“Leave the guarding to me tonight, Alfhild,” says Matilda. She stands and goes to her personal chest to sit. From there she can swivel to get a view in every direction. “I don’t want to go into town tomorrow anyway. I’m afraid of these Slavs. In the morning, I’ll go on land and crawl under a bush and sleep the day away.”
I hesitate. Then, “Thank you.” And I’m dead asleep in an instant.
In the morning Matilda finds a thick bush, and Ingun stays with her. After all, someone needs to guard her as she sleeps. They are Norse—servants, not slaves—perhaps this has made a special bond, for they are close friends. Nevertheless, it makes me nervous to leave Ingun behind. Ingun is smart. We’d be safer if she came with us.
We walk in two groups. The lead group has four—Ragnhild, Unn, Jofrid, and me. The other group—Thyra, Osk, and Grima—follows close enough to come at a call for help but far enough to escape if something horrible happens to the first group. Since Ragnhild and Thyra are clearly Norse, if need be they can behave as though the others in their group are their slaves. We have only two axes, one per group: Osk and Unn carry them. We have two bows, one per group: Grima and I carry them. All have dirks we can pull out quickly.
It feels strange to walk as groups on land after all those days at sea. Slow and clumsy. As though we’re sick. We head inland, with the plan of turning west and following the river into town, so that no one will know we came by boat. It just seems sensible. Or it did when we first decided it. Now, as we walk, it seems stupid. If we didn’t come by boat, how else could we have come?
I wish Ingun was with us.
We step around broken branches on the ground and I think of Hakon, obliterating that bush with his wooden sword. I imagine him gripping a stick tight and marching with us. Búri, too. For an instant I can smile. My little brothers are with me in spirit. I pick up a stick and hand it to Ragnhild. I hand another to Jofrid.
After a long while, my group comes out of the forest onto a dirt road. We turn west along the road.
We come to a pile of clothes, men’s clothes, in the center of the road. How odd.
“Let’s take them,” says Ragnhild.
We look around. The second group emerges from the woods way back along the road. We wave to them to retreat into the woods again. Then we snatch the heap of clothes and run back among the trees. We race, hidden by foliage, until we find the other group.
“What are you doing?” says Thyra. “We’re supposed to stay separate.”
“Look what we found.” Ragnhild dumps her load on the ground. We all do. “Men’s clothes. We can put them on and pretend we’re men.”
I think of my Ástríd—how she wore men’s clothes and pretended to be Randolf and it worked—it actually worked with people she was living with day after day. I think of Mel and me, dressed as peasant boys on the Russian slave ship.
“What do you mean, found them?” asks Grima. “We’re not thieves.”
“They were sitting in a pile in the road.”
Grima’s eyes are troubled. “That doesn’t sound right. Why would anyone leave clothes in the road?”
“You’re right.” Jofrid looks at Ragnhild and Unn and me. “We have to return them.”
Osk hits her forehead with her palm. “Hide!” She lies flat in the undergrowth. “Fast. I don’t know how much time we have. Lie down. Keep your eyes on the road.”
We hide and wait. The rumble of horses’ hooves comes from the east. I have the urge to run. What have I done to these women? We could all get killed. But none of us bolts.
Men go galloping by.
When the last horse has passed and we hear no more hoofbeats, Osk rolls onto her back. “Those clothes belong to a dead man. He will be burned today. So this morning they put his belongings in five heaps along the road into town. The men on horses were waiting outside town, and at a signal, they raced for the heaps. The biggest heap, with the most valuable stuff, is the farthest away from town, so the man on the fastest horse will reach it first and gets to keep it. Then each heap is less valuable, as you get closer to town.”
“So these clothes are no one’s anymore?” says Grima. “We can keep them?”
“Yes.” Osk sifts through the pile of clothes now. “But if we wear them into town, people might recognize them. Especially this shirt—see the nice stitching? And this hat. It’s a city, yes, but people know things about one another. I don’t think any of it is safe to wear here, really.”
