The Voyage of Freydis

by Tamara Goranson

  I can hear the rumbling behind my back, the hiss of agitated men. “Thorvard, I have enjoyed being rid of you.”

  “Come now, Freydis,” he says as he glances behind me. “I think it is wise that we be friends.”

  My men unsheathe their swords, and the sound of dozens of weapons clinking and clanking, of wooden shields locking together, of feet shuffling into place, brightens my mood. I allow myself a tiny smile.

  “What a display of force you make, my shieldmaiden wife,” Thorvard says as he pulls out his pocket knife to clean underneath his nails.

  “If you don’t leave, I’ll give the order to attack,” I say evenly. “Now take your men and leave my family’s property.”

  “I am your husband. You can’t tell me to leave.”

  “Get out!”

  “You little wench, are you mad? The Icelanders are as good to you as seagulls’ shit.”

  There is a burst of noise as Thorvard’s Greenlanders suddenly come pouring out of the longhouse with their weapons drawn. Instantly, I back away. By my count, Thorvard only has thirty Greenlanders backing him whereas I have thirty-five.

  “Freydis, this is nonsense. Think twice about what you are about to do. You are my wife, and I order you to tell your men to sheathe their swords,” Thorvard shouts in a threatening voice.

  I pause to take in air. “Am I your wife, your property, or your slave?”

  Thorvard’s men chuckle uncomfortably.

  “Ever since your faðir married you off to me, you’ve been difficult,” Thorvard sneers.

  “And you’ve been a swine. How dare you abuse me behind closed doors! How dare you cheat me and steal my land!”

  “Hold your tongue, Freydis Eiriksdöttir!” Thorvard’s face turns red. His hunting eye begins to twitch. “According to the Althing laws, I have a right to oversee my wife’s property no matter where she is or where it lies.”

  “The laws of Greenland mean nothing here in Vinland,” I yell. Raising my shield, I stand my ground to address Thorvard’s men. “Here in Leifsbidur, let it be known that I answer to no man. All of you must leave my brother’s house or I’ll cleave you in half and feed you to the ravens and the wolves.”

  Thorvard blinks. I stare at him unwaveringly and aim my sword directly at his heart. For a moment, he goes still. Then he wipes his muscled forearm across his face and turns away to retrieve his sword. It is a weapon I recognize all too well. It is the bridal gift I gave him when I was a foolish hen.

  Behind me, footfalls shuffle through the grass. “Leave them alone, Freydis,” Logatha whispers in my ear. “Don’t foolishly challenge Thorvard to a duel. It could go badly for you if your men are killed.”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “He is nothing to us, Freydis,” Logatha continues in a desperate voice. “There will be blood spilled at your expense and in the end, that piece of dung will force you back to the marriage bed.”

  “He cannot have me, and he cannot take my brother’s longhouse,” I mutter without breaking eye contact with Thorvard of Gardar, but I feel the urge to shake her hard and make her understand that I am a different woman now that I have shielded up.

  “Let’s find another place on Vinland’s shores to make our camp,” Logatha pleads, but her words scratch like thorns.

  “I’ll not stand down and let him win. Today I will do my faðir proud when I carve Thorvard into worm meat. By sundown, you will see his heart stuck onto a stake.”

  Behind me there is silence. Dead silence. Without turning, I raise my hand and give the signal, and Helgi hollers.

  The fight is on.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Corpse-scorers

  My battle-hungry Greenlanders emit a vyking roar, a cheer that is so loud it scares off a flock of birds. The black winged creatures rise from a nearby field, their squawks and screeches mingling with the rumble of charging feet, the clink of swords. I catch one last glance of Thorvard as the first wave of charging men swallows him. With brandished swords, the men begin to fight like dogs and grunt like pigs. I take a breath, reveling in the feel of the sword in my hand.

  Drawing on instinct, I am shielded from the biting blades so that I easily deflect a blow. Shivering, there is a moment of pure panic, a moment when I hear Ivor’s voice inside my head encouraging me to shift my shoulders to avoid getting jabbed. With a sudden surge of strength, I duck and narrowly escape getting nicked in the shoulder, only vaguely aware of the sweat falling into my eyes as I flick my hair back to better see, to better dodge another sword.

  I go to plunge my sword into someone’s chest and all noise stops. A bloodthirsty drive pulses through my thrumming veins as my vision narrows, my thinking slows.

