Then Mother faints. In the chaos, someone yells for help. I feel my legs buckling and my mouth go dry. An instant later, Thorvard grips my arm and squeezes hard before pushing me towards the door.
“You’ll pay for this,” he threatens in a seething voice.
I call out to Faðir’s fylgja, but there are no eagles to be seen.
His spirit presence is truly gone.
Chapter Seven
Chips of silver ice
Thorvard slaps me across the face and insists I wear an apron dress to leave Mother’s farm. Not only that, but he takes away the knife he gave me.
“You will not need this weapon anymore.”
“It offers protection when I walk alone.”
“Hold your tongue! I’ll no longer allow you to wander freely in my meadowlands.”
Fear burrows deeply in my bones as Thorvard escorts me to the waiting horses that are laden with goods for the ride back to Gardar. I say nothing to Mother, who waits, pale-faced, to say goodbye. Even though I see her weepy eyes, she fails to see the wounds that I’ve endured at Thorvard’s hands. She has reduced me to nothing while raising Thorvard higher than the sun.
Thorvard bids farewell to Faðir’s most loyal men, and we make our way down the bumpy path leading to the rolling hills. With effort I cling tightly to my gelding’s mane and guide him over the hills and plains with flocks of birds skirling overhead.
After crossing a riverbed, I see a patch of crocuses with purple petals unfurling in the sun, and then I break. Spring was Faðir’s favorite season. I let my horse fall behind, remembering all that I have lost. Remembering my sweet faðir’s face.
My husband’s party goes on ahead. Their backs are barely visible as their horses plod along a snow-covered stretch where the bog blueberries sit frozen on twigs ready for the mice and ptarmigan to find and eat.
At the summit, I contemplate returning to Mother’s farm, but Thorvard is the kind of man who would come for me and drag me back and beat me hard for inconveniencing him. Weighing this, a shiver runs through me and I draw my arms around myself and feel the heaviness of everything.
It takes two days to reach the cliff overlooking Thorvard’s farm. Gazing down at the longhouse, I go numb until my horse whinnies long and low. I can see the ruins of my life down there amongst all that wealth. What of pelts? What of herds of sheep and balls of wool? It means nothing to me anymore.
Shivering, I brace myself to re-enter a life that I don’t want to live – a life controlled by a duplicitous man, a man with fangs and a fierce appetite for blood.
As soon as I guide my horse down the bank, I sense that something is wrong. The corral is empty. There is no one scurrying about the yard. In the silence, I lift the latch and shove the longhouse door open. Immediately, I am met with the smell of burning herbs. The pungent smoke is so overpowering that I need to cup my hand over my nose and mouth to breathe.
“Thorvard?” I call out uncertainly. Wincing, I bat the smoke away with one hand.
“Here,” he says from the back. My mind is full of screeching seagulls and cawing crows. Slowly, Thorvard materializes in the smoke.
“Divorce,” he says hotly, “is just not right.” He takes a step towards me; my vision blurs and my knees go weak. “Help me understand why you are being so difficult. I’ve made no mocking verses about you or your family, and your poor mother is not causing me hardship in any way.”
With his every word, my heart beats faster in my chest. Wincing, I take a step back.
“Freydis, I should cleave your lying tongue from your pretty little mouth and feed your liver to my dogs. At your mother’s house when you raised the subject of divorce, it wasn’t fair. I’ve never inflicted any large, ghastly wounds on you nor have I penetrated your body with my spear. How is it, then, that you feel justified in asking for divorce?”
With a sudden growl, he slaps his hand against a post and the beams shudder. Startled, I flinch.
“Thorvard, I didn’t mean—”
In a few quick strides he is beside me, taking up my shaking hand in his and placing it against his heart. “Come, now,” he says in a gentle voice. “Let’s discuss what happened on your faðir’s farm.”
I try to pull away, but he grips my hand and with a sickly grin he lowers his lips to my arm and begins planting wet kisses on my flesh. When he pulls back, I give another tug and lose my balance, but he catches me. For a moment he just stares, and I feel a rush of heat moving into my cheeks. Without thinking, I close my eyes.
