The Voyage of Freydis

by Tamara Goranson

  “O noble Freydis! I think your red hair seduced him.”

  “I beseech thee, husband, I don’t catch your drift.”

  “I sometimes wonder if my bride-price was overpaid.”

  “I feel queasy. I should go to bed,” I mutter as I grip a longhouse post. There is a sharp pain in my womb, but I am careful in the way I stand. My instincts tell me that Thorvard is studying me for a reaction, expecting me to blush. Panicking, I try not to wince. The hearth fire flares.

  “You must rest your body for the baby’s sake,” Thorvard finally says, throwing me a little pity. He pours himself another drink. Behind his head, the shadows dance across an imported tapestry displaying an elaborate hunting scene.

  “Freydis, rest assured that I will do well by you,” Thorvard sighs. His face is half-silhouetted black; his dark eyelashes are glistening in the flickering firelight. “Einar and Éowyn are as valuable to me as they are to you. I promise not to harm them in any way or to hold them accountable for your misdeeds.”

  My throat constricts; I am so relieved. Perhaps my pregnancy will make Thorvard into a better man. Perhaps he will be a devoted faðir who will come to love me in his own way.

  In the days following the announcement that I am with child, the tundra turns all brown and golden and silver-rose, and Thorvard accompanies me for many long and peaceful walks into the hills. Despite his lavish treatment, I have difficulty trusting him. I have learned that his promises are as fickle as the sands rolling in with the foaming surf before they suddenly drift out again. Guarded and on edge, I startle easily at every unexpected sound, but Thorvard continues to dote on me. I begin to look forward to receiving his special gifts: wool to spin; flax for linen; a speckled sealskin pelt he brings home after he goes out hunting with his men; a beautiful rock he promises to have made into a brooch; a treasured piece of soapstone that will make a perfect spoon. He becomes a different man, and I hold out hope that he has changed as I begin to imagine a life for both of us and our little bairn.

  When my bruises finally fade to yellowish-green, I tell Thorvard of my intention to hike into the meadowlands to visit Einar and Éowyn on my own. He waves me off.

  “Watch where you place your feet. The ground could be slick with frost at this time of year and I’d hate for you to trip,” he says without looking up from his counting table. I smile when I hear the tenderness in his voice. How I’ve longed to hear him speak to me in such a gentle way that makes me feel my worthiness.

  “I’ll take special care,” I mumble as the emotion bubbles up.

  The wind is blustery in the meadowland as I trudge through ribbons of grass bordering the pristine fjord, searching for the shepherd and the shepherdess. It is not long before I hear the call of their eldest boy. Arvid, a lanky youth with barely ten summers to his name, holds a shepherd’s staff in his hand. The bleating sheep are following him. Some playfully skip around his legs.

  “Mistress, ’tis a fine day fer a walk, is it not?”

  A sudden gust of wind lifts his mantle and tousles his white-blonde hair. I am so relieved to see that he is safe that I rush forwards, skipping as though I am an unmarried maiden. Three large, ragtag sheep are grazing in the distance where the loam-green grass is lush and plentiful. Arvid calls to them in a warbling voice before tossing me a lopsided grin.

  “We haven’t seen you much around these parts,” he says with a spirited energy I have missed. His gaze sweeps over my fading bruises.

  “The elk are rutting at this time of year. Mistress, I spotted them over yonder where the cliffs drop down. They are half-crazed and highly irritable. I’d hate for you to be attacked. Best you avoid them large beasties grazing near the cliffs.”

  “I’ll heed your words,” I say as I glance out to sea.

  “Mistress, the chieftain says you need protectin’. He says you don’t always pay attention to the things you should.”

  I prickle when I hear these words coming from this freckled-faced boy with barely any peach fuzz on his chin.

  “Perhaps I should turn back,” I mumble as I draw my mantle tightly closed. “I only came here to ensure that you and your parents were faring well.”

  “You can’t leave so soon,” Arvid says. “My parents will want to see you. There is some news to share.” Arvid smiles an impish grin. He reminds me of how carefree I used to be before I was wed.

  “Come, my lady, follow me. My parents moved the location of their tent away from the gully because of the wind. When the cold weather comes, we’ll need to return to the farm.”

