The Voyage of Freydis

by Tamara Goranson

  “Good brother, be not so quick to take offense.” The jocularity slowly drains from Leif’s handsome face. “In the days to come we can divide the lands, debate the titles, and hold assemblies to determine who is best to rule this land. I’ll even recommend that you are given compensation for what you managed while I was gone.”

  Thorvard’s clansmen are not in the mood to hear him rant. As the hearth fire snaps, Vali calls for Leif to recount more of his adventures in the north. The request puts Thorvard in an awkward bind. For a moment I think he’ll jump the table and start a fight. Instead, he leaves the gathering hall without a word.

  The crowd folds around my brother as he shifts position on his bench. It creaks underneath his weight. “We traded with skraelings for furs and meat,” he tells Thorvard’s clansmen. “Those red-faced men with their chiselled, tattooed chests are a fearsome lot, but by the gods, their eyes are keen and they sure can hunt. I saw one of them arrange five or six arrows at a time between his fingers and shoot them off with great rapidity and an unerring aim.”

  I see a moth flit by. It tries to land on a darkened ledge above Leif’s head, its wings shimmering in the glowing firelight.

  “The skraelings carry their arrows in birchbark quivers on their backs. They like to hunt and fish, and they were willing to trade,” he says to a group of men as they finish sucking on their feasting bones. “At first I had my doubts about them, but they brought me many luscious furs. They also paint their faces red. They revere the color. It is sacred to them. They offer three times more in trading goods for something red.”

  Eventually, the shadows lengthen and the fire burns low. Then Vali brings out his lyre and begins to sing about my brother’s courage, but his warbles are drowned out by the talk of men. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Thorgunna stand and leave the room. When she returns, she is accompanied by my sheepish-looking husband.

  “Tomorrow, I invite you all to attend a second feast,” Thorvard announces to the crowd. “I insist on butchering my best cow to welcome Leif Eiriksson back to Greenland.”

  It is clear to me that he is drunk.

  Standing quickly, I snag a breath. The room goes silent. All eyes fall on me. “Husband, we have already had a feast tonight.”

  “Silence, woman,” Thorvard slurs.

  “Come now, good brother,” Leif manages with an awkward laugh. “Already my belly is far too full after eating your blood sausages and cabbage stew. Why not save your fattened cow for the winter feasts?”

  Thorvard scowls, and Leif stands so quickly that the table shakes and my goblet wobbles and almost spills. With quick, efficient hands, Leif catches up my cup and rights it as his eyebrows crease into an anxious frown. Just then, Thorgunna’s woven shawl puddles on the floor so that the roundness of her pregnant belly shows. Beside her, Thorvard’s body stiffens.

  “My wife is with child,” Leif announces to the crowd. They gawk at her, and Leif’s face breaks out into a boyish grin. One of Thorvard’s advisers offers a hearty cheer and when he raises his drinking horn to toast my brother and his wife, Thorvard throws me a disgusted look. He is the fox and I am the rabbit about to be swallowed whole.

  Just as the room erupts in cheer, Thorvard strides over to a side table to pour himself another goblet of red wine. On his return to the dais seat, he stops behind my chair and reaches past me to pick at a pewter platter full of grapes. In the process, he knocks my charger to the slate below. The noisy clang draws eyes.

  As I am leaning down, I catch my brother’s eye. Leif is speaking to his right-hand man but he reaches under the table and inconspicuously squeezes my shoulder with a kindness and a gentleness I am not used to receiving from anyone anymore. The small gesture is enough to make the tears well up.

  When I return my charger to the tabletop where the candles are guttering in liquid pools of seal oil, Thorgunna’s eyes lock onto mine. She looks deathly white and baby sick.

  “We must offer sacrifice to the gods,” I say in a sisterly voice. “We must ask them to keep you safe and protect the little one you carry in your womb.”

  “I pray to Freyr that I’ll be able to deliver a healthy bairn,” she frets. I feel the unfairness of the female plight, the burden that birthing babies brings. Self-pitying thoughts rise like fluttering bats when I remember my dead baby and the pain of childbirth that I endured, but I keep quiet. I always keep quiet. Talking has never done me any good.

