women will bring as good a price as the timber or even better, and take up less room in the boats too. Why sweat at cutting timber when you can harvest thralls?’

  A woman stepped out of the long house then. She stared as Freydis stepped up to her. ‘Helga Mordsdöttir, will you speak to your husband? We need to…’

  The woman sneered. ‘Do not speak to me, Freydis Ericsdöttir. I respect my husband, unlike some I know. Listen to your own man before you bother mine. We have a chance at riches here. Go away and do not bother us.’

  A girl child peered around her skirts. Finnbogi’s baby daughter. The mother picked her up, still glaring at Freydis with contempt.

  ‘But the Skraelings…’ began Hekja.

  ‘Who are you, thrall, to speak to a free woman?’ cried Finnbogi’s wife. Another Skraeling woman peered out the door, then ducked away from yet another blow.

  ‘If your own man cannot capture thralls for you to earn you silver, do not come whining here!’ added Finnbogi’s wife. She turned and disappeared indoors.

  Freydis watched her go, her face impassive. Then she said, ‘Come,’ to Hekja, and began to walk slowly from the compound.

  Chapter 42

  A DECISION

  Nothing was said until they were around the edge of the lake again. Only then did Freydis sag upon a rock. There was sweat on her forehead.

  ‘Rest,’ said Hekja gently. ‘There is nothing more we can do now.’

  Freydis stared at the ripples on the lake, then out at the bare winter forest. ‘Red leaves,’ she said. ‘There were red leaves upon the trees, as though they knew that this winter there would be blood.’

  ‘But the trees will be green again in summer,’ said Hekja earnestly. ‘Maybe no more blood will be shed?’

  Freydis shook her head. ‘The Skrael
ings are warriors,’ she said wearily, ‘as we are warriors. If men came and took our women we’d fight till every one of them were slain. This is what the Skraelings will do to us. And Finnbogi will take more and more of them to serve him and to sell as thralls.’

  ‘But that is Finnbogi,’ cried Hekja. ‘Not us!’

  ‘It makes no difference to the Skraelings. We are guilty because they are our kin and we do nothing. So,’ said Freydis standing up, though Hekja could see how much the effort cost her, ‘we must do something.’

  ‘What?’ cried Hekja. But Freydis just shook her head. Suddenly Thorvard appeared, with four men, carrying Freydis’ chair. Freydis walked towards him, but Thorvard scooped her up and placed her in her chair. The men carried her back to the house, with Hekja walking on one side and Thorvard the other.

  Freydis slept after that, while the wet nurse fed the baby, then after she woke she stayed on the bed and fed the baby herself again, then called for Thorvard, and had the curtain pulled.

  It was night when Thorvard came out. The fire flared in the pit, as the meat dripped from its chain above. Bread was baking on the hearthstone, and porridge cooking in the iron pots.

  Thorvard looked troubled. But he shook his head when someone spoke to him, and wouldn’t answer, just took his meat and horn of ale and sat staring at the fire.

  The women had made a small milk pudding, with eggs and dried strawberries soaked till soft. Hekja put some on a plate, with a slab of wheaten bread and a mug of skyr, and carried them in to Freydis. The other women never went behind the curtain unless ordered, but Hekja now went where she wanted.

  Freydis had a blank, worn look, as though every bone and sinew was too tired to carry on and only her will still kept her moving. The baby lay asleep in a carved cradle by the bed. Hekja had seen Thorvard carving the cradle this winter, polishing it with a smooth stone.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Hekja. ‘What have you decided?’

  Freydis took the plate. ‘Thank you,’ she said. She stared at it a moment, as though eating was a duty that had to be borne, then slowly took up her spoon and swallowed. Then she said, ‘I have decided that we have two choices. We can join with Finnbogi and try to wipe out the Skraelings. Or we can try to convince the Skraelings that we are not their enemies.’