“Unn,” I say, “you and Jofrid carry this stuff back to the boat. And take your ax with you, just in case.”
“I want to help,” says Jofrid.
“You’re still the best one with the boat,” I say. “You can have everything prepared for a quick getaway if need be. Really, Jofrid. These clothes are a treasure. Like Ragnhild said, we can dress as men. We won’t have to worry every time we pass a ship of men. They’ll pay us no attention.” I gather up the clothes as I talk. “We can’t just leave the clothes here to fetch later. People will realize that one of the heaps went missing, so they’ll come searching. Please.”
Jofrid nods.
I hand the clothes to Unn and face Jofrid. “First, let’s trade clothes, you and me. So I clearly look like a slave.”
We do that. Then Jofrid and Unn scoop up the clothes and disappear into the forest.
We have one ax now, and Osk carries it. And two bows. And the two sticks. We run through the trees toward town. Once we’re close enough to smell burning, we go out onto the road. Ragnhild and Thyra link arms and walk in front. Osk and Grima and I follow, as slaves should, our weapons showing.
The funeral pyre is in front of a house. The body is already consumed in flames, but I can see pieces of iron puncturing the flickers: swords. I bet the dead man’s ax was burned with him too. Probably all his weapons and tools. What a waste.
Beyond the pyre, people feast out in the open. The air is smoke and honey. People swill down mead as though it’s milk.
We continue along the road, holding ourselves tall out of respect for the funeral. A man notices us and follows. He runs a bit to catch up and says something to Ragnhild. Osk whispers in her ear. Ragnhild steps back, and Osk says something to the man in a nasty tone. He laughs, but his eyes dart around and he walks back to the crowd.
We walk a bit more when Osk says, “Look. There’s a woman alone over there. See her, gathering wood?” The woman is well off the road. “Let’s go talk to her. Find out what we can.”
So we go to the woman and Osk has a conversation with her, while we help gather sticks at the edge of the forest. The conversation is slow going. Osk speaks haltingly. The woman answers just as haltingly.
I keep staring at the woman’s feet. She wears no shoes. Most of her toes have rings on them. She has silver earrings with hanging balls, too—but that’s not special; everyone wears earrings. I’ve never seen toe rings before, though. They couldn’t possibly be comfortable. And what happens to her when she needs to run?
The man appears again. Mead stains his beard. He says something to Osk. She stares at him. Then she says something back. The man comes up to Ragnhild and Thyra. He speaks his language as he gestures—touching around his neck and up his arms enthusiastically.
“He has jewelry to sell you, my mistresses,” says Osk to Ragnhild and Thyra. Her eyes glitter. Something’s going on. She nods.
Thyra looks hard at Osk. Then she nods back.
Osk says something to the man.
The man walks down the road we came on, past the funeral pyre. He checks over his shoulder that we’re following. And we are; Osk is urging us on.
I don’t understand anything. But it’s just him against the five of us. We’ll be all right.
The man cuts off the road and leads us along a path to a house. We follow him inside. Then he lays bowls on the floor. Ordinary bowls. Osk shakes her head and points at a wooden chest. The man looks surprised, but he opens the chest and puts his clothes on the floor.
Osk nods. She steps be
side him and opens a hand to Thyra and Ragnhild, as though offering them. As though they’re for sale. Prickles go up the back of my neck. The man steps toward Thyra, a stupid look of lust on his face. Osk conks him on the back of the head with the butt end of her ax.
The man falls unconscious.
“What just happened?” asks Ragnhild. She wrings her hands.
“He wanted to buy you two,” says Osk. “He figured we slaves would easily betray our owners, isolated from the men as he saw we were. So he decided to lure you here with the promise of jewelry. Look at the junk he offered. Clearly he figured the rest of us, being slaves, had no idea what a woman should cost. An opportunist.” She pushes him with her foot. “This should teach him a lesson. A man who buys women deserves to be robbed.” She looks at me. “I know what we want to know, Alfhild. The woman told me. So let’s take this man’s clothes and get out of here fast. Because I’m almost entirely sure friends of his will show up soon. It’s only because they’re all drunk that they haven’t staggered in here yet.”
