“Freydis, you are happy here in Brattahlíð, are you not?” When I nod, he continues in an even tone. “I’ll endeavor to either keep you here or settle you safely on your own lands. In any case, you must not fret.”
He does not know me very well if he thinks that I will not fret and that I will settle for his selfish plan.
Leif continues to spew out words. His opinion clearly opposes mine. I sink down heavily on the bench. On the counting table, there is a silver coin, a single tooth.
“Give my regards to your pregnant wife whom you so adore,” I finally say when he is done. For a moment, I stare at his handsome face, his handsome clothes. “Thorgunna is a fortunate woman to have your love.”
“She is indeed,” Leif replies. “It isn’t every day that one finds love.”
“Neinn,” I say.
In the corner, the whale-oil lamp flutters.
In silence, I stand and take my leave.
In the days that follow, I practice using my slingshot, my knife, and my battle-axe to aim at targets that I place behind a partition at the back where it is cold. One night in my sleep I am visited by the love goddess who tasks me with killing a group of hardened foes. I ask her why I have to be the murderess. Freyja tells me that I must obey her wishes in order to win back love. When she wags her finger, I make a promise to serve her well. Then Freyja morphs into a falcon that flies towards an elaborate door. The shadows flicker before there is a burst of brilliant light. Freyja’s face appears and she invites me to cross the threshold of love’s golden gates. I tell her that I am too afraid. She reaches out her fine-boned blue-veined hand.
Come inside on tiptoes, my darling child. Come and see what you can find.
Come explore my world of love, but come quickly before the doorway closes and it grows dark again.
Chapter Ten
Sorrows shared are sorrows halved
During the preparations for the Feast of Ostara, I meet Logatha and Finnbogi of Iceland, who arrive in Brattahlíð after snowshoeing in from a neighboring farm where they have been staying over the winter months, waiting for the ice to break up so that they can continue to go a vyking. Logatha takes up my hand in a friendly greeting. While she is all smiles, I feel my stomach knotting. If she has made it through the snow on foot, Thorvard could come for me at any time.
That night, I have trouble falling asleep. I worry that the nightmares will take me back to Thorvard’s longhouse and trap me in an endless loop of suffering where I relive the beatings. I stare up into the rafters and feel the brush of my husband’s ethereal spirit touching my clammy skin before I turn on my side, trying to get comfortable, trying to push the memories away as I feel my spirit haemorrhaging and my heart clamoring. Forcing myself to breathe in slowly, I listen to the rumble of laughter coming from the great room as Leif entertains his guests. The sound lulls me into a world of nothingness.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I startle awake to the sound of whispered voices on the other side of my bed curtain, and my breath snags until I discover that I am lying alone in sweat-soaked hides. When I peek out, I catch a glimpse of Finnbogi sitting with my brother. The two of them are all alone, and the fire is flickering low, spitting shadows across the walls.
“You are a lucky man to have found Thorgunna,” Finnbogi sighs as Leif reaches forwards to stir the fire. Leif glances up. Finnbogi stamps out a flanker with his toe. “Like you, I want to be able to protect my wife. I am wondering if this journey that we wish to take across the northern seas will be too dangerous for Logatha.”
I pull back, knowing that Thorvard of Gardar, my muskox of a husband, has never given a rat’s ass about my safety.
“If Njǫrd, the god of the wind and sea, is on your side, you should have nothing to fear,” my brother says. “But in Vinland, you must be vigilant. Don’t let your woman out of your sight. I don’t trust those skraelings. They might steal your wife and keep her as a trophy prize.”
I hear a log snap in two. Finnbogi clears his throat. “If you were in my shoes, would you take your wife along?”
My brother laughs, and his chuckle is sedate and musical. “I would,” he says. “I would be hard pressed to live without Thorgunna by my side.”
My eyes well up. Finnbogi clears his throat.
“When we were still back home, I asked a fellow Icelander, a helmsman by the name of Thorfinn Karlsefni, to swear an oath,” Finnbogi says. His muffled baritone drifts into the shadows. “He wants to lead his own expedition to Vinland as soon as his shipbuilder finishes making him a ship.”
