“You have thought this through, I see.”
“I have,” I say.
“Watch yourself, sister. Making business deals with Icelanders is ill-advised. They will cheat us out of everything.” Leif steeples his index fingers together and touches the tips to his lips.
“Finnbogi and Helgi are not like that,” I say, my exasperation striking like a thunderbolt.
“Why has Finnbogi not come to me directly then?”
“Finnbogi and I agreed that I should come to see you on my own,” I say defensively. Leif grunts in disbelief. “Good brother, I beseech you on bended knees, please, let me go. Faðir would want us to continue exploring the northern passages in his name.”
As the sunrays creep towards us through the open door, Leif turns away. I know he will agree to let me go, but he bides his time to make me squirm. It is his way of reminding me that he is in charge.
“This is not a ploy to get you out of your marriage contract, is it, Freydis?”
“Dear brother, it is deception of a sort,” I reply. “Long ago when I had the chance, I should have slaughtered Thorvard in his bed.”
My brother lifts his brow. “Calm yourself,” he says tiredly.
“I won’t!” I yell, slapping my hand down on his counting desk with such force that the legs wobble from the jolt. “Thorvard has dishonored us. You should be challenging him to a duel. I never thought of you as a raven starver. What happened to you, brother?”
For a moment Leif just looks at me. “I see what he has done to you.”
“You bastard,” I seethe. “Just look at all my battle scars.” I lift my hair, but as I go to roll up my sleeve, he stops me with an outstretched hand.
“I’ve seen enough.”
“If you make me return to him, he will kill me, brother,” I say, choking back my tears. Our eyes connect.
“What reason should I give for your disappearance?”
“Tell him that I orchestrated my own escape or that I died of sickness in my bed. Truly, it makes no difference what you say, just be sure to let him know that I’ll never return to Greenland.” I lift my chin and gather strength and let my armour fall into place. “I should never have been married off to him.”
“Hold your tongue,” Leif chastises.
“May the gods curse his bones.”
“Freydis, you’ll hex your voyage to the north and find yourself lying at the bottom of the sea in Rán's watery underworld with a piece of seaweed wrapped around your neck.”
“Can I not speak freely in my faðir’s house?” I ask, jabbing my finger at his chest. “Finnbogi is an Icelander who has provided me with an honorable way to end this abusive marriage that I’ve endured. He has been more helpful to me than you in my time of need. How pitiful. Truly, brother, I expected more from you.”
“Then go,” my brother spits.
“I need the keys to the longhouses you left behind on Vinland’s shores if I intend to make Leifsbidur my new home.”
“I left nothing behind of value in Leifsbidur,” my brother snarls. “The door to the longhouse was left unlocked.” He pauses to take a gulp of air. “I will lend the longhouses to you to winter in, but I will not give them to you outright.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“I may go back,” he says as he drums his fingers on his counting desk. Then he glances up. “Freydis, go in peace, but when you send the ships back, I’ll expect to see the holds full of trading goods with my share of the profits.”
I give a little nod, and in the silence, I hear someone shouting in the yard. Just as I am about to turn and take my leave, Leif clears his throat.
“Be mindful of the skraelings with their red faces,” he says, blinking. “They love red so much that they’d slaughter you just to get your hair.”
“I thought you said they were good to trade with and that they know their furs.”
“I did,” he says, “but I also said that we didn’t seek them out. They came to us. In any case, I would advise you to be wary. The Red Men are stealthy on their feet, and they can easily intimidate. Truly, I tell you, don’t take any risks and never let yourself be in their company alone. If you offer sacrifices to the gods for protection, I’ll do the same.”
“I’ll heed your words.”
Leif’s face looks grim. “Tread lightly, sister. The ice is thin where you dare to walk.”
“The ice is melting at this time of year, and I have a ship,” I say.
Leif rakes his eyes across my face. “I anticipate that Thorvard will return before the next new moon comes. Until then you must hide yourself on Thorkel’s farm. Be prepared to move if I send word.”
“Don’t tell Thorvard where I am,” I beg. There is a churning in my gut.