We raid his larder and run.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We are dressed as men. All of us. Some have cut their hair off—like Ástríd did when she was playing Randolf—but some have simply tucked it under a hat. That’s what I’ve done, braiding it first. I remember Alf calling me the princess of the curly hair. My curls stay, though tamed by the braid, for I am still that girl, though I am many other things as well.
We are only eight now. Osk helped us until the very last minute, but then she jumped off the ship. The idea of leaving again when she was so close to home was too much for her to bear. She will follow the Vistula River on foot till she finds the village where she was born. There may yet be people there who remember her. She had two brothers, three sisters, once upon a time. I couldn’t blame her, of course. I have a brother, I have a sister.
But no. In a way, I have three brothers—Nuada and Búri and Hakon—and three sisters—Mel and Ástríd and Alof. No, I could not blame Osk one bit.
When I tried to pay her, she said being carried home was payment enough. But she took an ax. I’ve lived with the Norse so long, I feel helpless without an ax. So only one ax for the remaining eight of us appalled me. But I didn’t let on; Osk has her rights.
This morning I am scanning the sea. Osk told what she learned from the woman we helped to gather wood. Some women and children stolen from the giant islands to the west of Jutland—one of which is my Eire land—are sold as slaves in Heiðabý, yes, and many others are sold in Birka, across the Baltic Sea on the east coast of the Swedes’ land. Most, though, are taken by boat down the Vistula River. Then the boat is portaged across land and around waterfalls—how many, the woman didn’t know—to another river that empties into the great sea in the south. That’s where the enormous city of Miklagard lies; that’s where the largest slave market in the world is. Girls sold there can wind up in Africa, Asia, anywhere.
According to the woman, Miklagard is the most dangerous city in the world. She says that’s partly because it’s the center of Christianity, what she called a warring religion that wants to conquer the world. I’m glad I couldn’t understand her language, or I might have been tempted to argue with her and ruin everything for all of us. I may not pray to Jesus anymore, but I still remember the preachings of the Christians.
I had heard of Miklagard before. The slave dealers in Heiðabý talked about going there via rivers. I just didn’t know that the rivers were discontinuous. As Osk said all this, my throat thickened with disappointment. We could never portage our boat. We could never get to Miklagard. We are but eight women, strong and smart, but weaker than men.
So I hatch a plan. We will haunt the Baltic Sea. We will visit the Birka slave market often. We will stop every ship we pass and find out if they have anything of value to tell us. We will do this all summer. And if nothing comes of it, when the weather turns cold, I will pay all these women and say farewell, and I will travel alone, however I can, to Miklagard.
Have I taken leave of my senses? It would seem so. An Irish girl stolen seven years ago—who on earth would remember her? But they might. They might remember a mute beauty, with skin like alabaster and brown hair that catches the light in so many ways that it’s sometimes night dark and sometimes day light and sometimes a mix—and, oh! I realize now why I love Queen Tove’s hawk-plumage cloak so much: Its colors mimic Mel’s hair.
So someone will remember. Someone has to. Mel was unique. Mel is unique.
But even if someone did, could I track her down? Could I really make it to the ends of the earth? The only answer is: I have to try. I have money to buy her freedom. I will try.
And I have to make sure I don’t get robbed blind along the way.
And there! I see it, the first ship we have passed since we made our new pact. “Get alert,” I call. “Starboard!”
But Grima, at the helm for her first time, has already spotted the ship and steers straight for it. The wind is against us. The other women have taken their places on the wooden chests and pushed their oars through the holes and row with all their might. Everyone knows what to do, as though we’re practiced at it, which we are not. Gratitude makes me falter for a moment. But then I run to the prow and hold my bow ready.
The ship clearly sees us, and I fear they will take flight. After all, ships don’t approach each other on the high seas. They won’t know all we seek is information.