  I have killed a man. My first.

  I work in a breath, fighting to remember the innocence of youth, the hot springs I enjoyed on Faðir’s farm.

  I hear a gasp, a grunt, a muffled shout, a burst of noise, as though I am resurfacing after plunging into the darkness of a cold, deep lake. Thorvard has stolen my youth, my life, the meekness that I used to have. I wrench my sword out of the Norseman’s chest and feel nothing but the ridges of the hilt and the cold, hard metal in my palm.

  It is only when I stop to remove the blood splatters from my face after killing two more of Thorvard’s men that I catch a glimpse of Finnbogi, who is fighting on the outskirts of the skirmish near the door of the longhouse, fiercely trying to take down one of Thorvard’s trolls. His sword arm is slashed and bleeding, and he looks apoplectic as he wields his sword.

  Just then we hear an ear-splitting scream, a cry so terrified and panic-stricken that my attention is immediately riveted back to the longhouse door where Logatha is struggling to untangle herself from Thorvard’s grip. He has her at knife point and her pregnant belly is sticking out.

  “Logatha!” I shout as I try to plough my way through the throngs of men.

  “Help me!” she cries as Thorvard violently yanks her inside the blackened maw out of sight. There is another chilling shriek followed by a violent thud as someone’s sword finds my shield. With a forward lunge, I jab my sword and aim to kill. In an instant, my rival falls.

  I feel flushed. Alive. Forever changed.

  Snagging a breath, I collect myself and try to fight my way towards the longhouse, but it is all I can do to push my way through men who snarl and grunt as they attempt to deliver vicious blows. Someone grabs my hair, but with a twist I get away, leaving a fistful of red locks behind.

  “Come bite my sword, you corpse-scorers who drink the mead from bloody wounds!” My throat chokes out the battle cry as I push my way forwards with all my strength, wielding my sword as I fight my way to the longhouse door.

  “I am ready for you, you bold sword-swinger,” I yell as I stagger forwards, wincing when I hear another agonizing cry. With caution, I follow the scuffling sounds, the whimpering moans, the heavy grunts. Thorvard releases a string of nasty curses, and Logatha screams again. Then all goes still.

  When my vision finally adjusts to the dark interior, it is not Logatha whom I see first but Finnbogi. The helmsman is bleeding profusely from the arm and blood is streaming down his wrist and dripping in big, fat blobs onto the floor.

  “Get your hands off my wife,” he spits as he struggles to hold his sword arm up. Thorvard releases a baleful laugh.

  “Freydis, have you come to watch me ‘abuse’ your friend?” he asks.

  I raise my sword and spit.

  “Oh Freydis,” Thorvard continues, his voice silkily low. “Tell these Icelanders that you are to blame for all the deaths they face today. For shame, lives have been lost because of you. What will we tell your brother Leif?”

  “Nothing. I won’t tell him anything. I’m not going back to Greenland. I never will!”

  With a flick of his wrist, Thorvard uses his knife to nick the whiteness of Logatha’s throat and draw a thin line of blood.

  “Please don’t,” I beg, just as Finnbogi attempts to lunge.

  Thorvard
is too quick. He throws his knife and the blade narrowly misses Finnbogi’s chest before I rush at Thorvard with my sword, pointing the tip at his chest. Just before I reach him, he grabs Logatha by the neck and begins to squeeze, and my blade narrowly misses stabbing her in the chest. With a jolt I stop and back away, shivering and gripping my sword hilt so firmly that my knuckles all turn white. Logatha is struggling hard to breathe, gurgling a pathetic noise in her efforts to say Finnbogi’s name. There is a purplish tinge moving up her neck into her jaw and spreading quickly into her mottled face.

  “Stop!” Finnbogi shouts.

  “Drop your weapons to the ground,” Thorvard orders in a voice that chills.

  Finnbogi throws his sword. I do the same. A moment later Thorvard releases his vice-like grip with an evil smirk and Logatha doubles up, gagging and choking, half-crying as she gargles air.