  When the last of the candles flickers out and the embers in the hearth fire start glowing red, Thorgunna announces her intention to go to bed. Before she leaves, she leans down to whisper sweet nothings in my brother’s ear and her hair, glittering gold in the firelight, tumbles around her face.

  Leif raises his eyes to her and his face lights up as they bid each other góða nótt. I study them, curious about what it would be like to hear words like that coming from a husband’s mouth. Then Thorgunna drops a gentle kiss on my brother’s lips and my shoulders slump. All around us, the din is loud and I suddenly feel as if I am being swarmed by biting flies. In that moment, I know what I have missed out on, what I have yearned for ever since Faðir announced my betrothal to Thorvard of Gardar.

  After Thorgunna leaves, Leif’s eyes meet mine. Thorvard’s head is tilted against his chair. His eyes are closed. His mouth is pursed, his breathing soft. I jerk my chin to a corner at the back before quietly standing up. Leif points to the partition at the back and I nod my head and wipe my clammy hands against my dress.

  Leif follows me, but as I pick my way over the remaining clansmen in the room, I look back nervously towards the dais chair where Thorvard sleeps. If he should wake…

  “Sister, I’ve had reports that the lands you inherited from Faðir are doing well,” Leif whispers as soon as we reach the shadowy back corner where the moths are flitting back and forth. We stand so closely that I feel the heat of his breath upon my face. “When you shear your sheep and sell the wool, your profits will be substantial.”

  “Brother, I do not know about these things,” I mutter. “It is not my place. Thorvard is the man in charge.”

  “Freydis, those are Faðir’s sheep – the ones he gave you,” Leif says earnestly. The shadows scamper across his face.

  “I am afraid,” I manage.

  “Afraid of what?”

  “I am not myself,” I say, stuttering.

  Suddenly I hear footfalls. When I spin around, I catch my breath.

  “The sheep have already been shorn. The profits from the wool were large indeed,” Thorvard says in a vicious whisper forced through teeth.

  “Calm yourself, Thorvard,” Leif says awkwardly as he takes a step into the light.

  “You speak of sheep but you are the fox!” Thorvard rants in a tone that makes me duck behind my brother’s back.

  “Our faðir left Freydis a large herd of sheep,” Leif says indignantly.

  “Freydis’s herds are mine to oversee,” Thorvard snarls. His breath comes out in ragged gasps. “My sheep are now mixed in with hers. They graze together in the same meadowlands. It would be impossible to ascertain which sheep are hers.”

  “Come now, Thorvard, you must be fair,” my brother says as his tone drops low. “You gave Freydis a flock of sheep as part of the bride price. I witnessed the contract that was sealed in blood. Now I must see to it that she gets her land and her sheep as well.”

  Thorvard swears. “The bride price I paid to the Eiriksson clan was much too steep,” he seethes. “Your useless sister cannot bear me sons.”

  “It was not my fault I lost the babe!”

  In a flash, Thorvard pushes over the counting table with one quick shove that sends the coins and flasks and bags of flax and wheat rolling and tumbling to the ground. In the noise and confusion, Leif’s men wake up and he orders them to grab their swords.

  “Freydis is an infertile good-for-nothing ingrate!” Thorvard rants, his rage building like a tidal wave. Leif’s men shimmy into the shadows and draw their swords, and as soon as Thor
vard notices that he is surrounded, he changes like a rabbit changes coats in winter.

  “Come now, brother, I meant no harm,” he mutters as he lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender. A moment later, he extends his hand to me, but my fear of him makes me wary. Thorvard looks injured. He seems startled by all the fuss we are making, and his eyes pierce mine so that something dark floats between us, stinking like a wave of wildfire smoke ripping through mossy fens and heath shrublands.

  “Come to bed, wife. Your brother is tired and I irk him with my words tonight. Let him retire with his pregnant wife who has done well by him to make an heir. Tomorrow we will discuss this business of your faðir’s lands and your herds of sheep. Come. It is time to say góða nótt to all.”

  Leif eyes me and I quickly nod. “I’ll be fine,” I say, but I feel a chill.

  That night, Thorvard takes me to a secluded annex usually reserved for sheep. As soon as the door is shut, he gives me a violent push and I whack my face into a wall. Struggling to stand, I brace myself when I see stars.

