Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  “Your master is a killer! The law no longer applies to him.” Thorgest spat against the gate. “He should be pleased that I even gave him his horses.”

  Great Tyr, the steward pleaded. Let me find the right words. “My master had to leave Hawk Valley for three years. That was the verdict. The goden’s verdict does not apply here. Here, Erik has the same rights as you.”

  “Never,” Thorgest roared furiously. “My cousin! My cousin is the brother of Hravn Holmgang! This red bastard murdered a relative of mine! Law! Justice! Ha! If I could, I would chop his head to pieces.”

  Tyrkir felt a hand on his shoulder. “Leave it alone, Know-It-All.”

  Astonished, Tyrkir turned his head. “Give up? You want . . . ?”

  “Let’s go!” Erik’s voice sounded strangely calm. “To him, I’m a murderer.”

  But they hadn’t even tried. Tyrkir stepped closer to the gate. “Do you want more silver? Name your price.”

  Thorgest was silent.

  “We need the timber and our tools.”

  Silence.

  “At least, give us the two high seat beams. They are worthless to you, but we’ll pay you a good price. Without them, there will be no happiness in the new house.”

  Thorgest rubbed his knuckles together. “Nothing. I won’t give you a thing. I don’t want that killer as my neighbor. He should leave.” Hate and triumph made his voice reedy. “And the high seat beams? Oh, I’ll make good use of them. I’ll chop them up, throw them in the fire, and cook myself some soup.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Tyrkir said, his voice dangerous. “Our beams are the shrine of the family. If you even damage them, the gods will punish you.”

  Erik grasped his friend hard by the arm. “Come, now. There’s no point.” Despite fierce resistance, he pulled Tyrkir away from the gate and ordered his three servants to follow them with their horses.

  “Go! Don’t let us see you here again! May your ship sink! Murderers! Damned murderers!” More and more curses flew after them.

  Tyrkir fought back tears. When they were out of range, he broke loose. “Maybe I could have managed. But you? You just give up. What are you going to say to Thjodhild? Tell me!”

  “Silence, slave!” Erik went to strike him.

  “Go ahead! What are you waiting for?”

  The moment was immediately over; Erik’s mighty shoulders sank. “You know very well I am not a coward.”

  Tyrkir couldn’t ask the master for forgiveness. He looked past Erik to the islands in the fjord. “And now? What will we build our house with?”

  Then Erik whirled him around and pulled him so close, their faces almost touched. “Nobody steals the high seat beams of Erik Thorvaldsson.” The dangerous glow filled his amber eyes again. “By my honor, I’ll take what’s mine!”

  Slowly, the lump came loose. How could I have doubted my Viking?

  “I am a damned fool. You’re planning an attack, and we have to get our people first.”

  This time, Tyrkir felt no fear as he had the year before when Erik swore revenge on the murderers of his servants. Today, he wanted satisfaction himself. The shame suffered, the injustice—they had to be atoned for. “But it will not be simple. Breida Farm is easy to defend.”

  “I want my property, not war. How we manage that, let that be my concern. This is one area I know more about than you do.” Erik stretched his lips and turned around. For a long time, he stood and looked at the hilly terrain leading up to Breida Farm. The haystack, just an arrow’s flight west of the fence, caught his attention. Finally, he mumbled, “Not tomorrow, but in two days, I’ll have my beams back.”

  Hallweig and Thjodhild had risen in the dark. Neither the quiet mockery of the lord of the house nor the worried warnings of the maidservants had kept them from executing their plan. Today they were going to visit the glacier.

  They were still sitting next to each other by the hearth fire with their upper bodies uncovered and nursing their children. During the day, the babies would be fed sweet milk porridge.

  Thorbjörn came out of the sleeping chamber dressed only in a shirt. He yawned, then looked at the little ones sucking their breasts greedily. “And I? You go out of the house, and I should starve?”

  Hallweig pointed to her free bosom next to Gudrid. “Please! I have enough. Help yourself!” When he made a face, she laughed. “Oh, you want something else? Soup, bread, and cheese are waiting, and you don’t need me for that.” With a deep sigh, she said to Thjodhild, “Men. They go out on their ships, often stay away for months, and we don’t say a word. But if we want to leave the house for even a few hours, they’ll pull their hair out and worry about a famine.”

  Thjodhild patted the back of her fully fed Leif. “It shows you who’s really the head of the family.”

