God's Daughter (Vikings of the New World Saga)

by Heather Day Gilbert

  In the longhouse, the body has been moved and the men eat their mid-morning meal. Freydis and Deirdre stir the porridge, which reeks of cumin—Freydis’ favorite.

  The men who stayed share a bond of respect for Finn. Laughter spills over easily, and they drink more beer than they should.

  Snorri Thorbrandsson watches me from his bench. He thinks I don’t feel his stares. I'm used to ignoring them, since he means no harm. Nerienda takes the baby, hoping to feed him some oat porridge. I let her try, since he didn’t nurse as long as usual.

  Finn bends over a crude map. He prepares for our southern exploration to Vinland. He won't let us stay here, where we are vulnerable to Skraelings.

  “Eat,” Deirdre says. She gives me a bowl of porridge, with a man-sized helping inside, and walks me to a bench along the wall.

  The over-spiced porridge nearly gags me. Deirdre must have let Freydis dump the cumin in. She probably had a moment of compassion for the accused forest child.

  Freydis, sitting close beside me, hands me her own piece of cheese and bread. Deirdre busies herself serving the men, so we can talk. Yet I can think of no words to comfort Freydis.

  Her hair is wild, as if she hasn’t bathed for days. I need to take her to the creek and scrub her off.

  She brushes the strands out of her face. I touch her stomach—small and hard. Perhaps too hard?

  “How much have you eaten today?” I ask.

  She looks at the ceiling. “Ref fed me.”

  “What? What did he feed you?” Ref shakes his head at me from the table, as if he can hear what I’ve asked. His unusual eyes, one green and one blue, reflect concern for his wife.

  “Something...I can’t think what.”

  “Has Nerienda checked you lately?”

  “No.” Her red overdress is too bright for her hair, and shows the lack of color in her cheeks.

  “You eat some of this porridge right now, then go with Nerienda. I will put the baby to sleep and come to you.” I hand her my bowl. She takes the wooden spoon, fingers shaking, and eats a small mouthful.

  “Not enough—eat it all.” I take the spoon and guide it to her mouth, again and again.

  She watches me, her freckles standing out against her pale skin. I've never seen her so unable to fight. She continues to eat what she is given, without another word.

  I instruct Nerienda to heat milk and to warm a stone for Freydis. Nerienda can feel where the baby is in a woman’s body, making sure it’s in the right position. It's a painful process, though, and Freydis will be more comfortable with the warm stone under her back and the milk to warm her inside.

  Nerienda happily hands the baby to me, since he decided to spit the porridge all over her overdress. He snuggles into my arms, his baby smell drawing me in like a bright flower draws bees. I love having such a quiet, easy child. As I stand to leave, Finn touches my back. I stop next to him.

  Finn pulls me into the crook of his arm, under his tattoo. His hand fits around my waist, under Snorri’s curled-up body. His warm grip is strong. The men understand this language even better than words. It says that I belong to him.

  Snorri Thorbrandsson looks down at the map, reddening to the top of his head. I feel sorry for him, with no wife to make his clothes, and no brother to watch his back.

  The men bring their bowls over for cleaning. Still, Finn holds me. His extended grip sends me a message too—he's saying that he sees me. Yet I fear what he would think if he could see deep inside me, with these thoughts that constantly pull me from him.

  Leif’s deep, slow voice intrudes into my head...the way he says "Gudrid," nearly worshipful. My face begins to heat.

  I pull myself away from Finn’s grasp, kissing his head so he doesn’t notice my face. Snorri already sleeps in my arms. Deirdre notices my blush, and comes to me as if I had called her.

  “Please take him to the hut.” I hand Snorri over, then rush outside. Milking my cows, my only inheritance from my father, will clear my head.

  The air is sweet and fresh, the afternoon sky a deep blue. The soft ground almost hums with fertility, as I walk behind the longhouse to get my bucket. My cows have deep summer grass now, so their milk is perfect for butter, cream, and cheeses. And it's so much richer than goats' milk. Despite the bull's fierceness, I'm thankful we brought my animals along.

  The dead body lies nearby on a bench, covered with a deerskin hide. Thoughts spin through my head, as I wonder what happened to him.