  “Please…” I beg stupidly.

  In the dark, Thorvard cracks his knuckles and sniffs, and I take a step backwards, listening to a thousand screaming voices in my head. Then another beating comes.

  Chapter Nine

  Soul-sword work

  I force myself to roll over in the hay in the early-morning hours. My head is throbbing and my ear has bled all over my sleeping hides, but I try to ignore the pain. Focusing on it just makes it worse. Instead, I return to the gathering hall and busy myself trying to light a fire. At first my fingers shake and I can’t manage to hold the tinder steady, but after several tries I am successful.

  As soon as the fire flares and I am able to see well enough to study all my bruises, I turn my arms this way and that and discover the hump of a purpling welt above my elbow. Behind me there is a sudden noise. When I spin around, I am startled to see Leif staring at me through the smoke.

  “You look tired,” is all he says. His whispers shatter the quiet stillness in the room.

  “I didn’t sleep.”

  “We need to talk,” he mutters, speaking low. Glancing furtively around the room, I see Thorvard sleeping on a bed platform by the door with many other sleeping men sprawled out in different positions on the ground. Their bulky forms are buried underneath their cloaks and furs and their drunken snores are loud. Digging my knuckles into the pockets of my dress, I shiver uncontrollably.

  “You’ll return with us to Brattahlíð,” Leif murmurs carefully as he studies my bruises. He speaks so softly I can hardly hear.

  “How?” I ask as I lean forwards to poke the fire again. Another cloud of smoke rises and I work hard to suppress a cough.

  “We will tell Thorvard that I need you to inspect your tenants’ lands – the lands you inherited from Faðir when he died. We will say that you need to take an accounting from the farmers who rent from you to meet the requirements of your inheritance.”

  “He will want to come along,” is all I say.

  “I’ll discourage him from traveling at this time of year.”

  “May the gods give you words,” I whisper. I am beginning to feel like I will faint. My brother reaches out to steady me. I glance at Thorvard’s sleeping form just as a wet gurgled snore escapes from his throat. “Gods’ bread, if my husband learns that I conspire to cheat him out of any trading deal, there will be hell to pay,” I mutter. “If you only knew what his fists can do.”

  “Freydis, I know what you’ve endured,” he says.

  I think to myself that he doesn’t know, that he will never know, that he will never truly understand.

  Leif eyes the fresh set of bruises on my face. His visit here has weighed him down and made him see beyond his bride.

  I inhale a series of jagged breaths that steeple high through my nose before turning back to resume my work, leaving Leif standing there, his forehead crinkled in a worried frown.

  When the weakened sun finally climbs out of her horizon bed, Thorvard lifts his head. His bloodshot eyes blink wildly.

  “Bring me a drink and bring it fast,” he calls to a passing thrall. The thrall goes running as Thorvard struggles to swing his legs out of bed.

  I stir the porridge and then find the jug of buttermilk. As I work, I glance at Thorvard, whose head is dangling weakly from his ropey tattooed neck. He looks so tired and beaten down that, for a moment, I feel confused and ashamed of myself.

  When the thrall arrives with a drinking horn, Thorvard looks up with bleary eyes and grabs the drink. “This isn’t what I asked for,” he snarls after he downs the contents in one big gulp. There is water dripping down his chin. “You stupid slug. Now bring me ale!”

  The thrall blinks. For a moment, she is a frozen block of ice, but when Thorvard’s eyes, mere slits, come to rest on me, she scampers off.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he barks.

  “Husband, let me bring you food,” I sputter nervously.

  “Bring me ale,” he snarls, and I flinch before I, too, dash away.

  That morning I tiptoe around the longhouse doing chores, expecting to be chastised, shamed, or even hit, but Thorvard is silent as he recovers from his drunkenness the night before. Later, when my brother asks to see the farm, Thorvard insists on trailing behind the two of us as we walk the fields of Gardar, but he drags his feet and rubs his temples and shields his eyes, wincing in the bright sunlight. When I glance at Leif, he looks straight ahead, ignoring the wolf dressed in men’s clothing who is following us.

