Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  “We will visit you,” Erik assured him hastily.

  “And you own a ship?”

  Relieved to report something that was finally true, Erik raved about his seaworthy knarr, proudly calling her Mount of the Sea. Forty servants could comfortably find room on her. He spoke of the red sail, the dragon’s head at the bow, and the large cargo hold. “When I stand aft at the tiller, wind, sun, and the North Star are my friends—”

  “That’s enough,” Thorbjörn interrupted. “I like you, yes. I believe you are a man full of energy. Now that I know your fortune, I want to offer you just as much in return. Thjodhild shall have ten servants and five maids to accompany her to the Hornstrand.”

  “I do lack women,” Erik interjected.

  The landowner generously increased the number by another four female slaves. He also offered lumber—enough for a women’s shelter—along with wool, two looms, and other household goods. The list went on for a long while, and Erik was astonished at what a rich woman he’d won.

  “Do you agree? Is the dowry appropriate to your possessions, if we don’t include the value of the ship?”

  “I would have taken her for less.”

  Thorbjörn smiled. “How infatuated and inexperienced you are. If a clever matchmaker were to negotiate with me instead of you, such a confession would never cross his lips.” The arrangement of a marriage was a sober deal, he warned. After all, according to Viking law, in the case of divorce or separation, women were entitled to half the common property. “Take my advice, boy: When we repeat our agreement in front of witnesses tomorrow and they fix the bride-price for Thjodhild in silver, be silent about your feelings. They will only cost you.”

  Erik swallowed. Was this a reprimand or even an insult? Only after some careful thought was he able to reassure himself; the big farmer had no wish to offend him. He only meant Erik well. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

  “Don’t you dare! I’ll give you my daughter, and with her and only her, you shall increase the happiness of your clan.”

  The broad-shouldered redhead understood that, too, and he was glad when he was able to finally escape the living hall.

  In the two weeks that followed the engagement beer, he hardly saw Thjodhild. Erik hadn’t been able to talk with her much before, and they’d never been alone. Thorbjörg was always watching over her daughter. When the rising unrest in his loins kept him from his sleep at night, he complained to his friend: “How am I supposed to be certain about my wife?”

  “You must wait until she lies beside you.” Tyrkir yawned. “Your surprise will come on the day of the feast.”

  The old farmer’s wife had resigned herself to her future son-in-law, but she was full of worries, especially as they weren’t following the usual waiting period of at least two months before the wedding. She would have liked to see a grand celebration during the three holy nights that marked the beginning of winter. “That would be the best date to ensure my child’s happiness.” Instead, she had her hands full in August. New cooking pits were dug, goats and sheep were slaughtered, and the freshly brewed beer was fermenting in the barrels.

  The bride helped tirelessly and endured an endless stream of advice during the idle hours. “There’s not much time left, child.” The mother raised her breasts. “But I will give you all the knowledge I can to make you a good mistress.” Thjodhild listened patiently.

  Though she’d laughed little these past weeks, her step was more buoyant than usual. The appointed date approached. The invitations were issued, and on the day before the wedding, the unmarried daughters of the wealthy neighbors arrived. As Hawk Valley lacked hot springs fed by Iceland’s underground fire, they took over the sauna house with their giggling, whispering, and chatting. Usually, the sauna was a place for masters and servants to rest together on Saturdays, or as a warm place for childbirth. Today, however, no man was allowed to enter this area behind the main building.

  The first task was to prepare the bath for the bride. Soon, the girls huddled together in the antechamber, nibbling on honey-sweetened berries. They began with stories of boys in general, but little by little, they exchanged more suggestive, pleasurable details as their cheeks grew red and the water bubbled in the crucibles behind them.

  “She’s coming!” Thjodhild silently acknowledged the joyful greeting. Her expression remained strained. She wore only a simple shift. She had barely slipped it off when the other girls all quickly disrobed. They openly displayed their bodies, cheerfully accepting admiration or mocking consolation, and then led the bride naked into the parlor. A pleasant heat greeted the young women. They drew lots, and two were allowed to sit in the giant vat with Thjodhild while the others served them. As the water hissed on the hot stones, the room quickly filled with steam, and then lukewarm water was poured into the tub.