  Whoever killed this man didn’t care that the murder would be discovered, since his body was left lying on the midden heap, for all to see. A coward would try to hide him. The person who cut his throat was aware of the consequences. Perhaps ready to face judgment? Or certain there would be none?

  Because Freydis doesn’t usually lie to me, I want to believe in her innocence, even though she’s been strangely timid since she’s been accused. This fear isn’t good for her babe.

  Since no one in the longhouse can see me, I creep toward the body, lifting the deerskin. After peeling back the white face cloth, I search the large face, with his scarred yellow beard and closed eyes. His paleness, coupled with his long, hulking body, brings to mind the frost giant stories Halldis used to tell me.

  I feel no anger toward him for trying to attack me, just pity that he had to die. The dark wound travels from one side of his neck to the other. But it wasn’t slit—the cut is too deep. Freydis’ skinning knife, properly used, would only make a surface cut. A man’s knife made this mark, with its jagged, ripped edges.

  I pull the cloth over his face once more, then cover it with the deerhide. They'll have to burn him tonight or the body will begin to smell, now that the warmth of summer is on us.

  Freydis knows something about this man. But even as I think of questions I need to ask, her cries ring throughout the camp.

  Chapter Eight

  Many possibilities race through my mind as I run toward Freydis’ hut. Perhaps Hallstein left a man behind to attack her, as retribution for killing his man. Perhaps she miscarried when Nerienda checked her. I should have stayed with her, instead of fleeing outside to cover my shameful thoughts of Leif.

  I duck under her doorframe, far too low for someone her height. The men didn’t take as much care building her hut as ours.

  Inger holds Freydis’ legs, while Nerienda rubs her stomach. The old woman doesn’t look around, recognizing my step. “I had to turn the child.”

  Freydis’ face is even whiter than it was earlier. As I get closer, her colorless face blurs into my mother’s as she died. The smell of fresh vomit in a nearby bucket brings me back to my senses.

  “You turned the child already?” I ask. “But she has a few more months.”

  “No.” Nerienda’s hands rub in a circular motion. “She has only a month and a half, at most.”

  This is distressing news, but I won’t speak my thoughts in front of Freydis, shivering on her bed. I find a soft rabbit-hair blanket and drape it over her.

  If she's that far along, her baby is too small. Its position might not even make a difference.

  I lay my hands on Nerienda’s, stopping her motions on Freydis’ stomach. “I will help her.” Nerienda nods, instructing Inger to fetch a brew of herbs that will ease her pain. Even though the heated rock has been placed below her back, she's draped both arms around her stomach, crying with each cramp.

  Freydis' fingers wrap loosely around mine as I take her hand. I point to the light-haired slave girl called Linnea. “Broth.”

  She jumps from her chair to obey.

  “Freydis, I want you to look at me.” She opens her eyes—heavy with such pain, I want to absorb it for her. Her pains must be relentless.

  I touch her stomach and imagine it softening, like an over-ripe plum, instead of the apple it is now. I used to chant as I did this, when I worked with Halldis. Now, I pray over her out loud, to comfort her.

  Freydis’ mouth opens a bit, which is good, because she's been clamping her jaw. Inger comes u
p behind me, placing the warm herbal tea in my hand. I pull Freydis’ head up, pouring a sip into her mouth. She manages to hold it down. It will take Linnea some time to make the broth, so I put both hands on Freydis’ stomach and press lightly, just enough to bring warmth to her.

  “This baby will be a strong son to his father.” I speak like a volva, soothing and assured. “He’ll have your beautiful hair, the red hair of his grandfather, Eirik.”

  Freydis groans, her hands fluttering to encircle her stomach. I focus on every word I say, willing it to become true.

  “Perhaps he’ll wield a sword like his mother,” I say. Her lips turn up into a half-smile.

  I know this isn’t the time to ask Freydis questions. But I lean down toward her ear. “Thank you, for whatever you've done for me.”

  Her small nostrils flare and her eyes focus. “But…you don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I do.” I can’t meet her relentless cat-stare.

  “My knife is missing.” She's like a child who’s lost a favorite toy.