  As soon as we return to the longhouse, Leif suggests that the womenfolk be left alone to speak of female things. Thorvard disagrees. He says that leaving women alone has never come to any good. Leif laughs at this, but I know that my brother is looking for a way for us to talk alone. No opportunity presents itself.

  I walk on eggshells all day long with Thorvard scrutinizing me from afar. He listens closely to what I say and tracks my movements with his eyes. I am sure he expects me to tell on him and shame his name, but I have learned to be silent in order to escape the darkness in this terrifying game of cat and mouse.

  As the sun begins to set, Thorvard asks me to walk with him out into the meadowlands to find the sheep. I try to excuse myself, but Thorvard will have none of it.

  “Don’t you have a shepherd boy?” Leif asks. He slides a glance my way.

  “My thralls are busy,” Thorvard snaps. “Besides, I have business with my wife, and I must speak with her alone.”

  “My sister’s business is also mine,” Leif retorts, his eyes stone-cold.

  “I am her husband, and what I have to say is not your concern.”

  I see my brother’s face turn red. Throwing his shoulders back, he puffs out his chest and flicks his chin towards the path leading out of the settlement. “Tomorrow I will return to Brattahlíð at the break of dawn.”

  Thorvard glances up. “Have you seen the sky?” he asks. “It will surely snow.”

  “Freydis is needed to settle a difficult matter between some farmers who dispute a claim to land,” Leif says as he stares into the western sky where the setting sun is piercing through a ridge of grey storm clouds. “The dispute is old, but recently the farmers have taken up the argument once again. The farmers’ dispute relates to a land inheritance our faðir gave to Freydis before he died. They say that because she no longer lives on Faðir’s land, she is no longer entitled to any of the profits from the crops. Her presence is required to sort this out before the winter comes. Afterwards, I will return her to your farm.”

  “If this business concerns my wife’s inheritance, I will come along,” my husband announces, glancing at me suspiciously.

  “Suit yourself. We welcome you,” my brother lies. He inhales the crisp autumn air. “Considering that it is the time for harvesting the crops, I hope your presence here will not be missed.

  “It won’t. I’ll leave Ivor in charge. He is trustworthy and he knows what to do.”

  “Suit yoursel
f,” my brother says again, “but please know this: Thorgunna is thick with child so we cannot be entertaining you and your men.”

  My husband glares at Leif before stepping forth to grab my arm and escort me out the door. As he leads me through the frozen yard, a flock of white-fronted geese flying in V-formation startles me with their honking cries. When I stop to gawk, Thorvard yells at me to hurry up. His voice is laced with irritation.

  “I’m coming,” I say, trembling at the look of him.

  Thorvard drags me down the path. As soon as we are out of sight, he gives me a tremendous shove, and I fall down hard and cut my knee on a sharp, uneven rock. Wincing, I glance up. Thorvard’s large frame is blocking out the wan grey sky, and in his hand he holds a rock. Instinctively my hands shoot up to protect my face. Thorvard laughs. I scramble backwards into the grass.

  A moment later I am on my feet dodging rocks. With flailing limbs, I release a blood-curdling scream and begin to run, but Thorvard follows me in hot pursuit. Glancing back, I catch sight of the wildness in his eyes and pick up my pace, half-skipping around a boulder that lies in the centre of the path.

  Panting and wheezing, I narrowly avoid a patch of thistles before making my way up a bank, but as I am nearing the top, Thorvard gains on me. With groping hands, he reaches out and grabs for me. With a squeal I try to wriggle free, but he grips my mantle and yanks me back. Then, pulling me, he throws me down and falls on top of my sprawled form, crushing me with his heavy weight.

  Struggling, I begin to scream, but Thorvard muzzles me with his hand. Underneath my flailing body, some itchy weed gets crushed into pulp, lodging itself deeply into my back.

  “Stop!” I cry. I am not strong enough to throw him off.

  Thorvard snarls and grabs my hair. When he yanks, my eyes grow round and my neck snaps back. Flailing, I try to fight him off using the grappling moves that Ivor taught me. With a sudden surge of force, I kick him hard and wiggle round to ram my thumb into his eye. His wolf-like howl cuts through the bloated silence of the meadowlands even as he comes at me again.