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

by Heather Day Gilbert

  Finn replaces the sword, finally satisfied with my ability. “The burning will be tonight after the meal. Freydis will stay in her hut. I'll have Deirdre watch over Snorri. But you will come with me.”

  Chapter Nine

  I hardly notice as the evening meal comes and goes. I try to ignore how long it takes for Finn's strongest men to lift the heavy body onto the funeral pyre. But I can't turn my eyes away from the stars tonight, burning hot against the black sky.

  As a young girl, I believed the stars sang to me through the hole in our longhouse roof. Halldis couldn’t explain this, even with her trolls. Orm said, “This child is connected to the world in deeper ways than the volva, Halldis.” They began asking my opinion before making decisions, thinking I had a supernatural source of power.

  Now I recognize a large star I've seen in Greenland many times. Its buttery yellow glow makes it seem almost friendly. I talk to it in my head, as if I’m talking to God. Finn wants me to chant the burial songs, since I’m the only one who knows the proper runes. I explain this to the star. I’m not being disloyal to God, because I have to support Finn.

  The men gather around the pyre, some looking at it, but most looking at the ground—a sure sign they have no respect for Hallstein’s man. They should be watching the fire and sending well-wishes with him as his spirit leaves for Valhalla.

  Halldis’ deep purple cape drapes over my shoulders, soft as a dove's wing. It was the one thing I kept when she died. I chant the funeral rune, murmuring at first. My words gather strength as they flood back into my mind. I'm once again a teenager, preparing for testing by the volva. Halldis made me memorize every healing or hurtful chant they used. I know she loved me, because she trained me to replace her.

  I can almost feel her wand in my hand again as I sweep my arms upward, to move the man’s spirit to Valhalla. But it saddens me to know he’s only going down, into the fires of the earth, and to his eternal doom. I look at the yellow star, shining steadily on us. Finn stands by my side, his eyes on me during this entire ritual. He’s anxious to be done, so his men can start preparations for their voyage.

  Afterward, we walk back to our hut in silence. A lone howl rings through the woods.

  “I’m glad that’s over.” I take Finn’s arm outside our hut’s entrance. I want to know his thoughts on the strange funeral.

  “You didn’t want to say the runes.” Finn’s hand slides into my own.

  “No.” My first husband, Thorir, known to all as The Eastman, had once forced me to use my abilities to make him look better, and I have always hated him for it.

  The Eastman and I had only been married for six months when we had to accompany my father and a shipload of friends to Greenland. Father wanted to leave Iceland and all his debts behind, to settle near his friend Eirik the Red at Brattahlid. Eirik had convinced Father that Greenland was a land of opportunity for Icelandic outcasts.

  When The Eastman, a Norwegian seaman, agreed to captain my father’s ship, I was part of the bargain. He married me right before we sailed for Greenland.

  We had to overwinter at Herjolfsnes, a small village in southern Greenland, because Brattahlid was still a sea voyage northwest of us. Our voyage that far had been horrible, with the shivering disease taking many, including Orm and Halldis, who had only come along to protect me. Our number had dwindled to sixteen. So we stayed with Ulf, the only farmer in Herjolfsnes with room for all of us.

  That winter was very lean, and Ulf wanted some kind of guarantee his crops would prosper the next year, to replenish his stores. Even though my father said we’d leave in spring, Ulf didn’t trust him, knowing of his debts in Iceland. If he had no promise of good harvest, he planned to put us out.

  One day, over the noon meal, Ulf said the Little Prophetess was coming into town. He wanted to invite her to his farm, hoping she would predict good fortune for the next year’s crops.

  My father voiced his disapproval. He had cast aside all pagan practices when my mother’s sacrifice failed to save the farm. The volva couldn’t explain why the farm didn’t prosper, after he’d offered his most valuable sacrifice. But I could explain it—Thor was dead. There never was a Thor, or any other Norse gods, for that matter. My mother died for nothing. Even though Orm and Halldis had filled my head with Icelandic myths, trying to explain why her sacrifice hadn’t worked, they had never convinced me.

