“You can’t,” I fume.
“I can,” he yells. I glance at Achak. His face is blank.
“By Óðinn’s beard, I’ll make you take responsibility for all the hardships that we faced in this godsforsaken place. I’ll blame you for the battle and the loss of lives. I’ll blame you for the grief you caused and for the winter hardships that could have been prevented. The problem is that we left Greenland too late in the season. I swear to you, your name will be your ruin.”
“It will not,” I spit. “My family name will be revered throughout all time. It will never be destroyed by the likes of you! I am an Eiriksson!”
He cracks a grin before his eyes go cold. Then he rattles Achak’s bones and I see my lover’s blood-speckled ear. “Suit yourself, but if you want to save this Red Man’s life, you will weave a story that clears my name.”
My stomach falls. I hesitate. “What kind of story?”
He shrugs. “I’ll tell our people that you entered the Icelanders’ longhouses while they were still asleep and that you tied them up and murdered them.”
“This is nonsense. It isn’t true,” I snarl.
“Listen here, you little wench…” Thorvard wrenches Achak and I go still. “I killed Finnbogi and all his men and Helgi, too. In fact, it was my good fortune to cleave that arrogant bastard’s head right off his flimsy neck.”
I gasp even as I feel my knees grow weak. Thorvard ignores me. “I killed Finnbogi to regain my honor, do you hear? You sailed west with Finnbogi without asking me. You killed our Greenlanders. It was you. Truly, Freydis, your men will back me. They say you murdered the innocent.”
“I won’t take the blame,” I seethe.
“Then your Red Man dies.”
My ears start ringing. My vision narrows. My chest constricts as I try to slow my breathing and draw my fists.
“As for all your fighting men – your loyal Greenlanders who sailed with you across the northern seas – many defected to my camp. I killed the remaining healthy ones here in Leifsbidur two weeks ago. The rest are marked for Helgafjell.”
“I shall kill you,” I say as I clench my jaw. If I had an axe, I’d smite him dead.
“Oosuck,” Achak gargles. His life depends on what I say, on what I do, on what falsehoods I claim as my own acts. Nervously I take a breath.
“If you release this Red Man in your grip,” I say carefully, “I’ll take responsibility for the evil deeds you committed here in Vinland. I’ll tell the stories that you want told. With Loki’s help, I’ll do all this if you let us go.”
“Well done,” Thorvard laughs ruthlessly, “but we could weave an even better tale.”
With a thudding heart, I glance around and almost miss spotting Askook hiding in the grass with his arrow nocked. I wonder why he doesn’t take Thorvard out. Is he waiting for me to fall? I would expect his anger over Abooksigun to fuel his vengeance and make him do something rash. Instead he sits there until our eyes connect. An instant later, he is gone.
Thorvard grows cocky. “Your men are sick and mine are too,” he spits. “To take the sick on board means death to all. We would be cursed. We could either leave them here to die on their own or you could kill them with my sword.”
My mouth goes completely dry.
Thorvard smiles.
“We should kill them and tell our kinsmen that the sick chose to stay behind in Leifsbidur.”
“You can’t do that,” I say, glancing anxiously at Achak’s face. Suddenly it dawns on me that Thorvard has no intention of staying until the summer ends. Gathering up my strength, I shift my gaze. “Why this talk of sailing back to Greenland? I plan on staying here a long while yet.”
“Freydis, you must know by now that I have had enough. I am going home.” His face contorts in an angry scowl. “I am anxious to leave this Hel-hole behind. As for Finnbogi’s longboat, it is filled with timber and many luscious furs and trading goods. My men were busy loading his ship while you were away.”
“You thief,” I spit. “How dare you steal Finnbogi’s ship!”
“Finnbogi is dead. His men are too.”
I am tempted to run at him and dig my fingernails into his chest and rip his heart out. Instead, I force myself to stand still. Thorvard has Achak by the throat.
“What about the women?” I manage in a quiet voice.
“I’ll say that you attacked and killed them all.”
“You’ll be lying.”
“Neinn.” He looks smug. “You, Freydis Eiriksdöttir, will be the one who lies.”