  No one has come forward with the knife, but I wonder if they would. Everyone assumes it’s the weapon the killer used. Maybe someone is hiding it, to protect Freydis.

  “I will find it.” I stroke her curls from her head.

  She nods and closes those shining blue eyes, breathing hard.

  Finally, Linnea brings the broth. I force Freydis to drink some of it. I’m afraid the baby has no nourishment. Who knows how long she was in the forest, with nothing to eat, sitting in one position in that tree? And her recent vomiting spell will only make the cramping worse.

  The slave girls chatter in the corner. Their disrespect brings heat to my face. I point to Inger. “Would you milk my cows for me? Do you know how?”

  “Yes, m’lady.” She drops the ‘m’lady’ so I can hardly hear it. When she leaves, Linnea goes silent, twisting her skirts in her hands.

  “And you.” I motion for Linnea to come closer. Her long, fair hair looks identical to my own. “You take this stone and reheat it.” She stares at me with pale green eyes so widely set, I can’t look away from them.

  As she takes the stone and leaves, Nerienda joins me. “She's the one Hallstein attacked. That girl fought like a wild animal. I couldn’t get my club quickly enough to protect her. If Karlsefni hadn’t come, she would be carrying a child of her own now.”

  I ignore the jealousy that springs up—Finn was there for Linnea, but not for me. Surely he hasn’t been watching her?

  “There’s a rumor…” Nerienda says.

  I spoon more broth into Freydis’ mouth, wondering what the old woman has heard. “Yes?”

  “We hear you’ve charmed a wolf. It was seen around your hut at dusk, not looking for food—just circling.” Like all Vikings, Nerienda is superstitious about wolves. In pagan stories, the wolf Fenrir kills the great Odin himself.

  So, my wolf was ready to protect me, when my husband was not.

  “Nerienda.” I force a smile. “You know you can’t listen to rumors.”

  “Well, I saw that wolf myself one day.” She's determined to get information from me. “A beautiful animal, bigger than the ones in Iceland. Healthy coat. It looked at me, but ran back into the woods.”

  “I suppose the wolves in Straumsfjord are smart enough to leave Vikings alone,” I say. “Let’s hope the Skraelings are, as well.”

  At the mention of Skraelings, Nerienda falls into her own thoughts. I tend to Freydis, giving her broth here and a drink there, until Linnea brings the heated rock to me. She hands it over, and it’s exactly the right warmth. This is hard to do, and it shows me she’s careful with her tasks.

  I settle Freydis on the bed, covering her with the blanket and the white reindeer hide Stena gave her. Looking around her hut, I realize she’s brought all sorts of objects with her from Brattahlid. Eirik’s iron helmet hangs on a nail. How she was able to get this, I don’t know. Rightfully, it should have gone to one of his sons, since helmets are costly. This one was specially hammered around the eyepiece to fit Eirik’s wide-set eyes. I know Freydis can’t use it, since it would be huge on her. Does Leif know she has this?

  A pillow, covered with red silk, sits on a chair. It’s probably from one of Leif’s voyages to Europe. I've only seen silk once before, when Finn traded it to a man in Greenland for numerous ivory tusks.

  I sit next to the bed, thinking about Nerienda’s words. Freydis will have the baby sooner. This will make it difficult to move camp, especially given her weakened condition. I wonder what Thorvald, her kind-hearted brother with the chestnut-colored hair, would have done if he were still alive.

  The answer becomes clear. The women must not go. Nerienda was telling me this, without ordering me to stay. But Finn has to search for Vinland, to find the riches Leif expects on our return. Grapes alone would bring my husband unbelievable wealth.

  Deirdre carries Snorri in, his face red and crinkled as he cries out. Freydis doesn’t wake, finally in a deep sleep. I don’t know how much time I've spent in this hut.

  “Many thanks,” I whisper. I settle back into the chair. Ref made it for Freydis, and it’s perfectly curved to fit my back. He’s a wood-worker, with skills well-known throughout Greenland. Today, he's probably building the funeral pyre.

  Adjusting my yellow overdress, I talk with Deirdre, since everyone else has gone to do chores.

  “The milking?” I ask.

  “Inger finished it. She makes the butter now. She’s honored that you asked her to handle your cows.”