  On the ship, my father made attempts to kill himself, the weight of what he’d done to Mother almost crushing him. Every day, I tried to forgive him. I had believed in the Christian God, after spending hours listening to a monk tell stories from his Holy Book. He explained how Jesus Christ was the only perfect sacrifice, a human who was perfectly God and man. While my father never understood Jesus, he hated anything to do with Thor and the volva.

  The Eastman believed in the Norwegian gods he had always known, but he never feared them. Horrifying my father, he encouraged Ulf to have the Little Prophetess over. “I’ve never seen a live witch.” He laughed in my face. “I would love to see her mighty powers.”

  Fear gripped everyone in the household the day the Little Prophetess arrived. Her requirements were well-known in the town. Before telling the future, she had to talk with everyone on the farm. She needed a high seat, with a cushion of chicken feathers. She wanted the hearts of every animal killed for the meal.

  Her dark hood had a strap with so many red gemstones, it looked like blood when the light hit it. Her white gloves were made from cat’s skin, as was the lining of her hood. She had tall boots, and a belt that tinkled from the charms hanging on it. The belt itself was a large strip of aging touchstone felt, so it glowed in the darkness.

  Her wand was tall as she was, and it glittered with rubies, with a bronze ball on the end. She often pointed it at the fearful servants, laughing as the gems' bloody red hit their faces.

  I remained unimpressed. Halldis had looked more otherworldly in her simple purple robe, her copper hair her best adornment.

  The Prophetess came close to me, her old-woman breath hot on my face. I could see all her missing teeth as she spoke. “So, how are things between you and that big, strong husband of yours?” Her familiar tone revealed she wouldn’t mind having The Eastman as her own lover. The volva were known to be driven by lust.

  “Things are very pure between us.” I refused to give her the details she wanted. The Eastman scolded me later for my impudence. I didn’t care. I would not be drawn into her wickedness.

  To everyone’s surprise, she decided to stay overnight. Father had stormed out of Ulf’s house to stay with a neighbor while the Prophetess was there. I was glad of this, because I feared he would do something rash that would end Ulf’s hospitality. In the cold of winter, we would be hard-pressed to find another place to stay. Ulf was the wealthiest farmer in Herjolfsnes, with much influence on the town.

  “Your papa’s not a very good guest.” The Eastman loved to goad me about our poor condition, since my father was no longer a chieftain.

  I never answered The Eastman on these things. It only made him worse. Instead, I found some task that moved me away from him. He couldn’t stand the way I avoided all his spoken arrows. I treated him the same as I would a wild dog in Iceland—I didn't look in his eyes, and I walked right past him as if he didn’t exist.

  The next day, the Little Prophetess demanded to cast a magic circle. She asked all the women in the household if they knew the ward songs, which, of course, no one did. I refused to tell her I’d known them since I was twelve years old.

  But The Eastman pushed me forward. “My wife is skilled in magic rites, having grown up with a volva foster-mother.” His teeth shone in his wide smile.

  “I won’t take part in these actions, since I'm now a Christian,” I said.

  The Little Prophetess smiled as well. Then she talked to Ulf. She told him she wouldn’t tell his future unless I agreed to participate. Ulf strode over to me, laying his heavy hand on my shoulder. “Gudrid, we need to know this. If you can’
t do it, you and your father can leave. And take all your father’s friends with you.” He dropped his threats carelessly.

  That was the first time I used my skills to guarantee safety for those I loved.

  I sang the ward songs. The servants thought my voice unnaturally pure and high, and they called me a valkyrie. The Little Prophetess herself was speechless. She declared I’d summoned spirits out of nowhere, making her prophesying easy.

  She proceeded to give Ulf a good prediction for the farm. I left the circle, and prayed in my room for the spirits to leave the house, picturing a giant broom sweeping them out. As I did this, the Little Prophetess sighed loudly in the center room, saying the séance was over.

  The Eastman forgave my impudence that night, because he wanted to share my bed. He was humbled and slightly awed by my power. He had his way with me, but in our marriage he never broke the icy surface of my deepest thoughts.