“May you choke on Óðinn’s missing eye, you two-faced bitch!” he suddenly spits as he grabs a chunk of my red hair and yanks so fiercely that my neck snaps back and my eyes shoot wide. “I let you walk unchecked in my meadowlands for many moons and this is all the thanks I get? Did that whore of a shepherdess tell you to slay my cheek? Did Éowyn encourage you to seek divorce? Tell me, woman!”
I feel dizzy. My stomach hurts. The color must be draining from my face.
“Look at me, Freydis. Look what happens when I’ve had enough!” His spittle sprays across my face. I claw for air. “You stupid cunt. I know you are hungry for my land.”
Grunting, he gives me a violent push and I stumble backwards, cracking my shoulder against the table and tumbling upside down. His sword belt is lying on the ground. I reach for it. He kicks me hard.
“Don’t you dare try to use my sword against me,” he howls like a bloodthirsty wolf. There is an explosion of pain in my bones and I draw back in fear. Inhaling deeply, I smell the stink that fills the air and curl up tightly in a ball. Thorvard circles me. I feel his spider-web presence at my back. Then something happens. Thorvard heaves a heavy sigh.
“Don’t make a mockery of me!” he yells, and the sound echoes through the room. Unkinking my fists, I peek out from between my fingers and watch him make his way to the table where he stores his drinking horn. “Freydis, I forgive you for uttering those silly words about divorce but listen well. If I ever hear you complaining about your treatment on this farm again, I might not be able to restrain myself.” I watch him take a swig of ale. “Now, do your duty to my house and spread your legs. Tonight, we will beget a child.”
“Not now, surely?” I whimper, feeling a rush of panic in my chest, an ice-cold sensation in my lower parts.
“How can it be that other wives give their husbands heirs?” he spits.
“I don’t know,” I moan, cringing.
“You barren whore!” he cries as he suddenly rushes at me, and drags me up, and foists me onto a bed of furs. I gasp. He groans. With a heavy thud, he falls on top of me and grabs my wrists and pins me down.
“Remember this?” he smirks as he pulls out a knife and waves it wildly around my head. My vision blurs. I’ve learned that to resist him at this stage is dangerous.
“As I said, there will be no more walks.” He struggles to lift my dress, and his cock hardens as he fumbles with my clothes. “Instead, you will make me meals and knit me socks and sit with the other women in the women’s room.”
I try to squirm away, but he is fast and strong. Holding me down, he tries to force his way into me and I feel myself turning limp in his clutches.
“Your day will start at dawn, and your work will end when I say you’re done,” he seethes with a forceful grunt. He bears down roughly and thrusts up hard. I brace myself, vowing not to pleasure him by crying out.
Behind us the door squeaks open in the wind before banging shut again. Thorvard sniffs. “Turn around and hoist yourself up on all fours.”
In a frozen state, I blindly do what I am told, bracing myself when Thorvard mounts me roughly from behind like an animal. As he dumps his seed into me, my spirit floats up and out the venting hole, and I am enveloped in a heavy fog that carries me out to sea. There I drift through clouds, looking down at the churning sea until I free-fall into the giant waves. For a while, I ride the ocean swells, plunging low then climbing high until I am pushed back into Thorvard’s bed. In the longhouse, the smok
e sits heavily in the air, choking me so I can barely breathe.
“Get up,” he barks.
I am so stiff and sore that every muscle vibrates like overplayed strings on a minstrel’s lyre. From the darkness of the bed platform, I study Thorvard as he shuffles around the longhouse to find new clothes. Then he pours himself a dram of wine, burgundy-colored, dark like blood.
“You deaf newborn rat. Get up, I say!” His eyes are chips of silver ice. From somewhere distant I hear a fly buzzing. Eventually I unstick my feet.
“I’ll bring you water to quench your thirst,” I mumble, grabbing the water bucket.
“Go quickly, wife. My throat is parched after all of that.” He rubs his hand across his beard.
In the yard, the sun is setting in a ghoulish pool of red that flares, bathing me in blinding light as I follow the path leading to the byre. Once inside, I collapse. In the walls, I hear the mice. By the gods, I wish I were one of them – small enough to disappear into some tiny space and be alone, clever enough to hide myself from the hungry owl that is watching and waiting for its prey.