  I laugh, and so does Deirdre, even though sometimes she seems as awe-struck by me as the slave girl.

  Deirdre needs to know the truth, since she will need to stay behind, too. I speak quietly. “Freydis won’t be able to ship out.”

  As I say this, Deirdre’s blue eyes get very large, and she looks to the bed where Freydis’ fiery curls fall over the side.

  “But the men plan—”

  “I know their plans. They can still go. But the women should stay at Straumsfjord for Freydis. She helped me with Snorri’s birth, and besides, Leif would want us to stay.” I want Deirdre to come to this decision on her own, although I will command her to stay if I have to.

  “Yes, we must stay.” She twists her silver necklace, with its complex, woven strands. How did a slave come to own such a rich piece of jewelry? “But Karlsefni would want Magnus with him, would he not?”

  True, Finn relies on Magnus to know the right direction. Magnus is the reason our ships have made it this far. When the seeing stone won’t change color, when there's no sunlight or starlight to steer our ships, Magnus can feel where the land is. No one questions him.

  “Yes, he’ll need him.”

  Deirdre twists the necklace tighter. “But who else could he trust with us? All the men are…they are empty without women.”

  Maybe the women should stay here alone. But we would never survive, even with the wolf, because Freydis can’t fight now. There is one man who could be trusted, though.

  “Snorri.” Deirdre voices my thoughts. Truly, Snorri Thorbrandsson is the only man who could defend us like ten men.

  I nod slowly, knowing what this could mean.

  “You’ll be talking to Karlsefni soon?” She speaks with her Scottish tongue, so easy for her when she’s worried.

  “Tonight.” As Snorri finishes nursing, I feel he's drained the last of my strength.

  Freydis groans in her sleep, so I go to her, holding Snorri close to me. I brush the sweat-coated hair off her forehead. Looking at her small stomach, I can picture what’s inside it, although I don’t want to. I can do this because when I worked with Halldis, we offered a dead servant woman to Thor. Halldis performed the holy songs and chants, explaining that they would sanctify the woman before we looked in her body. Then she used her sharpest knife to cut the stomach open. This was necessary because she died of a strange illness during pregnancy, one that none of the midwives had seen before. We were trying to avoid more problems for other Ice
landic women.

  This is how medicine went in Iceland. We looked at the dead to find how to help the living. The volva believed the gods had created cures for every disease; it was up to us to find the plants they’d placed on earth for healing. We found that grinding and mixing the Angelica plant with water and wine would help children vomit up what was clogging their breathing. We also learned that certain bell-shaped flowers, when the seeds were ground, would quicken the heartbeat.

  Now I can picture Freydis’ child, not stretching its arms and legs as it ought to, but lying very still, curled in a tight ball. She has probably never felt the babe kick.

  My baby dropped into the right place just before I gave birth. I wouldn’t let anyone turn him. Nerienda went along with my wishes, giving me honor as a chieftain’s daughter, and as Thorfinn Karlsefni’s wife. I hated giving birth in our sparse, makeshift hut, with nothing familiar around me.

  Finn attended baby Snorri's birth in the only way acceptable. He stood right outside the hut, listening to my every cry, and shouting words of comfort to me. He didn’t care if any of his men heard him. He told me later that it nearly broke him, hearing my cries. Nerienda swore he had more pain than I did during the birth.

  Deirdre takes Snorri from me so I can think. As she walks out, loneliness overwhelms me. I walk to the wall, taking down Leif’s sword. I can easily picture his long fingers, with their blonde hairs, as he handled it. Leif likes doing tricks with swords, to show how quickly he can kill someone, should he need to.

  Finn walks into the room, almost as quietly as Freydis. He takes the sword and turns it in his hands, thoughtfully studying the worn, rune-carved blade. "Do you remember how to use this?"

  I nod, feeling the warning in his words.

  He places the sword in my hands. "Show me."

  I thrust the heavy iron sword, wishing it were lighter metal, like Snorri's steel blade. Finn guides my hands from behind, teaching me new movements. His gentle, firm touch nearly breaks me. Why can't I always feel his love this way, strong as an unseen shield?