  We walk together in comfortable companionship with the flock of sheep following us. It is not long before I spot a tall, thin shepherd dressed in a woolen overtunic with baggy trousers and woven leg wrappings, standing underneath a lone willow tree surrounded by three little ones. Behind him, Éowyn is bustling around the cooking fire. I am so overjoyed to see them that it takes me a moment to compose myself. Éowyn waves just as a ray of sun comes pealing out from behind a wisp of passing clouds.

  “Your husband told us your happy news. We were so pleased to hear that you are with child,” she says as soon as I reach their snapping fire. In three quick steps, I am in her arms.

  “Freydis Eiriksdöttir, we have missed your presence around our fire,” Einar says with a toothless grin. I catch his eye. He sees my face. If only I were a little sheep, the thickness of my woolly coat would hide the bruises around my eye. Éowyn bites her lip as she studies me. An awkwardness hangs between us, thick as smoke.

  “Was Thorvard here?” I murmur, speaking low.

  “He came ten days ago.”

  The wind picks up and pushes the campfire smoke in one direction and then the next.

  “The chieftain brought all kinds of news,” Arvid says. I glance over to where Einar is standing and staring at his feet.

  “What did he say?” There is a taste of ash in my mouth, a rippling cramp jabbing fiercely in my gut.

  “As you know, the blacksmith’s only son died one year ago,” Arvid continues as he tries to suppress a growing smile. “By Óðinn’s eye, the blacksmith is looking for an apprentice. He wants someone about my age. May the gods be praised! The chieftain, your husband, asked me if I want to learn the trade.”

  “What did you say?” I ask, feeling ill.

  “I agreed. If all goes well, I will start working for the blacksmith in two weeks’ time after we have finished shearing all the pregnant ewes that are due to lamb. Faðir said that Thorvard of Gardar has granted our family the highest honor in choosing me to learn the blacksmith trade. He says that our family’s social standing on this farm will improve. I am so grateful for this opportunity – the opportunity to be honored above the other boys. My lady, your husband is a generous man.”

  I cannot focus. I cannot think. Einar steps forwards and busies himself attending to the fire. I sense his shame. Curse my trust of mortal men! In one fell swoop, Thorvard has bought Einar’s loyalty by elevating the shepherd’s son to one of the highest positions on his farm. As soon as his son is apprenticed, Einar will never speak out against Thorvard of Gardar. He wouldn’t dare.

  “It’s time to eat,” Éowyn says softly as she offers me creamy goat cheese and hot steaming flax-bread cooked over an outdoor fire. I look at her and furl my brows. No food will mend the friendship we once shared.

  Éowyn finishes serving up the food, eyeing me as she flits around. When she comes to take me by the arm, I let her drag me out of earshot as her youngest döttir begins to whine.

  “Dear Freydis, it may not be my place, but I know your husband abuses you. I am sorry that we are not in a position to bear witness to the brutalities you face.” There is a fierceness I have never heard before in her voice. “We couldn’t possibly speak out. Not now. Please forgive us. We had no choice. The chieftain’s offer was something we could not refuse.”

  Behind us, Einar is consoling their little one.

  “I understand,” I lie. I take a step backwards and try to still my shak
ing hands. “It is not fair to ask you and Einar to get involved in my affairs.”

  “Mistress, aren’t you happy for me?” Arvid asks in a breathless voice as he approaches from behind.

  “Já,” I say, turning. I hold his eyes. “My husband has honored you for good reason. You are capable and responsible.”

  The boy lifts his chin and puffs out his boy-man chest. He is an innocent whose youthful, self-important look spears me.

  “The chieftain knows that I am quick to learn. Someone told him that I am good with my hands.” His eyes throw sparkles. He can barely contain a growing smile. “I am grateful, mistress. He told me you spoke highly of me.”

  I touch my belly where my own bairn sleeps, wondering if I am fit to be a mother, if I am wise enough to Thorvard’s ways. Éowyn sighs.

  “I hope you’ll continue to come and visit us,” she says. “The outdoor air is good for a woman in your condition.”

  “It is,” I say.

