At the table of the lordship, not a word was spoken. The two younger sons spooned their fish stew with their heads bowed; even Freydis didn’t dare look up. It was as if a boulder hovered over them, threatening to fall at any moment. Tyrkir chewed every bite for a long time. Thjodhild had lost her appetite completely. Only the lord of Steep Slope ate with grim pleasure, the fat dripping into his gray-red beard. Finally, he emptied two ladles of sour milk one after the other and burped audibly before retreating to the high bench in front of the great fire.
Tyrkir accompanied Thjodhild to the kitchen. “Let’s talk,” he murmured, and left the building through the back door.
A little later, she followed him outside, but she did not stop, storming past him and out into the pasture. When she reached the middle of the freshly mowed grass, she turned around. “What have you done to me?” There were tears in her eyes. “My son is cast out. Our slaves sit apart. What good is the new faith if it destroys our peace?” She clenched her fists. “I-I tried. But now it’s too late. I can’t convince Erik. The priest must go and take his Christianity with him.”
She piled up the mown grass with the tip of her shoe. This was clearly difficult for her. “If you give up the cross, Leif and the others will take it off, too. I don’t know what to do anymore. Help me. Save our happiness.”
Her grief pained Tyrkir, and he felt the urge to embrace her or at least stroke her shoulders. “There’s no turning back,” he began quietly. “Whoever’s been baptized remains eternally in the hand of the only God, whether he wants to or not.”
“I forbid it!” She stomped her heap of grass in two halves. “Is this to be our future? People divided. How long will it be before they turn on one another?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Tyrkir pointed over to the farm. “Yes, I made a big mistake hoping to convince Erik slowly. I, of all people, should have known better. Now, the reality is rolling over us like a tidal wave. Thjodhild, we must grab anything we can to avoid drowning.” He kneeled before the two mounds of grass. “You’re right. Two groups with such different beliefs cannot live peacefully under the same roof for long.” Except for a small mound, he pushed the grass from the left pile back to the right. “Do you see? We have to face facts, and we have to do so soon. You’re the only one who can prevent the fronts from hardening for good.”
“Haven’t I done enough? No, say no more. I’ll do anything if it’ll help keep peace on Steep Slope.”
Tyrkir stood, his pale, scarred face clearly visible. “It will take courage and strength. But success? I dare not promise it.”
They walked together farther into the twilight. An icy wind was coming down from the glacier, and Thjodhild tightened her cloak around her shoulders. She shivered but wasn’t sure whether it was because of the chill or the plan her friend had laid out before her. There was no other way, she soon realized. She had to do it, and the longer Tyrkir spoke, the more her heart wanted his scheme to succeed. “Isn’t this treason against Erik?”
Tyrkir shook his head. “God will help me win back my friend!”
At the first light of dawn, the servants shuffled one by one from the low sleeping shed, stretched their aching backs, and yawned. It was a new day. They looked at the sky—a good day for haying. But at the entrance to the main house, they rubbed their eyes. The table was not laid. No giggles and chatter drifted from the kitchen. The hall was deserted, and the ashes of the previous day still covered the embers in the firepit. The men only grasped the truth very slowly: no breakfast.
For the first time on Steep Slope, there was to be no warm meal before work. Only after a long search did the men find a few buckets of fresh milk near the cow barn and a wicker basket full of dried fish next to them. Well, at least their hunger could be sated. The slaves were not required to know the why and wherefore, and so they went out with rakes and forks to turn the grass.
When Erik stepped out of the bedroom, only Thorvald and Thorstein were sitting at the polished table. “Where is Freydis?” he growled. He did not miss his eldest. “What about the German? Is he still sleeping?”
The sons were silent. They preferred not to look at their father.
Erik took his place and called to the kitchen, “You can bring the soup now! And another piece of seal bacon. I’m hungry.”
Nothing moved; no one obeyed the order.
He looked at his sons. “Your mother left her bed long before I did, didn’t she? Why doesn’t she send the maid?” He struck the tabletop with his flat hand. “Answer!”