  Finn compliments me, dragging me away from those memories I've tried to forget. “You remembered all the chants.” He’s proud of me.

  “Of course, I hear them in my dreams sometimes.” I pull my hair back, wrapping it in a knot.

  “And that’s all you dream about, my wife?” He takes my hand and kisses it. “Old women’s chants and runes?”

  “I suppose you dream of grape vines and plenty of wheat!” I laugh, hoping he'll change the conversation. But Finn has known me long enough to understand what I’m doing.

  His voice lowers. “Gudrid, are you happy to be my wife?”

  “Yes.” My answer comes too quickly.

  “You think of him.”

  “Who?” I tuck a strand of hair back, trying not to think of him.

  Finn doesn’t answer. His hand stays wrapped around mine, its strength and warmth flowing into me. I’m thankful for the deep darkness, which covers my blush.

  I touch his chin and beard in the darkness like one blind. Then I run my hand into the curls at the back of his neck, picturing his dark blue eyes and his forehead wrinkling.

  “You are the reason I like to be alive,” I say. “You and our son.”

  I reach down into his shirt, touching his tattooed arm muscles. He pulls me into him, and we kiss silently before going inside to the baby and Deirdre. She'll be anxious to get back to Magnus, to hear about the funeral.

  Later that night, we talk. I tell Finn the women will have to stay here to help Freydis. It’s what her brothers would want. When he finally agrees, we discuss who needs to stay behind. Finn would leave everyone but Magnus, if I'd let him. He’s nervous about the huge number of skinboats that came ashore.

  He stops rubbing my back. “Snorri Thorbrandsson.”

  “Yes.” I act as if I hadn’t already figured that out.

  “And I’ll choose the others…only those I trust.”

  While he talks aloud, wondering what men are respectable enough to keep their hands off the women, I wonder if I can tame my wolf. Would she stay close to camp, if I put out food? Perhaps she would protect me, since she’s been around my hut.

  When I finally go to sleep, much later than Finn, I dream of Leif. These nightly dreams aren’t troubling—in fact, they comfort me. Tonight, Leif seems so close I can almost smell him. His beard is short, starting to grow in as it did when he’d returned from Norway clean-shaven. His hands reach for me….

  Snorri wakes me during the night to feed, but I fall back into my dream easily. Now I’m on the hills of Greenland, skies sweeping around me. I go into the longhouse, where Eirik sits at the head of the table, pounding his glass and yelling at Thjodhild to fill it, like she’s a common slave. In these dreams, I have conversations with Leif that make no sense. We talk of Straumsfjord and the things we’ve found here. My wolf stays by my side. Our children play together—babies I haven’t given birth to yet.

  I know I'm sleeping later and later each morning, wishing to live in my happy dream-world. I cling to these dreams, hungry as any nursing child, because I am sure Leif is having them, too.

  Chapter Ten

  When I wake, much later than Finn, I determine to go check on my cows. Magnus feeds and cares for the few sheep we have in a pen near his hut. It’s been nothing short of a miracle the sheep haven't been attacked yet. It’s quite mad to think that my wolf, a predator, might be protecting them. But I wonder anyway, because nothing else explains it.

  In the pasture, Linnea carries two splashing buckets of milk toward me. Her rough-spun clothes somehow draw attention to her face, like a frame on a painting. She doesn’t speak, waiting for me to say something.

  “Many thanks.” I take one pail.

  She smiles, revealing the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, with a small gap between the front two. She's undoubtedly the most attractive woman here, and yet her beauty is a curse, not a blessing.

  Linnea is a Swedish slave. I’m surrounded by slaves from all over the mainland. I’m also beginning to wonder if these women were taken in raids, or if Leif hand-picked them for some reason.

  She continues walking down the hill, toward the longhouse. I follow her, noticing the empty bench out back. I’ve promised Freydis I’ll find her knife, and I plan to do it.

  As Linnea goes in the back door, I put down the bucket and search the ground beneath the bench. Nothing. If any of the women removed the knife, they would've told me. And Hallstein said his man’s throat was slit, but he had no knife to prove Freydis did it.