  Thorbjörn could not come up with a clever reply. “You’re conspiring against me.” Suddenly busy, he walked through the hall, but just before he had reached the exit, he shouted over his shoulder, “I am not just the master of Warm Spring Slope. Don’t forget that. I am also a gode.”

  Without paying him any more attention, the women put their children back in the woven cribs and began to dress for the hike. First, the woolen, long undershirt. Hallweig took two pairs of trousers and handed one to her friend.

  Thjodhild hesitated. “Do you really think so?”

  “They keep the men warm, so why not us?” Hallweig climbed in with quick movements, securing the fabric with a belt above her hip, and fastening the wide tubes under the knee with straps. “When we put the dresses over them, they’ll barely be noticeable.”

  Thjodhild was still fidgeting with her belt when the landlord returned. “The weather . . . Wait, those are trousers! You can’t—”

  “Yes, we can.” Hallweig calmly reached for her leather boots. “I sewed these trousers for you. Today is a good opportunity to try them out myself.”

  “Two women are just too much for me.” The judge surrendered with a laugh. “It’s cold outside,” he reported, “but the clear starry sky promises a beautiful day.” Unprompted, he brought over two pairs of snowshoes. “For safety’s sake. Who knows what it’s like up there.”

  Hallweig and Thjodhild refused. They only wanted to climb as high as their boots would allow.

  Under the protection of darkness, Erik and Tyrkir waded ashore with eight servants. There was no noise, no unnecessary words. Their faces were soot-blackened, and besides axes and daggers, the men carried bows and arrow quivers instead of spears. Three of them also carried full sacks on their shoulders.

  Katla and the other two maids had remained in the bay on the knarr. Their mission was to wait. No matter how long it took, and no matter what happened, they were to wait for the men to return. The ship had to be ready to set sail at any time.

  Below the shore road, Erik gently poked his friend’s chain mail. “Remember, the sun must first dry the wilted grass. When the stalks start moving in the wind, it’s time. Watch out for the ember pot.”

  “Don’t worry!” Tyrkir tried to hide his tension. “Make sure you get the high seat beams out of the warehouse. That’ll be difficult enough.”

  For a moment, two rows of teeth flashed in Erik’s blackened face. “That’s right, Know-It-All. I’ll be glad when we meet here again later.” He silently left in an easterly direction with five of his slaves.

  Tyrkir watched the group until the darkness swallowed them up. May Thor help you, he asked silently. And you, great Tyr, keep an eye on my men and me!

  His three servants, laden with sacks, trailed him. “Follow me!”

  Although there was no danger from any starlight, they ran west for half an hour under the protection of the embankment. Only when the landscape started to rise more steeply did the men cross the bank road. “Watch your feet—” Tyrkir stumbled, catching himself, but the firepot on its chain jostled and lost its lid. The embers shone like a signal. Quickly, Tyrkir put down the pot, fumbled around, and burned his hand as he replaced the lid.

>   There was no path through the hilly meadows. As if that wasn’t enough, the ground was littered with small humps, hardly visible during the day. Now, they made every step more difficult. The group’s progress was slow.

  Tyrkir looked anxiously at the sky yet again. The stars faded, and far in the east, the first gray stripes appeared. “Faster,” he said quietly, and knew immediately how pointless the order was. Behind him, the servants gasped under their load, hampered by the bumpy ground.

  When the buildings of Breida Farm appeared as black outlines far to their left, Tyrkir stopped. “Rest!” He put down the crucible and scurried up the next hill.

  Just a short arrow flight away, halfway to the yard, he saw the barn in the pasture. They were a little late, but they had reached the right elevation. It is not my doing, he thought. The gods are with us. He retreated immediately. Preparations needed to be made before the sky grew even brighter.

  “You two, come with me!” To the third servant, he said, “Guard the embers, and if we’re surprised, stop our pursuers with your bow!” They left one sack behind and raced hunched around the hill into the open pasture.

  “Damn,” moaned one of the servants. “We’ll never make it.”

  “Shut up.” Tyrkir, too, felt exposed. They had quite a distance to cover. What if someone at the farm was already awake and happened to look in their direction? All the same, they had to get to the shed. Otherwise, the plan would fail. Two sheep jumped up and fled from the troublemakers, bleating loudly. The men’s hearts pounded, their breath fled.

  At last, undiscovered, Tyrkir and his men crouched behind the haystack and out of sight. Now they could move more freely. They opened the sacks, reached into the wood shavings, and pulled out iron rods and spades.