In the coming weeks a mundane routine sets in as I help the farmers’ wives shear fleece from sheep, clean and dye the yarn with piss, weave and make strong thread for sewing shirts for the men. One of them – a thrall with a large bosom and nimble fingers – encourages me to use the loom. My hands work awkwardly and I am slow. Worst of all, I can’t concentrate. Without meaning to, I lose my place as I think about walking down my favorite beach, breathing in the outdoor air and tasting freedom with the feel of the wind against my face.
By miðsumar, I miss my courses and suffer sickness and fatigue from dawn ’til dusk. The fact that I am pregnant brings no joy. In fact, I worry constantly, knowing that I can’t afford to disappoint. In my weakest moments, I fear my body and doubt myself, fretting that I will not be able to care for a bairn like a mother should. Thorvard likes to tell me that I am inept. He says that all I care about is myself. He tells me that I am a stupid wife, that I have a turkey’s brain and that I all I am is a useless slug. By Óðinn’s beard, I am beginning to believe that nothing I do is ever right.
For weeks on end, I slink around, trying to avoid Thorvard, who is consumed by his duties as the newly appointed goði of Greenland. When Thorvard arranges to move the seat of the clan gathering from Brattahlíð to Gardar, he is worried about making a good impression, and he falls into a vicious mood. I am unsympathetic when I think about how he has torched my spirit and watched it char.
“Have you heard me, woman?” Thorvard yells at me one night while I am making him a pair of socks. “Unplug your ears. We will have the whole of Greenland entering our yard in only a few days’ time for the annual Althing, and we are out of mead to serve.”
With downcast eyes, I see a dirty charger in Thorvard’s hand. I go to take it, but Thorvard blocks me with his hand.
“What is wrong with you? You should have asked Ivor about the mead. Did you do it? Your tongue is silent. Who cut it out?”
“You are usually in charge of things like this,” I remind him without looking up.
“I told you about the mead a few days ago,” he snaps. “I told you to ask Ivor to count the barrels in the shed. I was too busy overseeing other things.”
I am almost certain that Thorvard would never trust me with such a task, but given how things are between us, it is typical for me to be forgetful. His eyes rake my face and I draw back.
“What should I say, husband?” It comes out in a pathetic squeak as I stare sightlessly at the wall behind his head.
“Are you so dim-witted that you continue working the wool when there are other jobs to do? Help is needed in this house in order to prepare the food. See to it that the onions are chopped and peeled before this day is through.”
“I will follow your command,” I say, struggling to keep my voice flat.
“My command?” he shouts. “Do not vex me, wife.”
“It is not my intention,” I murmur as I back away.
“Do not speak to me that way!”
“What way?” I ask as I blink, owl-like. His arm draws back. His face is mottled red. I take a breath. Drawing myself up, I look into his stone-cold eyes.
“I am with child,” I manage, swallowing.
He stares at me, and the silence that floats between us stirs up fear.
“With child?” he repeats. “Prithee, Freydis, is it mine?”
It is a stupid thing to ask considering that he has imprisoned me inside his longhouse for months on end, but instead of being petulant, I bite my tongue and bow my head and brace myself to receive his fists. Instead, he reaches out and touches my face with tender hands.
“This time it will be different,” he says. My body stiffens. When I attempt to pull away, he pulls me to him and I inhale his flowery-smelling sweat.
“Dear Freydis,” he murmurs, “I am grateful for all you’ve done. As the mother of my firstborn child, I will bestow honors on you when you birth a son.”
“I promise not to lose this child,” I say, struggling to unhook myself from his clutches. Thorvard smiles and nods his head. “I know,” he says.
“We should announce the pregnancy at the annual Althing,” I mumble almost incoherently. “Mother will be there.”
“She will be pleased to hear that you are with child. I will tell her for the both of us.”
When the good people of Greenland gather for the annual Althing, Thorvard is a generous host. There is much music and festivity with plenty of food and drink, and it seems as though everyone wants to give me a runic inscription to keep my baby safe.