But the ship turns and sails toward us. Good.
Except it comes fast. We are on a collision course! Are they insane?
I know nothing about flagging down another ship. And less about a ship that’s aimed for us. “Pull in your oars!”
The other ship arrives at our side and throws two huge ropes across. “Grab hold,” shouts a man. “Grab hold because we’re coming aboard. It’s that or we sink you.”
What on earth? But Thyra already has one of the ropes. Ingun takes the other. The men pull hand over hand on their end of the ropes until our ships are side by side. They take the ends from Thyra and Ingun and loop them through oar holes on our ship and bind the two ships together at stern and bow, so we form one big floating platform.
I’m counting the men. Four. All I see is four men on this boat, and it’s bigger than ours. I can’t make sense of this.
The shouter climbs into our boat, brandishing a sword. “Who’s in charge?”
I feel eyes on me. But Ingun says, “Who’s in charge on your boat?” Her voice is bold as anything, and it sounds manly.
“Me.”
“That’s not true!” A second man climbs into our boat. He has a sword as well, but at least he keeps his in the scabbard.
I turn to the second man, pointedly ignoring the shouter. “Are you the captain?”
He twists his mouth.
“I need information. About slave ships.”
“We don’t know anything about slave ships,” says a third man, standing in the other boat. “And we don’t have a captain. We lost him and nearly all of our crew off the coast of Borgundarholm two days ago.”
I feel light-headed. Storms wreak havoc with sailors. We women haven’t discussed that. What must be going through my crew’s minds? “Borgundarholm?” I ask weakly.
“You know. Off Skáney. It was one hell of a battle. Rivaled the legendary battle of Brávellir, I tell you.”
A battle. I grip the gunwale to steady myself. That is worse than if it was a storm.
“Look here.” Grima fits an arrow into her bow and stands like an archer, as though she’ll shoot that man through the heart. It’s not much of a distance; she might be able to, even with her poor aim. She looks fierce. I’m stunned. “What kind of battle?” she shouts.
“What kind do you think? We’re pirates.”
The two men onboard our ship look at us with disgust, as though we should have known. But there’s a falseness to their swagger. The other man on their ship simply looks defeated. And I’m starting to understand the situation now: Wit
hout their captain, they’re lost. They have no idea what to do next. Even boarding our ship wasn’t really their idea. We set out after them—they simply responded.
Thyra climbs on a wooden chest, places her feet wide apart, and puts her fists on her hips. She’s the tallest of us, as tall as most men. “You’ve met your match, and better,” she says. “A sword won’t do any good to you if an arrow pierces your heart. So put that sword away before you cause trouble.”
These women are bluffers. And good at it.
The shouter lifts his chin a moment. Then he sheathes his sword.
Good Lord. These women are great at bluffing. Magnificent.
I point at Grima. “Keep watch over the two here.” I point at Ingun. She’s the second tallest. “Grab your ax.” Ingun doesn’t have an ax. She doesn’t even blink, though. She picks up my ax. “We’re coming aboard,” I say to the two men in the pirate ship. “Stand at the middle, hands on the mast.”
The two men actually move to the mast. But I mustn’t get complacent—they could have knives at the ready. Ingun and I climb into the other boat. Two against two doesn’t feel good, though. I gesture to Jofrid. She practically leaps into the other boat with us.
Jofrid and I search through their belongings while Ingun stands with ax raised. I pick up an iron fork for roasting meat and thump it against my palm. I count six axes, and that’s just what I can see lying about the deck. Jofrid and I exchange glances. She nods.
“All right,” I say. “Here’s what’s going to happen.” Everyone looks at me—men and women alike. “For the moment, you all stay where you are. Stand still, while my crew comes into this boat.” I look at the women. “Gather your cloaks and anything else you want, and come across. And you”—I point at Ragnhild—“bring my cloak and the old skin satchel in my personal chest. You”—I point at Grima—“bring my bow and arrows.”
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