  Chapter Four

  If I had wings

  Towards the middle of tvímánuður, after the harvest, I find myself in the longhouse with Thorvard and my husband’s inner circle of trade advisors who are discussing whether to hunt for caribou or jig fish before the winter sets in and the sea ice comes. I have just finished carding a basketful of wool when I hear someone’s loud whistle announcing the approach of a visitor.

  Ivor quickly stands. I drop the wool carder and follow him out into the sun-drenched yard where a cool autumn wind is stirring up the sedge grasses. Faðir’s messenger looks spent. Alf’s leggings and his wolfskin cloak are mud-spattered, and it looks as though his horse has been run hard all the way from Brattahlíð.

  “Góðan dag, my lady,” Alf pants as he rides up. “I am here to tell you that your faðir suffered a broken leg after falling off his handsome horse.”

  “By the gods, is it bad?” I ask, feeling my stomach drop. Alf’s brows furrow into knots. He dismounts quickly.

  “Your faðir’s leg is festering,” he says.

  Unable to speak, I try to remember how to breathe.

  “Is there news of Leif?” Thorvard barks. His breath is hot against my neck. Alf glances at Thorvard before he turns back to me.

  “My lady, I also bring news from your brother, Leif.”

  “What is it, man?” Thorvard yips.

  A lopsided grin breaks out on Alf’s dirt-speckled face. “Leif’s fortune is on the rise.”

  I stare at him, uncomprehending, as my husband devours the messenger with his carrion eyes.

  “Before I explain, I need a drink to quench my thirst,” the messenger continues, spitting out a wad of phlegm. A dread comes over me when I catch a glimpse of Thorvard frowning.

  “Come,” I say as I hastily usher Alf towards the well. The messenger doesn’t realize that he is a moth fluttering around a fire.

  “If it is news you bring, then tell us quickly. I’ve work to do and a farm to run,” Thorvard barks as he trots behind us.

  Alf takes a drink from the drinking pail and then rights himself. In the process, his back cracks. “The tale is long,” he grunts as he runs his forearm across his dripping beard. Thorvard turns on me.

  “Do you know what this is all about?” His words slice through me, sharper than any sword. The messenger eyes the two of us.

  “Leif Eiriksson sends you peace,” Alf pipes up uncomfortably. “The chieftain’s son is gone—”

  “Gone?” I ask. I feel my mouth go dry. “Not dead, I hope?”

  “Neinn. He sailed away. He went to explore the northern seas.”

  “The northern seas?” I repeat. My stomach drops.

  “Já. There came a man who had a ship. Bjarni was his name.”

  Bjarni Herjolfsson. He was a mammoth of a man with a missing tooth and giant’s feet and a nervous tic that made him blink. He wore a fox pelt around his neck. His ship had been anchored in the fjord when I first came to Gardar as Thorvard’s bride. Bjarni had just returned to Greenland after spending a winter with the Thules. We have always done well trading with those northerners. The helmsman talked too much, but he brought me trinkets, including a fancy spindle made of antler bone and a pure white bear hide that was as soft as fleece. It was the perfect pelt. Bjarni had wanted Thorvard to purchase it so that I could put it on our bed. Thorvard had beaten me for it, stating that my want of it shamed him.

  “Bjarni was a stupid fool for venturing north before Rogation Day,” my husband huffs. He motions to a thrall and flicks his wrist and orders drinking horns. “Surely Eirik the Red did not take him in?”

  “There was no other place for him to stay in the western settlement. Bjarni has been with us now for months on end.” Alf wipes the droplets of water off his beard.

  “Freydis, your faðir is too generous,” Thorvard sighs. “That Bjarni was a bore. He told us that he had no desire to explore the lands he found. I have no respect for men like him. How could he travel all that way across the northern sea and show no curiosity?”

  “Apparently, the skraelings with their red faces scared him off,” Alf says, addressing me. “That is why he returned to Greenland.”

  “We heard the tale repeatedly,” Thorvard scoffs.

  Poor Faðir. I can’t imagine having to listen to Bjarni’s saga repeatedly. The story was very dull. The only intriguing part was when he met the Red Men. Even then, he didn’t have much to say about the encounter.

  Alf clears his throat. “Eirik Eiriksson treats Bjarni as though he is a king. ’Tis true, I say! Eirik the Red knows how to throw a feast in honor of men who give him news.”

