“Yes, Tyrkir is right,” he said. “Two women are not enough for everyone. Let’s drink! We do have enough mead!” His laughter was infectious, and soon the hall was filled with exuberant noise until, eventually, heads became heavy.
Late that night, Erik pulled his friend along behind him. “Come with me!”
They left the hall with sluggish strides and trudged through the pale twilight over to the burial mound on the cliff. For a long time, Erik stood there. Finally, he asked, “What now? I am the lord, but you’re the clever one. What now?”
Tyrkir stepped close to his side. “Marry.”
“What?”
“You must get married, and I say that not only because the farm needs a mistress. You’re the last of your clan. You’ll need children for the line to go on.”
Erik shook his head. His gaze had lost some of its drunkenness. “Just like that? Get married? It takes two. Have you forgotten that? Who am I supposed to—”
Tyrkir scratched at his flea bites. Despite the mead, he somehow managed to arrange his thoughts. He’d thought this plan through, but had not yet dared to propose it to his friend. Now the time was right. “Down at Hvammsfjord, when we asked for land there,” he began carefully. “You met the daughter of old Thorbjörn.” He pretended not to remember the name of the young woman. “What was her name?”
“Thjodhild,” Erik murmured thoughtfully. “Thjodhild of Hawk Valley.” The memory seemed to paint her picture in his mind. “Not a bad woman. And she was still free in the spring. She is blond and straight grown. Yes, not a bad woman.” He gently jabbed his friend in the chest. “We leave first thing tomorrow. Why should Farmer Thorbjörn have any objections to me? Look at me! I am a son-in-law. He couldn’t have wished for a better one.”
“You should probably take a bath,” Tyrkir remarked. “Otherwise, no one will recognize your beauty.”
“Don’t you dare!” Erik raised his fist, half in anger. “You’re speaking to your master.” When he saw Tyrkir’s bold look, he embraced his slave. “Nothing will separate us, not even a woman. Never. That I swear!”
Thjodhild
A diversion, finally!
For two weeks, Thjodhild had been longing for this day. The market was held down by the fjord. In the summer, it took place in the middle of the first week of every new month. It was nothing compared with the big market during the Allthing in the fall, but it was good enough for her. Thjodhild measured time by the market days. After every one, she lived off her memories for a while, and then counted the days until her next visit.
Thjodhild had swapped her coarse smock for a shift and a skirt with straps secured by brooches. Over it, she wore a large green shawl held together by a silver clasp. The chain of bronze medallions nestled coolly around the eighteen-year-old woman’s neck. She had carefully combed her long blond hair, which fell from under her headscarf and far down over her back.
To be free of all of her chores! No laborious whipping of the salt butter today, no work in the house or stable. To see other people and forget her monotonous everyday life for a few hours.
Her mother had stayed on the farm because her leg was hurting again, so only Thjodhild and her stepfather had saddled their horses earlier that morning. They’d ridden through the upper Hawk Valley, along the brook, past the lake and forest, and finally down to the beach. Some neighbors had joined them along the way, swapping stories, and the time had quickly passed.
Even the weather is lovely, she thought. Despite a few fast-moving cloud shadows, the August sun shone down from the glass-blue sky onto the stalls and booths as laughter, shouting, and bargaining filled the small trading place. The bright light and pleasant warmth added to the general atmosphere of cheer.
Thjodhild had been waiting for her father for a while. He was standing at the horse trader’s with his big farmer friends, inspecting the powerful animals, reaching into the luxuriant manes as if into women’s hair, checking teeth, stroking bellies and the tendons of the front hooves.
“And I say, this mare is stronger!”
“Or maybe you’re wrong, Thorbjörn.”
“Don’t say that! I know more about horses than you do.”
A heated argument was brewing. Thjodhild knew this back-and-forth all too well, and a lot more time would pass before the men reached an agreement.
She strolled through the crowd. From the corner of her eye, she enjoyed the hungry looks of the young farmers. The unmarried sons of the wealthy landowners had come for business but were in festive attire, hoping to finally find a bride. Some had already asked for Thjodhild’s hand, but so far, no one had pleased her. Since Thorbjörn himself had not had any children but loved his wife’s only daughter like his own blood, he would not marry her off without her consent. And so Thjodhild remained free.