The youngest son slipped his stool back a little. “No one is there,” he whispered. “All the women are gone, even Mother.” Then he jumped up. He was lucky—his father’s arm didn’t reach him—but the blow hit his brother in the side.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Thorstein is right, Father,” Thorvald confessed. “The kitchen’s empty. I’ve looked in the stables. Nothing. Not a maid to be found.” He stood to put some distance between himself and his father.
“They can’t have just disappeared!”
Thorvald motioned for his brother to answer. The eleven-year-old gathered all his courage. “Over by the brook where the cross is, and the priest’s house. They’re all there now.”
But instead of rage, Erik’s shoulders sank. “It’s okay. We won’t starve right away. Check the fence . . . Oh, never mind, you’re old enough to find your own jobs.” He pushed himself up from the table and left the hall.
Like a sentry, Erik took up a position near the sheepfold next to a boulder. Farther west, he saw the priest’s grass-covered house, and no movement of the enemy escaped him. The women had gathered on the bank of the stream. A little to the side, he also spotted the traitors, Leif and Tyrkir. The priest stood high in front of the group, and sometimes his singing drifted over. Later, the women took off their coats and put on white robes. The priest solemnly climbed into the water. With an inviting gesture, he called the first of the waiting women to baptism.
Erik sank to the stone. “Thjodhild.” The attack had begun, and he had no weapon to repel it. “All my life, I fought only for you, for a home without enemies.” Immediately, his anger rose again. His fists clawed into his beard as he stared at the sky. “Great Thor! You have never let me down. Why now? This Christian god is also a threat to all of you up there, don’t you realize that? Damn it, why don’t you smash him with your hammer? Or are you afraid of him?”
No answer or help came from Valhalla.
Around noon, the white-clad army returned from the stream. The maids approached cheerfully, led by their tall mistress, whose gaze thwarted any resistance. The victors just nodded to the guard in passing, and thus the farm was conquered. “To work, girls! We must make up for lost time.”
Erik shook off his daze. “That’s true!” he growled. “Order must be restored, and right away.”
In the forecourt, he met Freydis. As soon as she saw her father, she gave a little twirl. “How do you like me in my white dress?”
“You, too, then?” He stared angrily at the daughter. “Take that off!”
“That’s forbidden, Father.” She wagged her index finger in front of her nose. “The priest has ordered that we are not to remove our christening robes for a week. Our God will be angry if we disobey.”
“You little—!” He shook his fist. “It’s about time I finally found you a husband.”
Maids emerged from the bedroom, arms piled high with pillows and blankets. They scurried wordlessly past their master. When he reached the threshold, his wife was just pointing to a laundry chest. “You can take that over there, too.”
“Hey, Wife?”
Thjodhild turned. “Almost done.” She put another cloak and a strap dress on top of the chest and sent the two girls out with it.
“Are you leaving me?”
She grabbed her headscarf and felt her fingers tremble. Stay calm, she urged herself as she checked the fit of her pinned-up braid. “No, Erik. I will not leave you.” Fa
r too quickly, the hair was fixed. “I’m moving over to the women’s shelter.”
“Don’t you dare! Your place is in my bed.”
“You’re wrong.” His threat gave her strength. “I’m not a cow you can tie up in a barn.” She put her hands on her hips. “No, Erik Thorvaldsson. You will not lie with me until you have accepted the faith. Get baptized, and I will return immediately to my marital bed.” She’d said it! For a moment, Thjodhild was frightened by her hardness. No, you mustn’t give in now, she warned herself. Stay strong. “The Christian faith can no longer be stopped, so it would be better for everyone if we yielded to it. Please choose peace.”
She wanted to push past him, but he put his hand against the doorpost. “You think I can’t find a replacement for you?”
“You don’t understand!” Anger blazed in her eyes. “Well, do it then!” she shouted. “Take a maid for yourself, but remember, every ass, every thigh here on this hill belongs to a Christian.” Thjodhild pushed his arm aside and ran out.
“Wait!” He ran after her across the courtyard. “I command you!” Frightened, the maidens forgot to close their mouths. Never before had a dispute been aired so openly by their master and mistress. “Stop!”