  Behind our hut, the midden pile is covered with a bucketful of fresh waste I emptied this morning. Normally, I would gag at the smell, but I hold my breath and creep closer.

  Freydis loves that knife. If her weapon is behind our hut, it would prove she was there the night of the murder. And if I find that knife first, I’ll make sure no one else knows where it was.

  Smoke rolls out the hole in the longhouse roof. Linnea and the women are preparing the mid-morning meal. Even if they see me, they know better than to question Thorfinn Karlsefni’s wife. Deirdre’s still in my hut, watching Snorri for me. Hopefully she won’t hear me.

  I turn sharply at a noise near our midden heap. The wolf stands just behind it…perhaps rummaging through the scraps?

  She sniffs the air, then trots right up to my side. Finn would be furious if he saw how close I stand to her. She surprises me further by rubbing her head into my hand, like a small pup. Something seals between us, something I can’t explain, but I know it won’t be broken. I slowly rub between her ears, pulling out pieces of shedding fur.

  We stand there, mutually happy, for some time. Finally, she lopes up the fenceline, back into the woods. I go over to the spot where she’d been nosing around.

  I find nothing more than the pile of excrement, molding food scraps, and ashes from our fire. I turn in a circle. One low-lying evergreen bush grows near the fenceline, so I go to examine it. It’s the only place, except the midden heap, where anything could be hidden. I pull up the edge of the bush, and a curved metal blade glints in the sunlight. Picking up the dirty wooden handle, I look for blood stains. The blade seems clean, although it could have been wiped off after the kill.

  If I cared about following Althing law, I would take it to Finn, so he could report it to the men. Instead, I carefully tuck it into my tall boot. I walk stiffly toward Freydis’ hut, so the knife doesn’t poke my foot. She’s probably still inside today.

  A few men stand around guarding the camp. The hunters and fishers left before dawn, to stock up on food before shipping out. As I pass the men’s huts, Snorri Thorbrandsson comes out, head down. But his gaze shifts to my boot, which is probably bulging, even under my skirts. His light brown eyes travel curiously up to my face. His thick, unruly beard shines bright orange in the sun. Again, I feel a strange sadness that he has no woman to trim his beard.

  “Gudrid.” He nods, then covers a smile with his free hand. I get the feeling he’s laughing at me. He walks on toward the longhouse, swinging his sword. He practices with it every day. He’s probably heading over to meet with Finn, as his right
-hand man. Although Finn’s right-hand man is left-handed. I smile, amused at my own pun. Snorri Thorbrandsson holds his weapons in his left hand, and when he eats, he spreads himself all over the table, taking the space of two men. Some say it makes him a fiercer warrior.

  Freydis wanders around her hut in small circles. She’s rubbing her stomach again. I call out to her, so as not to alarm her, and hold out my arms as I approach.

  Freydis walks into my embrace. Her soft hair glints in the sunlight, and she smells clean. Someone helped her bathe, thank goodness.

  I cup my hand to her ear. “I found it.” She doesn’t expect me to waste time explaining how. I put the knife into her hand and her long, bony fingers close around it.

  “Many thanks, sister.” She pulls herself up to her full height, as if new strength has flowed into her. She’s as tall as her brothers, and at least a head taller than I am.

  “And how is the mother-to-be?”

  She gives me a half-smile. “A little better. I’m so thankful for you and Nerienda—the wisest of birthers from Greenland.”

  I beam at her compliment. A blush begins at my cheeks and slowly spreads down to my throat.

  “Ah, only a true princess can blush like this!” Freydis says.

  When Finn traded with the Arabic men, they had a saying that only those of royal blood could blush so deeply. Finn must have shared that idea with Eirik’s family at some point—quite possibly when boasting of me.

  “I saw the wolf again.” This will distract her.

  “It seems to follow you, Gudrid! I’m not surprised—who doesn’t love you?” She deliberately compliments me again, then winks as my blushing continues.

  “I think she'll protect us when the men are gone.” I pretend I don’t notice her enjoyment of my embarrassment.

  Freydis’ eyes narrow, for she begins to understand what I'm saying.