“What kind of oath did you make him swear?” Leif asks. He sounds fatigued.
“We swore to protect each other’s families if either one of us were to die. We found a stone with a round hole in it and clasped hands through it.”
“It is rare to find such a stone.”
“We also had oath rings made to cement our fealty.” He holds up an elaborate silver arm ring that sparkles in the firelight.”
“May Óðinn’s Oath serve you well, my friend.”
FinnbogI sighs. “I have no sons to call my own, but one day I will have a longhouse full of them, I’m sure of it. Karlsefni will be bound by his promise to look after them.”
Behind the curtain, I stifle a silent yawn and wiggle back down into my bed, feeling a strange sort of jealousy.
“The problem is that Karlsefni might not sail his ship this way. He is a fickle man. What if he gets lost at sea? I might never see the man again.”
My eyes feel heavy. The bed is warm. When the Icelander starts up again, I turn my face into the wall.
“Leif, you are somewhat of a legend because of what you’ve accomplished,” Finnbogi whispers, speaking so low that I can hardly hear. “You’ve sailed across the northern sea and lived to tell the tale. I hope to follow in your footsteps, but if something were to happen to me, would you be so kind as to swear a blood oath to protect my family? If they were to make it back to Greenland’s shores without me, I would want to make sure that they were protected. I know it is a lot to ask.”
I spring awake. Who is this man? Never have I heard of an Icelander bestowing such a request on a Greenlander. It’s just not done.
There is a burst of noise.
My brother has accidentally spilled his drinking horn.
“I see the way you treat your wife and your sister,” Finnbogi says, speaking fast. “I sense that you would do well by Logatha and my heirs. A man can never be too careful in safeguarding what he treasures most.”
My throat chokes up. Tugging on my hides, I draw the covers up to my chin. Logatha and Thorgunna have been favoured by the gods. I wonder if they even recognize what kind of lives they live because they are cherished by their men. I will never have this. I am not good enough.
My stomach turns. Thorvard of Gardar’s shadow falls on top of me, and the memories take my breath away. I feel the weight of his hand against my mouth, cutting off my air supply. My head begins to spin. With a thud, I begin to fall, waiting for the nothingness.
In the nippy darkness of an early morning, I get up and join the others around Leif’s hearth fire. Taking up my distaff attached to four bobbins, I numbly begin whipcording, feeling only bone-deep weariness. As my fingers manoeuvre the strands, Logatha studies me from across the fire. She is a tall, thin woman with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.
“Last night someone told me that your husband is the wealthy landowner Thorvard of Gardar. Is this true?” she asks. My stomach sours. I give a little nod and force myself to concentrate on the hand rhythms, the monotony of the moves.
“I should have spoken with you more last night before I retired to bed, but I got to talking with your brother’s wife. I can see why they call Thorgunna a priceless gem.” She taps her head. “Not only is she beautiful, but she is intelligent. If she weren’t pregnant, I’m sure she’d insist on traveling back with us to Leifsbidur.”
The four-plait braid is almost done. Logatha leans in closely and I
accidentally miss my pass.
“As you know, my husband and our crew sailed from Iceland last summer,” she continues as she watches me. As she talks, she wildly flails her arms and I draw back. I have lived with a man whose flailing arms were dangerous.
“By Óðinn’s eye, when we arrived here in Greenland, we were fortunate to find Gunthur and his wife, who took us in right before the blizzards came and our longboats got locked into the ice. Now my brother-in-law, Helgi, is anxious to leave Greenland’s shores. As soon as the ice breaks up, we will travel across the northern sea on a vyking expedition bound for Vinland.”
“My brother sailed to Vinland,” is all I say as I tie off the string. “He founded a new colony there. Leifsbidur is what he calls it.”
“Your brother is the reason why we came to Brattahlíð,” she says with laughing eyes. “We wanted to learn more about his voyage and his experiences with the skraelings. We want to trade with them.” I put down my work and Logatha takes my arm and draws me closer to the fire where I sink myself into her life.
“Finnbogi spent his life building ships. I spent mine studying the stars to learn how to navigate by them.” Her smile is big and infectious.