“Rest assured, if Thorvard comes, I’ll distract him by taking him to my seer. She came to me from the northern regions and Thorvard will be amused by her. She wears a string of glass beads on her head and a hood of black lambskin lined in white bear fur with fine gemstone charms that she uses to render predictions for her guests. I’ll instruct her to survey Thorvard’s flock and to inspect his horse. Then I’ll ask her to perform a seeing so that he can learn about the future of his farm. Her attention should buy you time to get away on Finnbogi’s ship.”
“You are too good to me,” I say, trying to sound grateful instead of harboring bitter feelings and resentful thoughts. I used to think that my brother cared. Now I am not so sure. His mercenary leanings have always guided the decisions he makes and I worry that I am just a pawn.
“Get thee gone, Freydis,” my brother finally mutters as he absentmindedly blesses me without looking up: “May Thor’s hammer keep you safe. May you find a way to return to Greenland’s shores without being hunted by an abusive man. May you become a legendary woman of wealthy means whose name lives on throughout all time.”
“Do you mean it, brother?”
Leif toys with a silver piece. “Just move yourself to Thorkel’s farm,” he says. “I’ll send Alf to tell the farmer and his wife to expect you.”
“I am obliged,” I say, but when I take my leave of him, I do not fall into his arms like I was prone to do in a different life. Sentiment is no longer helpful in this place where nostalgia only serves to trip me up.
It takes one full day to travel to Thorkel’s farm. When I arrive, I am introduced to Helgi, Finnbogi’s brother, and another helmsman, a short, burly vyking by the name of Ulf. A few days later, the men collect their crew and return to their longboats in Eiriksfjord. There they begin to refit the ships. Logatha and I stay behind on Thorkel’s farm, preparing for the vyking journey across the northern seas.
We are busy. I send Alf back and forth with messages for my brother, and Leif responds by sending me thirty-five men who are loyal to my family’s house. I send them off to help Finnbogi prepare the ships after placing two men in charge. Gunnar is a Greenlander with a barrelled chest, and Snorri is a stocky sea dog with a tremendous build who is known for taking foolhardy risks. Leif also sends sheep and goats and chickens to add to the livestock the Icelanders already have. There also are barrels full of dried food and gear: weapons, tools, barley, flax, and iron pots. Logatha and I pack up all the supplies and trading goods, including baskets full of carded wool.
We all live peacefully for two whole weeks. One day, Logatha and I are sitting in the yard milking goats when I feel a shiver running down my back. “When do you think we’ll leave?” I ask, glancing at the melting snow in the meadowlands.
“Finnbogi says we shouldn’t wait. He thinks the longboats can make it out of Eiriksfjord even though there is still ice floating in the fjord. He worries that Thorvard could come for you at any time.”
A sudden gust of wind whips my hair into my face. “I am ready and packed,” is all I say. I picture Thorvard riding hard from Brattahlíð, his anger fuelling a fanatical desire to hunt me down. In the distance, I hear the nesting birds and the water dripping from the longhouse roof. Each drop is the sound of doom,
a tinkle of terror that freezes bones. Drawing in air, I reach for the knife stashed inside my boot as the fear coils around my chest.
“We must leave today,” I whisper frantically. “I have this feeling in my gut.”
Logatha fumbles with her furs. “I’ll go and see where the ships are at,” she tells me solemnly as a crow begins cawing noisily somewhere behind us in the yard. “For now, you must stay out of sight in case Thorvard and his riders come.”
I shoot her a worried look. “What will I do if I see Thorkel’s wife?”
“Tell her you are feeling ill.”
“She will insist on staying with me.”
“Be strong,” she whispers with a worried smile.
As soon as Logatha leaves, I make my way to the farmer’s hut, a small lodging hewn into a hill. As soon as I push the heavy door open, I jump. The farmer’s wife grins at me.
“Prithee, you’ll catch cold in this chilly air,” she says as she clucks her tongue and wags her finger in my clammy face. “Didn’t I chastise you when you last went out without your furs?” I watch her bustling around the cramped earthen room as she fetches me a mug of tea.