  “Freydis, how is it that you are friends with this helmsman and his pregnant wife?” Thorvard begins in an oily tone as he grasps Logatha’s wrists and twists them behind her back. He yanks her into the shadows. I can barely see the two of them. “Help me understand why you, in your fortunes tender, have chosen to do business with a group of Icelanders? Where is your loyalty, my Greenlander wife? Have you sold your soul to this sorry lot? Finnbogi needed you to feed his men and outfit his ship. I suppose he also asked for goods to trade so that he could barter with the skraelings. Forsooth, he is using you, my foolish wife.” He takes a breath and I hear the whistle of it climbing up his nose. “As soon as you return to Brattahlíð, Finnbogi will cheat you out of any deal you’ve made with him. Think on it. He is Icelandic and they always cheat.”

  Finnbogi is staring straight ahead at his fear-crazed wife. I glance between the two of them.

  “Perhaps you sailed with Finnbogi to keep him warm? Perhaps you please him in ways his pregnant wife cannot? Perhaps you lie with him and he screws you like he would a ewe?”

  The insinuation is insulting. Thorvard pushes Logatha into the light.

  “Let go of her or I’ll kill you,” Finnbogi whispers in a seething voice. There is a throbbing vein in his neck popping out.

  A low, grinding chuckle erupts from Thorvard’s throat. In the shadows, I reach for my hidden knife with sweaty hands, wishing I was gripping the sword’s hilt just above the quillon block.

  “You are a snake who doesn’t deserve an honorable death,” Finnbogi says as he jabs his finger into the smoky air.

  “You talk of honor?” Thorvard snaps. “By Óðinn’s beard, you are a sly and cunning fox who stole my wife! You should have asked before taking Freydis to your bed. I would have given her to you willingly. She is a barren wench.”

  “Let go of Logatha,” I say so quietly that both men turn. Aiming the tip of my knife directly at Thorvard’s throat, I close one eye and focus on my mark with an aim to kill. Thorvard knows what I can do. He has seen me practicing in his yard.

  Outside, the victors release an ear-splitting cheer. In the cloud of dust floating in through the open door, some men run past. I hold my mark.

  “Thorvard, you have lost. Your men are abandoning you,” Finnbogi jeers as he retrieves a smaller dagger from his belt. From where I stand, I see drops of perspiration on Finnbogi’s brow and sweat beading on his upper lip. Like me, he is looking for the right moment to thrust his weapon into Thorvard’s chest, but he hesitates because Logatha’s body is in the way.

  An instant later, Thorvard releases a rebel’s cry and unexpectedly gives Logatha a violent shove. With widened eyes and a little gasp, she flies towards the pointed end of Finnbogi’s blade. Instantly, Finnbogi throws the weapon against the wall and leans forwards to catch her, but she stumbles unexpectedly. With a terrible shriek, she stretches out her arms to brace herself from the fall, but she can’t quite manage. There is a wooden table directly in her path which she crashes into with such force that she somersaults through the air, landing on her back with a heavy thud.

  Finnbogi wastes no time. He runs to her. Just as he is crouching down, Thorvard tries to slip out the door, but I am fast. In a whirl, I lunge and plunge my knife through my husband’s leather vest and pull down hard. Immediately, the gash spurts blood.

  “Pray for deliverance, Freydis Eiriksdöttir,” Thorvard shouts as he scrambles to right himself and join a group of battle-weary Greenlanders retreating down the path. I try to grab him, but I grasp only air. Bracing myself against the lintel post, I watch him run away and will my heaving chest to slow. My calves are shaking; a knuckle bleeds.

  I am about to cup my hands around my mouth and yell for help when I hear the faintest of moans behind my back. Scanning the floor, my eyes bounce off overturned furniture and broken earthenware before I spot Logatha lying in a crumpled heap by the hearth.

  “Sit up, my love,” Finnbogi breaths. “Thor, the lord of strength gave us vigor to brave the enemy and we prevailed. Sweet woman, hush. Thorvard of Gardar is gone.”

  “There is too much blood,” Logatha cries as she attempts to turn onto her side.

  Outside, I hear the groans of dying men. Through the open door, I see Helgi leading a group of bedraggled Norsemen through the yard, taking stock of who has died and who still lives. There are Icelanders and Greenlanders strewn across the trampled field, men bleeding out as the crows sweep low. Wearily, I fall back against the sod wall.

  “The shipbuilder is dead,” someone yells.

  “The blacksmith has a cleaver in his back.”

  My heart skips a beat. Sven was our only shipbuilder, a man whom we could not afford to lose. In misery, I suck in air, listening to Logatha’s wretched groans.