“Surely you don’t expect me to travel back to Eiriksfjord and condemn myself?” I am so angry that I could gouge out his eyes and rip out his tongue. If Thorvard intends to leave the sick behind, Logatha and her bairn will die.
Achak shifts in place. This game must end. I will end it now.
“When we return to Brattahlíð, we will live apart,” Thorvard whispers through his teeth, “but you will not breathe a word of our arrangement to anyone. If I hear you telling anyone that I spared a Red Man’s life, I’ll come for you, do you hear?”
“Why not divorce me now?” A sudden panic fills my chest.
“My faðir gave me trouble. Yours gave you land. We must stay married. It will serve me well. Your brother must pay me a portion of the profits he collects from the family lands, and I have the right to oversee your herds. If I leave you here and your brother thinks that you are dead, our clansmen will condemn me at the next Althing and accuse me of murdering you here on Vinland’s shores. They will assume that I just want your land. I’ll lose everything.”
“Tell the good people of Greenland anything you want,” I plead. “Just let me stay behind in Leifsbidur.”
“You must come back to Eiriksfjord,” Thorvard says unyieldingly.
I’m shaking. I cannot think.
Bracing myself against the surging fear, I bow my head.
“When will you leave?” I ask in a whisper.
“After I slice this skraeling’s throat.”
My head snaps up. The air wheezes through Thorvard’s nose like dry reeds rustling in the wind.
“Come now, Freydis. What do you care? This Red Man isn’t worth our time.”
“I’ll only leave if you promise to spare those who are gravely ill. You must also release the man you hold.”
My voice is shaking. Achak squirms. He is helpless in Thorvard’s grip. For a moment, we hold each other with our eyes. There is hallowed madness and gut-wrenching pain.
And love. There is that.
There is always that.
I will Achak to understand that I am stuck, to appreciate that there is no other way.
Achak, I give you up to keep you safe!
His eyes are glistening pools of light piercing me, holding me steady, keeping me from crying out.
“Freydis, have you lost your mind?” Thorvard scoffs. Once again, I glance at the faðir of my unborn child, the man whom I have come to love, the man who would do anything to rescue me, to save my life, to honor me.
It is my turn now to die for him.
Breathing a Beothuk prayer to the Great Creator, I brace myself and my stomach lurches. Our baby wakes and kicks me. Hard.
“I owe this Red Man nothing,” Thorvard rages as he begins to squeeze Achak’s throat. When Achak’s hide shirt falls open, I see the raven tattoo on his chest.
“You gave your word…” I spit. My vision narrows and my thinking slows.
Thorvard glances at Achak’s face. With a tight smile, Thorvard suddenly pushes Achak into the longhouse door. There is a wicked thwap and a heavy thunk before Achak bounces back and falls, hitting his head on the ground. Seeing his bloody face and death-like stare, I struggle to suppress a shrill, ear-piercing scream.
“Good riddance,” Thorvard sniffs as he rights his clothing.
“You troll,” I scream. “You killed him!”
Thorvard grabs me by the arm. “Shut up, woman! The ship is waiting. It’s time to leave.”
&
nbsp; I bite my tongue and taste the metal tang of blood as Thorvard starts to drag me away from the settlement. Frantically, I begin to pummel Thorvard with my fists while desperately trying to twist my body to catch one last glimpse of the faðir of my unborn child.
“Achak!” I yell as I try to wiggle free but Thorvard’s grip is strong. “Get up,” I scream. My heart is cracking, bleeding out.
Thorvard pulls me forwards with his bear-like strength as I scan the empty yard in search of help.
Achak, my moccasins don’t want to leave! They want to take a different path.
I send heartbreak soaring into the sky as the panic flutters down my back and a surge of sickness rips through my gut. In a flash, I see the kindness in Achak’s eyes, his smooth brown skin, his tattooed cheeks. I love those cheeks.
I give another tug, trying to rip myself away. I am suddenly aware that our unborn child will never see her faðir’s eyes and never hear her faðir’s voice. Achak will be dead to her. The Beothuk would want me to mutter prayers. I can’t. Not now. Not yet. Not ever, if I am honest with myself. I have lost my faith in all the gods.