“I envy you.”
She emits a tiny laugh. “I want to go a vyking to learn even more about the constellations so I can map them out.”
“I wonder if Leifsbidur is a peaceful place,” I murmur as my heart begins to thud. She is sitting too close.
“I wonder,” is all she says. When she turns, I notice the nest of crow’s feet wrinkles etching the corners of her eyes.
There is a large celebration to mark the Feast of Ostara and the arrival of the new season. Leif dedicates the spring festival to Éostre, the goddess of growth and renewal. With the extra company, the longhouse is a busy place, but Leif is a gracious host. He keeps the hearth fire blazing brightly using Vinland wood instead of peat, but it is the sweetness of his Vinlandic wine with its rich, smooth taste that impresses most.
“I climbed those Vinlandic banks on my hands and knees to get to the place where I could pick the small red berries that had ripened after the first autumn frost. They make the best wine, don’t you think?” His face is animated. His eyes are bright. “You must go to Leifsbidur and discover the riches for yourself. I tell you solemnly, the land yields abundant wealth. There was a river running adjacent to my longhouse where I stood knee-deep in water and plucked the salmon out by hand.”
The Icelanders seem impressed. As Leif talks, I make my way around the room giving away dyed eggs to all the women who attend the feast. When I go to offer one to Logatha, she playfully tugs at my draping sleeves.
“I need the whole basket,” she whispers dramatically before emitting a hearty laugh. The rumble of it reminds me of a white-fronted goose. “If just one of these eggs could help me bear a child, Finnbogi would be a happy man.” She is suddenly serious when she crooks her finger and beckons me closer. The room is hot. A minstrel is strumming on a lyre.
“Freydis, do you think these eggs will bring me any luck? Finnbogi and I have been together for many moons and my womb is still barren,” she says as soon as I sink down beside her on the bench.
“I’ll give you some of my gyoja’s herbs,” I murmur in her ear. “They worked for me, and I birthed a boy.” Logatha’s eyes are glistening in the firelight. She cocks her head and glances down at my womb. Her face looks confused. I take a breath. “In the end, I lost the child.”
“Dear Freydis, I am so sorry,” she says after a moment, but her voice is so gentle that I almost break.
“It was a while ago,” I manage. She takes up my hand, and in her company I find myself telling her all about the pain of giving birth. It is a story that I have never told – a story that I have longed to tell.
“You will conceive again,” Logatha says encouragingly when I have finished telling her the sorry tale, but her voice snags. My eyes sweep the room.
“I will never bear a child again,” I whisper. “My husband is…”
“Dying?” she asks.
“Neinn.” My spirit plunges even lower. For a moment, I am sick with dread.
“He is abusive, then?” Logatha speculates.
“Abusive and evil,” I reply, but I feel a chill when I envision Thorvard standing in front of me with his fist raised, threatening to break my jaw.
The image changes. Grows. I picture myself wrapping my arms around his bearded throat and squeezing hard, listening as his gurgles turn into a juice of blood.
Logatha’s forehead creases into worry lines. When I see the expression, I tell myself to smarten up. If Thorvard were to discover that I had betrayed him to an Icelander, there would be Hel to pay.
“I’ll fetch my man,” Logatha says abruptly, looking grim. “Finnbogi can’t stand men who mistreat their wives. He will challenge your wicked husband to a hólmgang. Such a duel will help you reclaim your honor.”
“Neinn, I beg of you. Please don’t tell Finnbogi. Please don’t tell anyone.” There are beads of sweat trickling down my back.
“Where is this husband of yours who abuses you?” Logatha spits.
“On his farm,” I mutter, but as soon as I release the words, my head starts spinning and my heart begins to thrum. How is it that I have been silenced by every Greenlander I have ever met and now this Icelander is drawing this sliver out of me? I take a breath and struggle to suppress a surge of fear. A headache jabs. My legs feel weak.
“Please tell me the all of it. I want to know,” Logatha murmurs as she takes my basket from me and places it on the floor. I blink and feel her warmth beside me. The hearth fire crackles and snaps as a log splits apart. All around us, Leif’s kin are chattering. When a burst of laughter erupts, I glance up at the Norsemen who are sitting around the blazing fire.