  “I am here,” I say softly as I scramble up and go to her, forgetting the deaths and injuries. Finnbogi shoots me an anxious look. There is sweat mixed in with blood trickling down Logatha’s pasty brow. I wipe her forehead with my sleeve. With a gentle touch, I brush her hair off her face. Her whimpers fade when she sees my face.

  “Thank the gods, you’re safe,” she rasps as she grabs my hand. Her fingers are as cold as ice. There is a mess of blood smeared all over her apron dress.

  “I can’t bear weight on my left foot. What is worse, I am cramping up.”

  “I think she fell against the child,” Finnbogi says as he continues to tend to all her injuries. “By Thor’s hammer, I’ll hack off all of Thorvard’s limbs and slowly feed them to the gulls if something happens to my wife.”

  Logatha blanches as she struggles to sit up. “Get me rags, Freydis,” she cries desperately. “The bairn is coming! I can feel it crown. By the gods, my water broke. Please, sister, I need some help.”

  “It is too soon,” I groan as Finnbogi and I attempt to lift her up.

  “The bairn is coming,” she sobs again.

  I stare at her knowing what I need to do, but my thoughts begin to whirlwind into a dark and dangerous place, and my legs freeze up. Finnbogi shouts to wake me up, and without another word I turn and stumble out the door.

  In the yard, the dead bodies are lying in bloodied heaps. Swarms of flies are hovering over the fallen forms and vultures are picking at the blood-soaked flesh and crows are hopping around the corpses releasing ear-splitting caws. Gagging, I hold my nose against the smell of blood and gore. Snorri is tending to the wounds of some of my injured men. The Greenlander Arvid has lost his hand. Jerrik’s side is oozing blood. Other men moan and struggle to take in air, their sliced-up throats emitting pathetic sounds. An axe sticks out of someone’s head.

  The first woman I meet as I pick my way across the field is Asta. I grab her arm. “Logatha is in labour. She needs your help.”

  “She’ll not survive it. It is too early,” Asta frets. Her eyes look haunted. She looks half-alive.

  “Try to assist in any way you can,” I manage as I drag her back to the longhouse. “I’ll try to find Groa. Isn’t she known for her midwifery skills?”

  “Groa will be hard pressed to leave her post,” Asta chokes. She can’t bring herself to look at me. “She is att
ending to the wounds of all the men who fought to defend your honor and protect your life.”

  “I need to find her,” is all I say as I try to steady my shaking hands.

  “Good luck to you, then. I last saw her stitching up Olvir’s knee.”

  When at last I find her, Groa is working on one of my Greenlanders and I am forced to wait. I glance over my shoulder, and Groa commands me to lend a hand. Afterwards, I escort her through the churned-up yard where the smell of burning flesh from the cremation fires causes my eyes to water and my throat to close. With effort I close off feelings and trudge past bodies without looking down. Groa scrambles to keep up with me. As we walk, she predicts that Logatha’s labour will be very long.

  As soon as we arrive back at the longhouse, Asta emerges from the shadows.

  “The bairn is dead and Logatha isn’t faring well,” she murmurs as I push past. On the ground beside Logatha, I see a pool of blood and fibrous strings and a wee fairy-fish all curled up. By the gods, this is all my fault.

  Logatha gives a little moan. Her eyes are closed. Shivering, I reach for her hand, but then I pull back, recalling my own ordeal – the pain, the grief, the suffering.

  Logatha stirs again and I go still. There are children’s voices inside my head – babies crying, little ones yelling excitedly. I see our bairns linked together like their mothers are, forever friends, the light shining down on their little heads. The vision shimmers, sparks then flares and fizzles out.

  Logatha’s face looks pale in the late afternoon light creeping inside the door, stretching into the shadows. For a moment I worry that she is dead, but then I catch the slight rise and fall of her chest, and I make the decision to let her rest.

  When I emerge from the longhouse, Asta and Groa are waiting for me in the yard.

  “It started off slowly but then it became painful for her very fast,” Asta mumbles as she bats away a swarm of flies. I hang my head. The guilt weighs me down like a ballast rock. The bards will say that I was to blame, that I stirred up trouble between the Icelanders and the Greenlanders. They will say that I challenged Thorvard of Gardar to a duel. They will call me an unfaithful wife.