“I’ll rest in here,” is all I say, feeling lucky that my voice sounds hoarse. Her wide girth bumps into me as I squeeze behind her to let her pass.
“I must go and grind some herbs to stir into the soup,” she mutters underneath her breath.
To quell my rising panic, I sit down to spin some yarn, but I am so agitated that I can barely focus as I draft. A short while later, the farmer’s wife leaves the hut and the silence settles, thick like dust. Very soon I get lost in the monotony of pinching and pulling the dull-colored strands in a slow and lazy rhythm as I listen to the world outside.
In the yard, the farmer’s wife begins to sing as the wind picks up. Soon a cold draft is slithering underneath the door. Sitting there, I wish that a heavy rain would come and flood the land so that the boggy patches that line the mountain tarns between here and Gardar would flood. Perhaps I should offer Loki sacrifice. There again, if Thorvard has already made it through the barren, craggy peaks or to the trail lined with arctic willow and low-lying vegetation, I hope his horse falls and breaks its leg.
My impulse is to carve a stave. If I only had a dram of seal blood, I could make an inscription on some horse’s skull and recite a verse to curse my husband and his men.
The wind rattles the door, howling. Every fibre of my being commands me to run, but I am anchored to my seat. With shaky hands, I pick up a small wooden figure of Óðinn that Thorkel’s wife keeps on a shelf.
Please, Óðinn.
The ship needs to be ready. I need to leave for Vinland before my husband comes in search of me.
Chapter Twelve
The swirl of hourglass sand
Late in the afternoon, just as I am winding a final bit of yarn onto the shaft, I hear horses galloping into the yard. The thunderous, clattering noise shakes the mugs and chargers stacked in rows on the open shelves, and I brace myself, cocking my ear to better hear. When I catch the sound of his voice, my fingers freeze and my knees lock together.
Ivor.
He has come for me.
In a dizzy haze I drop the spindle. The whorl falls heavily to the ground as I scan the room to see where I can hide.
“Good woman, I am looking for Leif the Lucky’s sister, Freydis of Brattahlíð? Have you seen her pass this way?”
I hold my breath. There are beads of perspiration dripping down my brow. My legs seem melded into the dirt-packed floor. The jingle of Ivor’s heavy sword grows louder as he moves towards the door.
With mounting panic, I will myself not to faint. My muscles are as jittery as a flapping fish fighting to live on land.
“Freydis! Freydis?” Ivor calls. His gruff baritone brings back memories of the grappling drills he put me through.
My stomach clenches. My throat chokes up.
“She should be inside the hut,” Thorkel’s wife says loudly. I feel a jolt of fear jabbing its way into my heart and igniting my muscles, screaming at me to move. Someone lifts the squeaky latch, and my rib cages dives down low before rising like a rolling wave. An instant later I find myself squeezing into the dark recess behind the heavy wooden door, quickly manoeuvring myself into place.
Beside me I spot a woodcutter’s axe hanging on an iron hook anchored into the earthen wall. I can’t quite reach it. Instead, I lean down and retrieve my hidden hunting knife from my boot, brandishing it when I hear his voice again. With shaking hands, I wait for the door to open as I flatten myself further against the wall.
Thorkel’s wife is the first to enter the musty room. As she steps inside, the smell of mutton roasting on a spit drifts inside.
“Freydis?” she calls as she looks around.
The panic swells. There is a moving tide of fear, a pounding surf inside my chest. Glancing up, I spot a tiny spider spinning an intricate web in the rafters. Its tiny body is illuminated by a shaft of light streaming through the open door.
“Freydis?” she calls again. Through the cracks, I catch a glimpse of the woman’s chesty form, her distorted shadow spilling across the earthen floor. “Freydis was here a short time ago. She said she wasn’t feeling well. Perhaps she left to get some air.”
From my hiding spot I can clearly see Ivor’s face. He has aged since I saw him last.
“Freydis?” Ivor barks in a biting tone. I hold my breath. The farmer’s wife turns. There is a hair growing out of an unsightly mole on her chin.