Before he had reached the women’s shelter, the door slammed shut, and with a hard noise, the beam inside dropped. “Damned woman!” Erik had already pulled his foot back, but he didn’t kick the wood. Instead, he turned around. Only now did he notice the white-clad witnesses of his outburst. “Don’t stare, you geese, or I’ll pluck your feathers out!” With that, he stormed on to the forge.
Leif didn’t even have a chance to greet his father. “It’s your fault!” The vein in Erik’s forehead throbbed threateningly. “You will not only eat from a bowl with the servants. No, Son, from tonight on, you’ll sleep with them in the shed.”
“You wouldn’t dare, Father!”
“Are you deaf? Until your mother comes back to me, there’s no more bed for you in the house.”
Every firm resolve broke. Leif jumped up in a flash, hurling away hammer and pliers. “I have pride like you! My honor is worth as much as yours! I’m leaving.” He thrust his finger at his father. “And should you ever need your son again, you’ll have to beg!” Leif rushed out of the forge. “I’m sick of it! So damn tired!”
The tears only came when Leif was already on the path down to the harbor.
The rest of the baptism day passed without Leif returning. In the following days, bitter silence weighed on the magnificent estate on Steep Slope. Duties and responsibilities forced the family into a respectful coexistence. Leif lived aboard his ship, and his mother had a slave girl secretly bring him his food.
“What is my son up to?” she asked the maid one morning.
“I don’t know exactly, my lady. Egil, the neighbor’s son, is with him. And Christian boatmen come every night to work on the knarr. It looks like the young masters want to go on a journey.” When the maid saw Thjodhild’s shocked expression, she quickly added, “But I don’t know for certain.”
Thjodhild took her shawl. Not seeing Tyrkir in the carving workshop made her uneasy. When she found him near the wine cellar pressing huckleberries, his bloodred hands startled her. Stay calm, she ordered her heart, or the last remnant of my mind will drown, too. “Our plan’s failed.” The wrinkles deepened in the corners of her mouth. “I’ve just learned that Leif is preparing to leave for the royal court.”
Tyrkir dried his hands, but the red stayed on his fingers. “To Norway? Now, so late in August? There’s no wind for that.”
“What do I care about the wind? I don’t want him to leave us, do you hear? And even if he leaves, not like this. Not when he’s angry. Or he’ll never return.”
She looked so helpless.
“I’ll ask him. Right now.” How he would have liked to have promised her more. And yet all he could say was, “Maybe I can change his mind.”
Leif jumped off the deck, ran toward his godfather, and grabbed his horse’s bridle. “Get off, Uncle!” No sooner was Tyrkir out of the saddle than Leif enthusiastically clasped his hands together. “Thank God. I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Now nothing can go wrong.” He turned back to the water. “Hey, Egil. What do you think of that? I’ve brought you the best pilot in Greenland.”
The heir to the neighboring farm was so happy, he hooted.
Tyrkir couldn’t believe it. Life was choking away on Steep Slope, and these young men here were almost bubbling over. “Why pilot?” He pulled Leif aside. “Maybe my old age is playing a trick on me, so enlighten me, boy.”
“Hasn’t the news reached that dark den up there?” The godfather’s shrug unsettled Leif. “And I thought you’d come here to see how far we’ve come with the preparations.”
“Where are you going?”
“West!”
The longer Leif talked about the unknown land, the more enthusiastic he became. He crouched and charted the course from the Eriksfjord to the open sea using a pebble in the sand. “From there, it’s said to be only a few days farther west. And if we don’t find the coast, I don’t care. We sail the day after tomorrow.” He jumped up. “You see, Uncle, I have to get out of here. Fresh wind. There’s order onboard. There are rules for everyone, and maybe it’ll help me get my mind straight.”
Tyrkir ran his fingertip over his scar. “It’s not a bad idea.”
“So, you’re coming? Say yes!”
The temptation was too great. “You have my word.” No sooner had Tyrkir given it than he regretted it. No, he shouldn’t flee, leaving Thjodhild with her worries. Unless . . .