“I’ll wait until someone pleases me,” she often said to her mother while they enjoyed the steam and warmth of the sauna house together.
“Don’t wait too long, girl,” the old woman had warned just a few days before. She had lost her first husband, Jorund, at an early age and had been glad to have found in Thorbjörn another capable, kindhearted farmer for Hawk Farm. “Flowers are beautiful when they’re in bloom, but they wither quickly.” She stroked her large breasts and weighed them in her hands. “In the old days, they were firm and taut. And today?”
“Don’t worry! I know what I want.”
“No, listen to me! The younger brother of the master of the Valtjof Farm, Ejolf, would be a—”
“Enough!” But Thjodhild quickly softened, lovingly rubbing her mother’s back. “Forgive me, Mother. Please understand. No matter how rich his family is, the name already has me shivering.” Thjodhild shook her head. “I will never marry Ejolf Dirt.”
Though he was now a man, as a child he’d soiled himself, and the unfortunate nickname had stuck. Thjodhild was sure to run into him at the market today. She could already see his grin, hear his boasting. And like every other time, she’d turn away until he finally relented.
The smell of roasted seal meat crept into her nose. No, not just yet. She would eat something later, together with her father. But first, she wanted to take her time looking at all the wares on offer.
Yes, it was a beautiful day. Besides fishermen and artisans, some neighbors were offering what they could spare: to trade a spade for a chain for the cooking pot, two knives for scissors. Thjodhild did not feel like buying household goods today. Instead, she went to the stalls displaying decorated shoulder straps, jewelry, and other treasures. She marveled at an arrangement of small figures carved from walrus teeth, then moved on. She stayed longer at the silversmith’s, transfixed by his gleaming handiwork. If only I were not so reasonable, I would buy all his bracelets and brooches. She sighed.
When she turned, she found herself looking straight into a freckled face with dark, smiling eyes for a brief moment before the slim lad stepped aside for her. Who was that? He must be a stranger, though I can’t help feeling I’ve met him before. Judging by his smock and shorn hair, he had to be a slave. Thjodhild jutted out her chin. How dare he!
A little later, at the potter’s cart, he was suddenly beside her again. “You’re blocking my view,” she barked at him.
“Don’t be angry, fair lady.”
The warm voice made her pause. “What do you want from me? What is your name?”
“Tyrkir, chosen by God Tyr.” He smiled. “No, no, I am not a messenger from the gods. I want nothing, and yet I do want something. Or rather, my master wants to show you something.”
A serf looking for customers in an odd way, nothing more. Somewhat amused, Thjodhild nodded. “All right, where is his stand? Take me there.”
The first thing she heard was the authoritative voice. “I killed the bear myself in Norway. And believe me, it was a fight to the death!” Then Thjodhild saw the bright red mane above the heads of three women who had surrounded the hunter and were haggling. He rejected each of their bids with the same words: “Too litt
le. By Thor, I shall not sell this fur so cheaply.” Finally, the customers gave up in disappointment and went to the next stand.
Tyrkir approached slowly with the slim woman. As soon as Erik spotted them, he wiped his face and drove his hands through his hair. “It is a beautiful day today” was all he could manage. She nodded slightly, and when she bent over the soft, brown-black bear blanket, he secretly motioned to Tyrkir, pleading for help. Tyrkir just smiled.
“How much do you want for your fur?” Thjodhild asked.
“My fur? I’ll give it to you for all that you are.” Erik’s face blushed red, darker than his beard and wild mane.
She looked at him, surprised.
His amber eyes held her gaze. “This is my prize, fair Thjodhild. And I won’t bargain, just so you know.”
“You know my name?” Before he could answer, she remembered him, his eyes. “Weren’t you with us in the spring at the farm?” Of course, he and his father had asked for land all along the coast of Hvammsfjord, in Salmon Valley and Hawk Valley. “You’re Erik the Red who came over from Norway.”
“That’s me. We settled up north, on the Hornstrand. Now we have a big farm there. Good grass. Even plenty of farmland. We did well.”