“You could always ask the Icelanders who are working hard to prepare their longboats to go a vyking if they saw her. Freydis intends to sail with them across the northern seas as soon as the ice breaks up.”
Ferreting into the shadows, I feel my hands begin to shake. White-knuckled, I squeeze my knife hilt hard.
“Did you say that Freydis Eiriksdöttir is soon to be leaving Greenland?” Ivor asks.
With my free hand, I wedge my fingernails into my palms. The only barrier that separates me from him is the heavy door.
“Já, good man! They say that Freydis is in charge of things.”
“In charge of things?” Ivor’s voice barrels low. “Does her brother know that she intends to lead a vyking expedition west of here?”
“The goði of Greenland? He has given his blessing. He told Freydis to go to Leifsbidur to check on the longhouse he had built. He also instructed her to bring back wood.” The farmer’s wife is panting heavily from the walk. Her large bosom heaves higher and higher as she draws in air.
“I’m certain you have got it wrong,” Ivor says like an annoying gnat. “It makes more sense that Leif the Lucky would strike a trading deal with the Icelanders who are Vinland bound. Surely he would not allow his sister to leave these shores without her husband’s permission?”
Thorkel’s wife is silent for a moment. “I am a simpleton,” she eventually sighs in a worried voice. I close my eyes and will her not to say anymore, but she continues talking, blabbering like an idiot. When Ivor asks if she knows our plans, she tells him that we want to leave within the week.
I tilt my head back and see a beam of light skipping across one of the ceiling planks. Oh gods! I wish I had a powerful inscription to make me into something small. If I faint, the ruse is up.
An instant later, the shadows shift and Ivor fully steps inside. His silhouette claws its way up the wall and my heart becomes a booming drum where I feel the pounding in my ears. Then my body starts to sway, and I raise my knife and feel the weight of it shifting in my sweaty palm.
Just as Ivor is about to look behind the door, Thorkel’s wife reaches out and grabs his arm. “She isn’t here,” she mutters impatiently.
Ivor swears.
I am so relieved that a fat, round tear spills down my cheek. Thorkel’s wife pulls on Ivor to drag him out the door. As the two of them are shuffling past, I catch a whiff of Ivor’s body odour, his musky scent.
They move into the yard, and as soon as Ivor
leaps over a pool of mud, he turns and gazes back through the open door. With a sudden jolt, I pull my body back, breathing hard. My vision wavers, and I need to brace myself against the wall.
Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I imagine Thorvard coming for me and pulling me towards his waiting horse and forcing me to ride with him. Then I hear his judgmental tone, his biting, threatening words, the irritation in his voice. Even my legs feel weak. Outside, Ivor’s baritone fades then flares in with the wailing wind.
“The ships are anchored in the inlet behind that second ridge,” Thorkel’s wife announces before I can even catch my breath.
“If you see Freydis, tell her that her husband needs to speak with her,” Ivor says. He mounts his horse and my knees buckle.
A moment later Ivor’s horse gallops off. Immediately, another wave of strong emotion swells. Leif hasn’t sent word that Thorvard is combing the area in search of me. He should have sent word, and he did not, and now I don’t know what to do.
My thoughts begin to swirl like hourglass sand. Should I stay indoors or try to make it to another farm? Should I run? By Óðinn’s beard, I yearn to have Logatha by my side. She would know, and she would help. Chewing my lip, I find myself absentmindedly picking at a scab until it begins to bleed. The red of it reminds me of all my scars, of all the pain, of my bastard husband, of my brokenness.
Outside, the cows are baying loudly. It is milking time. Thorkel’s wife must be feeding the pecking chickens and turkeys in the yard with her clucks and incessant chatter. I’m sick of her.
When the shepherd boys return for dinner with the bleating sheep in tow, I have worn a rut in the earthen floor, dragging worry behind me like a ballast rock. Just then, Thorkel’s wife rings the dinner bell. The repetitive jingle puts me in such a dizzy trance that I almost miss hearing the patter of feet scampering quickly down the path.
The Voyage of Freydis Page 14