  For the first time, Thjodhild felt the painful realization that she had to say goodbye—to being a child, and to her dreams. How often did I wash the bride myself? she thought. Sometimes I was even jealous. And now today, it is my turn. She was leaving her parents, her comfortable home. What waits for me up there in the north, so far away from Hawk Valley? How lonely will it be there?

  “Why aren’t you happy?” The girl next to Thjodhild scooped water with her hand and let it run over her neck and breasts. “Tomorrow, you’ll have a man. If I were you, I couldn’t wait. . . .”

  “You’re right.” Thjodhild pushed aside her worries with a sharp clap. “Erik is strong.” She splashed the others. “And now he’ll be my husband!” Finally, the tension released and the young women cheered, pouring water over the bride’s head, then tickling her until she begged for mercy and rose from the tub with her arms stretched high. The servants thoroughly thrashed and rubbed her back, buttocks, and legs with fresh birch twigs and scrubbed her from head to toe.

  A tub of cold water waited in front of the sauna house. Thjodhild emerged, gasped for air, and screamed, immediately followed by the terrified screeching of her friends. Later, they sat together wrapped in cloths. “Remember . . . ?” Stories from the past came to life while they wound the bridal wreath from flowers and leaves. In the evening, Mother Thorbjörg and two maids brought meat soup and a jug of mead. Her gait was heavy; the effort of the past days had made her leg ache again.

  “Come sit, Mother,” Thjodhild said. “Rest with us a while.”

  “Thank you, my child.” When Thorbjörg noticed the disappointed faces all around her, she had to chuckle. “No, don’t worry, you excited sheep. The old hag is leaving now. I won’t spoil your last maiden night.” She looked at Thjodhild for a long time, then she stroked her knee and smiled. Before she left, she scolded the other girls. “Tomorrow, you’d better make my daughter glow. If I have to give away my girl, then she will be the most beautiful bride of Hawk Valley.”

  Erik had ridden up the nearby hills with Tyrkir. They’d left the horses behind at the edge of a grove and were watching the setting sun. “This area must be a garden of the gods.” The twenty-year-old tore out a tuft of grass and earth and inhaled the smell. “If I’d been allowed to settle here, my happiness would be complete.”

  “I’ve never seen you like this before,” Tyrkir mocked. “Did Father God Odin, the one-eyed protector of the poets, suddenly blow beautiful words into your ear?”

  Erik thoughtfully rubbed the tuft between his fingers. “I just feel that way today.”

  Both stared at the sinking fireball on the western horizon.

  “What are you afraid of?” Tyrkir began quietly, and since he didn’t want to mention Erik’s lies about the farm on Sharpcliff, he added, “Who knows what our future will bring? I’m sure whatever it is, we’ll ultimately win good fortune.” He wanted to cheer up his friend. “You get a beautiful, proud wife. And it’s good that we’ll soon be heading north, because here in Hawk Valley, you now have an enemy.”

  “Ejolf, the brother of the landlord of the Valtjof Farm?” Erik shook his head. He’d given the man no grounds for a feud. Thjodh
ild had never been promised to that braggart.

  “Even so, he’ll try everything to harm you,” Tyrkir said. “And we both know how injustice makes you angry.”

  “Why are you so clever?” Erik grinned, and his boyish good humor returned. “I wonder why you haven’t found a woman yet!”

  “That’s your responsibility,” Tyrkir replied. “You’re the master.” He raised his hands defensively. “On second thought, better not. With your taste, you’re sure to put a cow in my bed. No, my lord, let me find myself a bride, and then I’ll come to you.”

  “Stupid lad!” Erik laughed and shoved him gently in his chest. “No cow! But we take home five new maids with us. Maybe you’ll like one of them.”

  “You marry. I still have time.”

  They raced to their horses. Tyrkir was the first to jump into the saddle, and Erik galloped after him, past the birch grove and down the meadow hill.