Thjodhild looked briefly at Tyrkir, then again at the broad-shouldered boy, annoyed because her heart was beating more quickly. “You were never a bear hunter, and yet you had me lured by your servant. Don’t think I’ll fall into your trap!” Still, the game excited her. Let’s see how clever he is. “It’s a pretty long way from the Hvammsfjord to here.” She raised her brows. “No wise farmer makes such a journey during harvest time just to visit our little market.”
“I do. Even if you insult me.”
Tyrkir held his breath. Be polite, my friend, he pleaded. Don’t spoil everything before it’s even begun!
Erik struggled hard against his rising anger. “Perhaps I’m not as clever as you. That may be so. But I know what I want.”
“And what’s that?” Thjodhild asked.
“My fur,” he growled. “I want to sell it to you.”
Thjodhild drove her fingers through the bear fur on the wooden trestle: “You mean this fur here?”
“Yes, damn it. And by Thor’s hammer, my hide as well. That’s why I’m here.” His anger grew stronger, bursting out of him. “But with your sharp tongue, I don’t know if you’re the right one, after all.”
“Too bad. You’d give up so easily?” Thjodhild turned away. After a few steps, she called over her shoulder, “Perhaps I’ll stop by later with my father. If the bear fur is still available, who knows? Maybe he’ll buy it for me.”
Erik stared after her and then punched his fist into his left hand.
“Some woman she is,” he murmured. “Good riddance. Better you don’t come back.” As soon as he saw Tyrkir grinning, Erik growled, “Stop smiling! It was your clever plan. Oh, I should—”
“Why are you upset?” Tyrkir calmly stepped toward him. “She took the bait. Believe me.”
“That stuck-up woman? Never!”
Tyrkir was about to explain the situation to his disappointed friend when a young farmer appeared in front of them. “You are strangers?” The man had an angular face, angry eyes, and was dressed in tight trousers and a shirt made of the finest linen, along with a brown cape worn on his left shoulder, which covered the hilt of a sword. On his right side, the man carried a battle-ax in his belt next to a knife and coin pouch. “What are you doing here?”
“Who wants to know?” Erik straightened to his full height. At that moment, he wouldn’t have objected to a brawl.
“Before you stands Ejolf of the Valtjof Farm. Everyone knows me here!”
They measured each other with their eyes, and in the end, the well-groomed lad was the first to lower his gaze. “All right, not today.” He eyed the Red through half-closed lids. “I saw you talking to my Thjodhild. And for a long while. What about?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
Quickly, Tyrkir pointed to the fur. “The beautiful woman liked it. My master gave her the price, that was all.” The answer didn’t seem to satisfy Ejolf, but he didn’t press further. “Well, you’re in luck. If Thjodhild wants the fur, then I’ll buy it. It would make a fine gift. Name your price.”
Over the head of the young farmer, Erik spotted the blond woman, now accompanied by her father, approaching. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Too late. I won’t be doing business with you. Either I sell the fur to the daughter of Hawk Farm herself, or I keep it.” He drew his brows together, then loudly asked, “Why do you say your Thjodhild? Do you have an understanding with her?”
“We will celebrate our wedding at the beginning of winter. And then she will belong to me. I have long been in agreement with the farmer.” But Ejolf didn’t notice who was coming up behind him.
“Liar!” Ejolf flinched at the sound of Thjodhild’s voice and spun around.
“There’s no truth to this,” the young woman hissed at him. “Don’t you dare spread such lies, do you hear me? Never again!”
Ejolf muttered, “Thorbjörn, how can you let your daughter talk to me this way? I thought we were good, peaceful neighbors. Here, I wanted to give her this fur. Just like that, for her to enjoy. And in return, she insults me in front of strangers.”
The gray-bearded farmer tried to appease him, but Thjodhild interrupted. “Leave it alone, Father! I can speak for myself.” She pressed her fists into her hips. “You can give me no pleasure whatsoever, Ejolf Dirt. As a neighbor, I can suffer your presence, but never as a groom.”