Suddenly, almost painfully, the thought came to him. Just another idea, but was it also doomed to failure? No, this time he was going to bring about the longed-for solution, and Thjodhild would find peace and would be able to breathe more easily for a time. “On one condition.”
At first, Leif cursed, running around like an unruly horse. Sentence by sentence, he pulled the bridle in, and finally the godson stood calm and collected in front of Tyrkir again. “Maybe you’re right, Uncle. We brought the unrest. Running away now would be cowardly. Mother doesn’t deserve that. Neither does Father.” He hurled a pebble far across the water. “But you’re my pilot. I won’t release you from your word.”
“I stand by it.” Tyrkir sat up and demanded a full report from the skipper: provisions for several weeks, weapons. The crew was made up of twenty of their own boatmen, and Egil contributed ten from the neighboring farm. “Very good, boy! The day after tomorrow, your pilot will come aboard, and he’ll bring a guest.”
Thjodhild was waiting for Tyrkir at the edge of the meadow. He waved to her, trying to send her comfort before he reached the top of the steep path. But only his words gave her certainty.
“So, Leif just wants to get away. Thanks to Frigg.” She smiled softly and stroked her white christening robe. “No, thank the Blessed Virgin Mary! I must get used to the names.” The plan to seek a new land didn’t even seem to worry her much. Her beloved son wasn’t breaking with the family. That alone was important, the first good news all these miserable weeks. “Thank you, too.” With a light step, she hurried back to the house.
Tyrkir watched her. I mustn’t upset her again, he thought. If my plan fails, she won’t have much time to think. Maybe the rush will help. . . . He shook his head. Stop doubting!
If the Almighty God really held his hand over the embankment, the new plan had to succeed.
The next morning, as he had every day since the baptism, Erik, armed with bow, arrow, spear, and battle-ax, rode up to his dam.
Tyrkir let another hour pass, then followed the giant. Except for his hunting dagger, he’d deliberately forgone any weapon. Instead, he put a leather tube of mead into his saddlebag.
He let the horse trot and absorbed the crisp scent of the air, passing fully loaded hay carts and servants waving and cracking their whips over the backs of the sturdy oxen.
In his mind, Tyrkir returned again to the first po
or farm on Sharpcliff. We had to drag what little grass we could scavenge in worn canvas on our heads. And here? How easily the harvest can be brought in. We have enough fodder for the cattle, no matter how long the next winter lasts. “Happiness is here,” he murmured. “It is only we who have forgotten how to see it.”
During the ride, he admired the dam for the first time. It still withstood the water’s pressure, and on its left side, a narrow waterfall tumbled down. No sooner had Tyrkir reached the high valley than he uttered a sigh. “Yes, my old Viking, I can easily see why you retreat to this place.”
The lake lay before Tyrkir like a deep blue eye embedded in the green of the meadows. His gaze wandered over the water, and he discovered the giant a little above the stream inlet. Erik jumped back and forth, swung his arm, threw himself into the grass, and immediately rebounded. At first, Tyrkir feared that his friend was possessed by an evil spirit, but halfway along the way, he noticed the weapons in Erik’s fists. “Hey! May I come closer?”
The giant looked up for a moment before fighting on. This invitation was enough for Tyrkir. In a light tölt, he drove his horse closer and let it graze next to Erik’s pied stallion.
He watched in silence. Erik had a short bow in his fist. He let arrow after arrow fly. Soon, his quiver was half empty while a white-gray bouquet of feathers blossomed on the opposite hillside.
Tyrkir applauded cautiously. “You haven’t forgotten a thing.”
“Do you want to have a go?” Sweat ran from Erik’s forehead. His eyes glittered mockingly. “A little practice won’t hurt you.”
Tyrkir took the bow, lowered it to the target, and the arrow struck only a little beside the bouquet.
“Not bad,” Erik growled. “But not better than me.”
“Do you think I would dare compete with you?”
“Just as well, Know-It-All.” He had already grabbed the battle-ax and swung it back and forth a few times. Then, accompanied by a wild scream, he let it whirl through the air. The blade dug itself into the ground between Tyrkir’s arrow and his own bouquet. “Though I am old, I can still take on any enemy.”
Erik the Red Page 33