I take a breath, and the trauma of my life slips out like dissonant chords slipping off a lyre. As I speak, it is as if I lift above myself. I find myself talking, but it is like I am listening to a run of ascending notes spilling from the panpipe, blasting from a cone-shaped lur held together by willow strings. I sing the song of my broken life, and Logatha listens with pity and compassion before admitting that she does not know what to say to comfort me. I tell her that her listening ear and honest words are good enough. Afterwards, there is some relief.
A few days later, I find myself seated between Logatha and Finnbogi at another festive dinner. Finnbogi is an animated talker with many interesting tales to tell. Tall in stature, he is a blond-haired, handsome man with broad shoulders and a ready laugh.
When the meat platters arrive, Logatha spots a pot of rabbit stew and sticks her head into the wafting steam and drinks in the smell of the savory dish with a dramatic lifting of her hands and a brilliant smile. At the head of the table, Leif and Thorgunna begin to laugh. Even the thrall can’t suppress a grin as she scoops out a serving of the stew into Finnbogi’s bowl.
“Praise Óðinn! I am sure to have an heir in nine months’ time,” Finnbogi jokes good-naturedly.
“How can you be so certain?” a farmer heckles from the back. There is a burst of laughter as Logatha stands and bows to the crowd. Finnbogi takes another giant gulp of ale from his drinking horn.
“The rabbit is such a virulent offspring-producer that if my good wife licks her charger clean, I am certain she will ingest the fertility ingredient that she lacks. Forsooth, good man, reproduction in spring is not just for rabbits, is it, now?”
At this, Finnbogi throws his wife an audacious wink. I glance up nervously but Logatha takes it all in her stride. She clucks her tongue and wags her finger in Finnbogi’s face.
“Rejoice and be fertile,” Finnbogi says in a spirited voice as he lifts his charger into the air. His chuckles pop up in bursts as the crowd erupts and the revelry spreads like wildfire. Watching him, I have difficulty feeling anything. Thorvard of Gardar is a thief who stole the part of me that laughed easily, that took pleasure in life’s simple moments, that was carefree and fu
n-loving. I don’t know that woman anymore.
Finnbogi continues playing to the boisterous crowd. When he jumps across the table and begins to hop around like a rabbit pretending to have big front teeth, Logatha laughs so hard she begins to cry. The crowd erupts with a thunderous roar, and Finnbogi laps it up. He returns to the table and sniffs at Logatha with his rabbit nose and nibbles playfully at her toes. When she swats at him, he hops zigzagged across the room. It is so absurd that I don’t know what to make of him. I feel myself pulling back into a dark sort of ugliness, and I hate myself for it. Standing quickly, I call for water. When the thrall brings me a goblet, I am sorry that I didn’t ask for more wine.
Eventually the crowd calms down, and Finnbogi and I find ourselves in each other’s company, seated side by side. His mouth is full of rabbit meat when he asks about my land. At first, I am hesitant to disclose anything about my life, but he is so easy to talk to that eventually I open up. When the topic of his upcoming expedition is broached, he tells me all about where he intends to take his ship. Then he tells me that Logatha is an expert at reading stars, and I get so envious of their bond that I sit there stewing and chewing on my lip.
The hour grows late. When the skald begins his tale, I find myself surrounded by messy chargers and emptied goblets and couples with their heads bent together as they relax and listen to a saga that I have heard many times before. I feel strangely content knowing that I’ll go to bed alone tonight. No bastard husband will use my bones.
I get lost in thought until I feel someone’s eyes studying me. Slowly I turn my head only to see Finnbogi slowly raising his drinking horn in a toast to me. Nervously I look around. The shadows shift.
“Mistress Freydis,” Finnbogi begins. He leans in closely. “My wife told me your sorry tale. I know about your husband, Thorvard of Gardar. That evil bastard must be held accountable for beating you. By Óðinn’s beard, when the snows start to melt, I expect he will come for you.”
The Voyage of Freydis Page 12