“Wait and see!” He grinned slyly. “No one else at Hvammsfjord would dare get in my way. You’re not getting any younger, and eventually, there will come a day when you’ll be happy for me to have you. You’ll beg me to.”
She abruptly raised her hand, but he ducked just in time. “Away! Go away!” she seethed. “Go to your friends, those idiots, and leave me alone!”
Ejolf was still grinning. “I’ll see you soon.” He cast the stranger and his servant a sharp look. “You’re to forget what you heard, understand? Not a word about it, or you will wish we had never crossed paths.”
Erik didn’t so much as blink, and as soon as the pretentious man was out of earshot, he mumbled to Tyrkir, “This woman, she’ll be a handful.”
Still worked up, Thjodhild stepped in front of the Red. “And now to you: Do you stand by what you said to me earlier?”
“What did I . . . ?” Erik frowned, but Tyrkir nudged his elbow into his master’s side, and understanding suddenly dawned. “Yes, by Thor. Every word was true.”
“All right, then.” She turned to her stepfather. “I’ll take the fur.” No, he could leave the silver in the pouch; they had already agreed on the price. “Please invite this man and his slave to our farm as guests. There you will have time to discuss arrangements.” With that, she turned and walked away.
Thorbjörn shook his head apologetically. “My daughter is a little . . . lively.”
“That seems to be the truth,” Erik replied, releasing a breath.
The farmer and his daughter left the trading place earlier than usual. His guests rode a bit behind them. The afternoon sun glistened in the willows on either side of the stream. Thorbjörn eyed the young woman at his side; she was sitting upright in her saddle, looking off at the black mountain ridges in the east. Finally, he broke the silence. “So fast? Are you sure, girl, that you’re not making a mistake?”
She turned her attention back to her stepfather. “He’s different from the other men I’ve met so far.”
“And it’s not because you want to punish young Ejolf? Oh, child, nobody knows anything about this Erik.”
She took in her father’s worried expression. “But I feel something new in here. No, no, trust me. My heart alone won’t decide. We have plenty of time before we must make up our minds.”
Three horse lengths behind them, Erik fidgeted with the halter in his fist. Tyrkir waited patiently.
“It wasn’t your plan alone,” the giant grumbled. “You are not that clever. Must be providence. What do you suppose? Which god had a hand in this?”
“It wasn’t Tyr. He doesn’t interfere in these sorts of things. But perhaps he gave God Freyr a hint. He knows something about fertility. After all, we are in a bit of a hurry.”
“Could be.” Erik stroked his horse’s mane and patted his neck. After some time, he smiled to himself.
Thorbjörn of Hawk Farm understood how impatient the red-haired man must be. His servants couldn’t be left alone in the north for too long during harvest time, but a marriage was not a quick transaction; the terms had to be properly negotiated. It had already cost the good-natured big farmer a lot of effort to explain to his wife, at Thjodhild’s request, that her beloved daughter had decided not to choose one of the neighboring young farmers, but instead wanted to leave with this stranger.
Since breakfast, the men had been sitting alone in the spacious living hall decorated with tapestries. Erik’s line of ancestors had no flaws, even when he reported frankly about the conviction in Norway and the escape. Thorbjörn had only shrugged regretfully. Bought witnesses! How quickly anyone could have suffered the same misfortune. “We are all subject to the whims of fate.” No, the court case was settled, and it no longer mattered. “What do you offer our daughter?”
“Well, there’s a lot to consider.” Erik had feared this question, and now he regretted that his friend was not present for this conversation. He’d give anything right now for Tyrkir’s signals and glances. “All right, then. Ten cows in the barn. My bull is hot-blooded, I assure you. Then horses for each servant. Yes, and a good forty sheep. The land . . .” Erik stretched, then told of fertile meadows, and the leeks, onions, and peas abundant in the field. The more he spoke, the more splendidly he painted his property, and he was sure that through hard work, he’d be able to develop it to the size of Thorbjörn’s farm in the future.
“I had no idea.” The farmer scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Didn’t know that it could be done so easily up on the Hornstrand. It’s a shame we can’t combine our farms. That would please my wife. Not just because of the land—we have enough of that ourselves—but because then she could see the girl more often.”
Erik the Red Page 2