  They’d made the blood sacrifice—a special plea to the mother goddess Frigg for happiness, the blessing of children, and peaceful coexistence. Thorbjörg had insisted that the little goddess Var, who heard and fulfilled every promise, also be remembered.

  The smell of burnt juniper filled the spacious living hall. Since the hearth fire in Thjodhild’s new home could not be consecrated that day, she’d take some of the holy ashes in a leather pouch with her and would later repeat the ritual on Sharpcliff. All the guests had taken their seats; the closest relatives sat close to the honorary chairs, then friends and neighbors.

  The host had to pay meticulous attention to where guests were seated because proximity or distance reflected how much respect he showed to those invited. The happy faces around the fire proved that Thorbjörn had not made any mistakes. And when he brought the bride and groom together, cheers and chants of joy broke out in the hall.

  It was only with great difficulty that he was able to calm the enthusiasm again: “Friends! Friends, listen to me!” It took him some time before he could continue. “Let’s take the oath!” The company went silent. “Everyone in this hall swears by their honor that they will not resent one another’s words as long as we drink and the feast lasts. No matter how hard our heads become, no feud must arise from our drunkenness.” Women and men solemnly raised their right hands. “With this, I open the wedding feast. Drink and eat, dance and laugh. Be my guests for three days and two nights.” Steaming bowls were brought in by the maids. Servants filled the cups from jugs.

  “Where is your slave?” Thjodhild was seated next to Erik on the second, slightly lower bench of honor opposite her parents. As a sign of her new status, she had tied her blond hair into a knot at her neck, and a big ring hung from the belt of her light blue dress. Keys were still missing, but she would receive them in her new home. “I want to drink with him and you first, because I can’t shake the suspicion that he was the one who brought us together.”

  “That’s not true,” Erik countered weakly. “But if you so insist, there might be something to it.” He whistled. Tyrkir, standing near the doorway, raised his head, understanding the signal, and squeezed through the rows of benches toward the bridal couple. He looked at his master, waiting for his request.

  “No, not me. Your mistress has something to say to you.”

  Thjodhild handed the slave her jug of mead. “I know you are my husband’s friend. And I very much wish that you not only serve me but also stand by me in joy and sorrow, as faithfully as you do him.”

  Tyrkir regarded her openly. “It’s difficult to share love, Mistress. But right after Erik, I give you a place of honor in my heart.” He took a sip, then handed the jug back to her. She toasted with Erik and both emptied their vessels.

  A sudden noise from outside cut through the celebration—a man was screaming, cursing, his words incomprehensible. Little by little, the party took notice, and the carefree laughter gave way to a watchful tension.

  “Come out! You stole my bride! Do you hear me, you coward? Come and fight!”

  Thjodhild clenched her hands into her wedding scarf. “It’s Ejolf Dirt,” she whispered. “Ignore him. Please!”

  The jealous man kept screaming outside. The guests were becoming restless; some men felt for their daggers. Tyrkir looked anxiously at his friend and saw the anger building inside him. Help, great Tyr, he pleaded silently. Grant him restraint! Do not let this day drown in blood!

  “How dare he,” growled Erik. “Just turns up . . .” He stared at Tyrkir. “Where is my sword? Bring it here. Also the ax. I’ll show this boy that Erik Thorvaldsson is not a cowardly rabbit.”

  “Right away, sir,” Tyrkir said, but he didn’t move. “But, are you sure you’re not mistaken? I hear the man raving, but he did not mention your name. Perhaps his challenge is meant for another guest.”

  The giant clenched his fist. “You will obey me, or I—”

  “Yes, it’s better if you hit me.” Slowly, the weedy man crossed his arms behind his back. “Go ahead. You can take out your anger on me and save yourself from the consequences of any hasty action.”

  Erik snorted and threw himself back so hard, the high seat groaned.

  Ejolf’s curses were still ringing through the hall.