Thorvard half drags, half pushes me in the direction of the ships. When we finally reach the beach, I can’t look back. I am too afraid of doing something rash that could get me killed. I must protect the only part of Achak that I have left. I must protect my unborn child.
Thorvard’s men lift me, flailing, into the longboat. As soon as I am rid of them, I find a seat amidst the pelts, the kegs of water, and the salted fish. At my feet I find a tiny pinecone and I remember the lively Beothuk songs and the smell of smoke in Achak’s tent. Through the mist I hear Achak’s voice, the mispronunciation of his Norse words and the sound of his laughter as he nuzzles his nose into my neck.
My hands grip the gunwales. I feel the solidness of the wood. As the longboat lurches forwards in the rising wind, I realize that I am losing everything – the life I’ve built and the life I’ve found.
Memories of Achak break apart like fragile seed pods. From a far-off place, the coastal birds hovering over the pitching ship begin to shriek as they soar up high before plunging low in the drafts of wind.
A moment later I am shocked to see a familiar figure wading forwards in the foamy surf. Achak, my Achak, is still alive!
He stops when the water reaches his tattooed chest. Then he waves. He shouts. He waves again.
Leaning over the gunwales, I feel tears welling as the wind picks up with a whistling hiss. Achak calls. I can’t find my voice. In the distance, his figure becomes a tiny dot that fades away, slinking into the blue. Suddenly, the wadmal sails flap open, the oarsmen cheer, and the longboat surges forwards like a sled on ice. Overhead, the seagulls cry as we head out across the sea.
That night, as I am pulling back my stringy hair, my fingers find Achak’s raven earrings. I take them out. In my palms they are a treasured gift.
I trace the ravens with my fingertip and stare at the moonbeam etchings shining down. The memories come sliding in as slow as tree sap, too sticky to scrape away.
Oh gods, never again will I see the tattoo on Achak’s chest. Never again will I breathe in his smell or feel his rough hands caressing me. Never again will he share my bed or hold me quietly in his arms. I yearn for him but he is gone.
The misery bubbles up and I feel the rawness of loss, the ache of sorrow entwined with a grief so bottomless I cannot breathe.
To calm myself, I look up at the nighttime sky, inky black and speckled with a spectacular array of dazzling lights in shades of green, gyrating wildly, swirling and blending as they come together. The bright patterns spiral upwards and loop down before hitting the horizon and bouncing back. Even higher, the stars – mere pinpricks of ethereal light – twinkle silently. And the moon, the moon is full. Tonight it weeps moonbeam tears that drop a string of sparkles across the dark white-capped sea.
Oh, Achak of the Beothuk tribe, with aching bones I promise to remember you.
When the moon shadows find me on Greenland’s shores I will picture you, my love, my life.
I will recall your face, your red tattoos. I will remember you sitting cross-legged amongst your tribe, carving ravens into bone. In your absence I will honor you by teaching our döttir the Beothuk ways.
She will stand up to Thorvard. I will insist on it. Whatever happens, I will never let him rule her life. She will defy and dupe him if she must. Truly, I tell you, she will learn to defend herself. When she is grown, she will be just like you and grandmother. She will speak her mind from a place of wisdom. People will be drawn to her.
She will be skilled like you, Red Raven. I will teach her how to fight and how to hunt and how to honor the spirit of the animal. She will learn the art of sewing the hides the Beothuk way. I will show her. I have watched all of you long enough.
After the hides are smoked, I will even find some madder root to dye her clothing red to honor you.
Our döttir will be beautiful.
She will learn the lessons you have taught – that to place others above herself and care for them brings the greatest joy and happiness.
I will teach her.
She will follow in your footsteps and learn the importance of having an honorable family – a family who will protect, value, love, and defend her above all else. You will be proud of her when she spreads her wings.
She will learn your words, I promise you.
Together we will find the moon, that wondrous sky-pearl, that orb of light that links the three of us eternally. When we see it, we will think of you as you have asked.