In keeping with tradition, the Norsemen honor the gods by feeding the ritualistic fires with the harvest grains. Afterwards, the settlers celebrate by building a giant bonfire where the skalds sit and tell stories late into the night. The next day, the chieftains levy fines and adjudicate longstanding feuds that involve gripes about injury or insult that have been inflicted by one farmer upon another. I take no interest in what is said, preferring to stay out of sight until it comes time to announce the betrothals and to discuss the petitions for divorce.
There are some cases of men complaining about ornery wives, but it is the case of Thord and Aud that holds my interest most of all. Aud is a simple farmer’s wife who requests divorce from Thord, whom she claims to be a licentious man.
“He wears tunics that are cut too low,” she cries out indignantly. “I have brought witnesses to back my claims. They will tell you that he walks around in damsels’ clothes.”
Thord’s family is offended by Aud’s accusations. Rebuking her, they try to blacken her good name. They tell the assembly that she is too active in the family trade, that she shears the sheep and cards the wool and takes the trading profits for herself. Then they make the case that she only married Thord to gain access to his lands.
Aud stands her ground. Her brothers are there to back her up. In the end, Aud narrowly wins her case, and she is set free from the marriage bed. I am elated. By the looks of things, three witnesses is all I need. Three. Just three. All must be men.
That night I toss and turn and cannot sleep. Who will speak up on my behalf? Who is brave enough to face my husband and endure his wrath? I think of Leif and weave my thoughts into a wish that I toss into the bonfire sparks.
Please send my brother home to defend me from Thorvard’s fists.
I am bruised and broken and angry, too.
Come home, brother. I beg of you.
Chapter Eight
O brother, where art thou?
The birthing pains come in the middle of a snowstorm. The midwife says that the time of the bairn’s arrival is fortunate. New calves born during this time of year are a sign of great prosperity, or so Mairi says. In pain, I arch my back and bite down hard on a piece of wood as the baby – a would-be giant inside my womb – cracks my hips in an attempt to enter this brutal world.
After a long night passes, my baby boy arrives with the birthing cord
wrapped around his little neck. He is greyish-blue, the color of the sea. Contrary to Mairi’s predictions, nothing about the birthing process leaves me feeling prosperous. I ask to see the bairn, to hold him just once and rock him in my arms. When they take him from me, my heart bursts apart, shattering into a thousand pieces that melt into tear puddles.
Thorvard comes to comfort me. He gathers me in close and holds me and rocks me back and forth, whispering softly in my ear. When Mairi leaves the room so we can be alone, I grow afraid, but nothing happens. Thorvard pinches his nose between his right thumb and index finger. Then he lowers his head and cries. I can’t. By the gods, I am the walking wounded, a woman who has lost everything.
When the spring thaws finally come and the fields are planted and the sheep begin birthing little lambs, I am still heartsick. I hate my empty life. I am tired of being Thorvard’s wife, tired of all the suffering.
In one final desperate act, I carve a stave on a piece of wood using my own blood. My hex on Thorvard bears no fruit until I learn that he has lost a herd of sheep after they were chased by charging muskox and driven over a cliff into the seas. Einar tells me that the shepherd boys were not around. Thorvard had ordered them to help shear sheep. In his misery, Thorvard fumes while I card wool and work my fingers to the bone. I feel elated each and every time my husband has to endure a loss.
In the coming months, I am kept busy in the women’s room weaving blankets and spinning wool. The women gossip about their men and about the workings of the farm, and I worry that they pity me. Everyone knows that I am a disappointment to the goði. My womb is barren. I have failed in my duty as a wife.
All that summer, I can barely sleep. Thorvard comes to me each and every night, but he is usually drunk and miserable. After the coupling, I toss and turn, feeling too afraid to close my eyes in case I get stuck in an endless stream of black and ugly nightmares where I am chased by dragons breathing fire, helpless to defend myself. In the mornings, after barely any sleep, the misery usually starts up again, and I can barely concentrate. Thorvard is a man who punishes me for everything. His mood is often black and foul, and I get tired of living in a half-dead state.
The Voyage of Freydis Page 8