  The bride’s father watched the son-in-law sharply, then finally stood. It seemed that his reason won out. “No one will disturb my daughter’s day.” He called over to the row of benches occupied by the neighboring big farmers. “Valtjof of Valtjof Farm, your brother was not invited. He’s entered my property without permission. For peace’s sake, go see to it that the hothead no longer bothers us.”

  The roundish farmer turned bright red but rose from his seat. As everyone looked on, he walked along the fire to the exit. A single sharp order and the shouting cut off, and shortly after, Valtjof returned. He raised his hand before the benches. “Forgive me, neighbor! The lad is still young and unstable.” Then he turned to address Erik. “May the gods bless you and your wife with many children!”

  His words were met with silence. After a tense pause, Erik pressed out through his teeth, “Forgotten. Every word of your brother. He could not offend Thor in me.”

  The men in the hall looked at one another, amazed. Each of them had, as a child, chosen a guardian from the circle of gods, one who had dwelled within him ever since, giving to him their trust and confidence. An insult or any kind of offense hurt, above all, their own god, and only revenge could appease his anger.

  A murmur went through the rows of tables. The groom had not felt attacked by an equal. For him, Ejolf Dirt was just a stupid ruffian who could not violate his honor. What a noble gesture!

  Valtjof bowed deeply. “For your generosity, I am in your debt. Take a bull as atonement from me.”

  As soon as Erik had accepted the compensation, enthusiastic congratulations were offered to him from all sides. The feast came to life again, now even more cheerful and boisterous. The minstrels took to the drum much too early, conjured up waves of sound with their harps, and blew on the lur until hunger drove them back to the plates.

  Erik sat next to his bride, drenched in sweat. Tyrkir knew what a battle his friend had fought with himself. “This victory was hard-won,” he said quietly.

  “Shut up,” Erik grumbled. “Didn’t I send you for beer?”

  “Forgive me. How stupid of me. The whole barrel, sir?”

  They looked at each other, and their mouths twitched.

  “Never mind. Just beer. I’m thirsty.”

  Tyrkir took the cup and pushed himself through the rows of tables.

  Thjodhild lightly touched her husband’s arm. “I’m proud.”

  Erik puffed out his chest. “The wedding was good,” he said, awkwardly, but only later that night would the real celebration begin. “If you know what I mean.”

  Her look told him just how well she’d understood him.

  Erik had almost overcome the first drunkenness by the evening. Before he and Thjodhild were led to the other house, Tyrkir insisted on pouring a bucket of cold water over his head.
“I don’t want you to sleep through your surprise.”

  “You think? I could never get that drunk.”

  The maidens had shaken out the blankets and decorated the bedposts with bouquets. Embers crackled in the firepot. They were now standing together in front of the wedding room, whispering and giggling. As soon as the bridal parents approached with the couple, they fell silent, and only their shining eyes revealed where their thoughts had strayed.

  Thorbjörg pressed her daughter against her mighty chest, as if saying goodbye before a journey into the unknown. The big farmer laid his hand on the groom’s shoulder. Then the young women opened the door wide before closing it again quietly behind them as they left.

  The couple was alone. Neither said anything, and because Erik just stared ahead, Thjodhild worried that he was as inexperienced as she was. She boldly disrobed, presenting herself to her new husband. “Do you not like me?”

  The red one looked up in awe. “A gift.” His voice barely obeyed him. “I’ve known enough women, but you are a gift.”

  She hadn’t expected so much flattery, so she slipped under the feather bed, staying close to the left edge. Erik tore his shirt over his head, then hastily took off his trousers and climbed in from the other side.

  “You’ll want for nothing with me,” he said, but didn’t move.

  “I trust you.”

  Slowly, they slipped toward each other. They’d barely touched when Thjodhild hit something hard and cold with her thigh. Frightened, she threw the feather bed aside.

  “What is it?” asked Erik.

  She held a bronze Thor’s hammer in her hand and laughed. She had put this into the bed of newlyweds herself often enough. “And today of all days, I didn’t even think of it.” She looked down at Erik. Her gaze lingered. “I also believe,” she whispered, “that such a . . . that it stimulates masculinity. Do you understand?”