As I have promised.
Always, my beloved.
Always.
THE END
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And don’t miss the next soul-stirring Viking saga from Tamara Goranson – The Flight of Anja – as Anja Freydisdöttir fights to spread her wings and find her future, her freedom, and herself…
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Be sure to follow Tamara on Instagram @tgvikinggirl and check out her website at www.tamaragoranson.com for all the latest updates!
Acknowledgments
To Jennifer Kaddoura for providing insightful and thoughtful editorial comments that left me musing and redrafting long after our meetings ended. Your passionate dedication to your craft, your keen eye, and your belief in me mean the world. Jen, you provided the loom that allowed me to weave Freydis’s Viking tale. I am so grateful for our friendship and for the guidance that you provided allowing for travel into the unknown.
To my agents, Sam Hiyate and Emmy Nordstrom Higdon. Emmy, you believed in this project from the start, and I feel truly fortunate to have you representing my work. Your drive and determination to find the right home for this book speak to your willingness to help break the silence and bring attention to the plight of spousal abuse victims.
To the team at HarperCollins, including Charlotte Ledger, Lydia Mason, Andrew Davis, and especially Bethan Morgan, for her enthusiasm, encouragement, and editorial attention to detail as well as for her vision and guidance that helped make my writing soar. Also to Savannah Tenderfoot, the sensitivity reader for Salt & Sage Books, who provided insights and who raised awareness about some practical reasons why the Beothuk used red ochre.
To the field interpretive guides at L’Anse aux Meadows National Historic Site in Newfoundland, Canada, especially Paul Njolstad, Mark Pilgrim, and Kevin Young, who will be remembered for their storytelling in true skald fashion. To all the re-enactors at Norstead Viking Village, including Danecka Burden, Dillon Pilgrim, Annie Patey, and Sarah Colbourne. Thank you for allowing me to step back in time. Likewise, I am grateful to the staff at the Beothuk Interpretation Centre Provincial Historic Site in Boyd’s Cove, Newfoundland, especially Karen Ledrew-Day. The beautiful people of Newfoundland, including Monty and Pansy Shears, who introduced me to cloudberry and partridge berry ice cream, were so generous with their time. Thank
you for making my Newfoundland experience so memorable.
My passion for writing was fostered by many early influencers, including Janice Galleys, Genevieve Schulte, Guy Fuller and Veronica Wenterhalt. Thank you for encouraging me to write.
To members of the Victoria Writers’ Society, especially Edeana Malcolm and Joy Huebert. Being part of a writing society presented me with opportunities that have made the publication of this novel possible.
To my early readers and cheerleaders, including Megan C., Lee B. and Michael G., Tiziana Hespe, Heather McEwen, Lise McLewin, Sheri Miller, Tammy B., Laura Gerlinsky, Victor and Patricia Saavedra, Bev Rach, Bill and Barb Rogers, Seoyoung Ryu, Jonathan Penner, and especially Blane Morgan for our sisterhood and for holding my hand on this voyage.
To my family. My parents, with their background in teaching gifted education, the language arts, history, and creative drama, have been my champions throughout my life. I am so blessed to have both of them modelling a love of lifelong learning. I also feel grateful for the support of my brother, John Goranson, whose own writing, teaching, and grammatical expertise inspire me as a writer.
And lastly, thanks to Tavania, Taralyn, and Doug, who mean the world to me and who have gifted me with the time and space to immerse myself in Freydis’s family life at the expense of our own. My gratitude to the three of you goes beyond what could ever be printed.
It takes a clan.
Author’s Note
Freydis Eiriksdöttir is one of only a few women who are featured in the Vinland Sagas, a collection of medieval Icelandic writings penned in the 13th century about the voyages that the Vikings first took from Greenland to North America around 1000 AD. While there is much debate about where the Vikings first landed in North America, some believe that Freydis sailed to what is now L’Anse aux Meadows on the northern tip of Newfoundland, Canada. Viking longhouses were discovered in this area in the 1960s by Helge Instead and his archaeologist wife, Anne Stine Ingstad.
The Voyage of Freydis Page 29