  Thorvard eyes me hard, as if to blame me for Alf’s sense of entitlement. A sudden misgiving trickles into a lake of fear.

  “Messenger, I don’t have time to roast a pig just because you arrive here unannounced from Brattahlíð. Rest assured, we will give you food and shelter for the night, but you shouldn’t expect too much hospitality given that it is the harvest month.”

  Alf’s smile reveals a mess of blackened, crooked teeth. He clears his throat. “Freydis, you might not be surprised by this, but your brother, Leif, was eager to know all about Bjarni’s travels. On the first night the helmsman was with us, the two of ’em debated the merits of making another vyking expedition across the northern sea. In the end, Bjarni said that he had no desire to go back, but Leif was eager. You’ll never believe this, but your brother purchased the helmsman’s ship.”

  “What?” Thorvard snaps. His voice sounds wild.

  “He did it with his faðir’s help.”

  “Faðir would have enjoyed the bartering,” I say quickly, thinking of my brother back in Brattahlíð. At my wedding feast, Leif asked Thorvard if he knew of a good shipbuilder with wood to spare. Thorvard laughed. I remember that. Then the two of them bent their heads together and talked all night about sailing across the northern seas. I had to sit there listening. Afterwards, Thorvard blamed me for finally asking my brother to leave us so that we could be together on our wedding night. It shames me to think on it, but I wonder if Thorvard demanded a kiss from Leif when I wasn’t looking and that is why my brother left so fast.

  Someone shouts. There is a rumble of voices. A crowd is gathering in the yard. The messenger squares his weary shoulders and stands up tall. “Eirik the Red sends good cheer to all of you, but the real reason I am here is to tell you that Leif Eiriksson has left Greenland’s shores in his own vyking ship to sail across the northern seas. He will be gone for at least a year.”

  I draw in air. How could Leif abandon me? How could he leave me in this fox’s den when he used to defend me when we were young? Why didn’t he come to tell me he was leaving? Do I mean nothing to him anymore?

  “Did Eirik the Red go with him?” the blacksmith asks as he eyes my husband hard.

  “Eirik Eiriksson is getting on in years,” the messenger tells the growing crowd. “He won’t be leading any more vyking expeditions across the sea. The chieftain jokes that at his age, he wouldn’t be able to bear
the cold, but truth be told, he couldn’t have gone. He is recovering from a broken leg.”

  I turn my back on all of them and begin to pace, walking back and forth in front of the chicken coop.

  “Eirik the Red is feverish,” Alf announces uncomfortably. “The good chieftain’s wife sends greetings. She is worried about the chieftain. She is in need of Freydis. She has no one to help her now that Leif is gone.”

  “What about my other brothers?” I mutter. “Where are Thorvald and Thorstein?”

  “They are too young to manage a chieftain’s farm, Freydis. Besides, your mother always relied on you and Leif.”

  “When did my brother leave?”

  “Leif put to sea two days ago,” the messenger announces as he takes another swig from the proffered drinking horn. His body odor wafts towards me so that I need to turn my face away.

  “Your brother took a giant risk leaving at this time of year,” Thorvard says as he glares at me. I go to speak but he cuts me off, silencing me as if I am a bug to squish. “He is a foolish man.”

  “Leif Eiriksson is wise enough to set down anchor and go into shore before the ice sets in and clogs the channels,” Alf says carefully.

  “Summer is too far gone to make it across the northern sea,” I sputter. “He will not return to us this year.”

  “’Tis true, good Freydis,” Alf affirms. “He’ll have to find someplace to winter before the snows set in.”

  “Wintering in the north can be dangerous,” my husband mutters before he reaches out and grabs my arm to make me stop walking back and forth. When my heart finally settles, I extract myself from Thorvard’s grip.

  “Why didn’t Leif come to me?” Thorvard rants. “Why didn’t he ask me to help him build a ship?”

  Alf releases a heavy sigh. “Leif has always been his own man.”

  I feel a sudden cramp. “I must offer sacrifice to the gods for Leif’s safe return.”

  “The gods are useless,” Thorvard sniffs. “As mortals, we must trust our instincts and rely on ourselves.”