  They worked silently on the back wall. The peat was not thick, and the inner wooden struts caused hardly any noise as they broke. Finally, the hole was big enough. The three men pulled hay outside, distributed it, making sure there was enough in the opening, and then mixed in the wood chips. “Get back,” whispered Tyrkir. “Don’t forget the tools.” Ducking, the two servants ran off. With one last look, he followed them. Behind his back, dawn colored the eastern horizon.

  Thjodhild walked slowly, but still too fast for her friend. She waited on a hill next to the stream. Hallweig climbed up to her, breathing heavily. “I’ve become an old woman.”

  “Only if you keep talking such nonsense. We have time. No matter how unpredictable Snow Rock may be, he can’t run from us.”

  Thjodhild pointed to the glowing mountain peaks in the east. “We should rest here and wait for the sun. It will be easier in the warmth.”

  Gratefully, Hallweig sat down on a stone. “How do you feel in your trousers?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought how pleasant they are. There is no cold draught from below.”

  “When we get back, I’ll sew trousers for us,” Hallweig decided. Two pairs that fit better and were more inconspicuous to wear under their dresses.

  Thjodhild looked down along the bubbling stream and into the valley. Where the rocks were piled higher, she could still see snow that had not yet been melted by the April sun. The pastures were pale brown, and down in the plain, the manor houses lay scattered all the way to the sea. Columns of smoke rose from the roofs into the transparent morning. “It’s so peaceful.”

  “Yes, let’s enjoy today. No one is asking, ‘Where is the salt? Shall I add wood, Mistress? Do I have to milk?’ One day without maidservants and work.” Hallweig hugged her knees. “And no children’s screaming. I enjoy that, too.”

  She’s right, Thjodhild thought, and was surprised that when she thought of Leif, a quiet feeling of guilt crept up. “They are still so small and need us.”

  “We provide enough—” Hallweig broke off and looked up, agitated. “It would be nice if our families were to come together, wouldn’t it?”

  “You mean Leif and Gudrid?”

  “Yes, they should marry later.”

  The thought inspired Thjodhild. She squatted on the stone next to Hallweig, and both planned the future of their children. Sufficient land would have to be chosen in time for the couple. No, not over on the island in the Breidafjord. Here, on the south side, was where they should make their home. Perhaps the farm could even be built beforehand.

  Hallweig stopped, thoughtful. “The only problem will be, how do we convince Erik and Thorbjörn? If the proposal comes from us, they’re sure to reject it.”

  “Don’t worry. We are the real heads of the family, don’t forget that. We’ll gradually prepare them for it. They won’t even notice. And when the time comes, they’ll sit down, frown, pull at their hair, and tell us the weighty decision afterward.”

  Hallweig sighed and leaned her head against her friend’s shoulder. “Since you’ve been here, I’ve felt free and strong like never before.”

  So they sat, thinking about the marriage of their children until the sun rose over the mountain edges and flooded the valley with light.

  Around noon, Tyrkir decided to strike. The wilted grass had dried. The wind came from the west and had even freshened a bit, favoring the venture. Behind the cover of the hill, the steward had the bows stretched, and every tendon carefully checked. “All depends on the first shot. The second could already betray us. You don’t have much time. Still, aim calmly and only shoot when I give the order!”

  The arrows were wrapped at the tip with fat-soaked cloths. Tyrkir sprinkled wood shavings into the embers. A small flame rose, and the men lit their arrows. Final glances were exchanged. They were ready—they climbed the hill.

  In a line, the four men stepped out from their cover, pulling the feathered shafts up to their lips. Only one breath to estimate the distance. “Now!”

  The flaming arrows hissed from the strings, four torches ascending; even before they’d finished their flying arcs, the archers had thrown themselves flat to the ground. Tyrkir stared at their target. Too short. He spotted two arrows a good horse’s length from the barn, smoke rising; the third had almost reached the hay they’d scattered outside and was still burning. Where was the last arrow? Had it hit through the hole in the side of the barn? Or was it lying somewhere else, extinguished?

  Too much was at stake to wait and see. Over by the farm buildings, no one seemed to have noticed anything amiss.

  “We’ll have to shoot again!” The group quickly retreated to prepare new arrows. It took longer for the cloth wraps to catch fire, but then the men were climbing up the hill again. “Wait!” Tyrkir crawled up alone.

  Fire! His heart cheered. The wilted grass had ignited, and the wind drove the flames toward the barn. Flames rose from the hole in the back wall. “We did it,” he told his men, and he let them shoot the burning arrows blindly over the hill toward the target.

  From his position, Tyrkir watched with bated breath as the blaze raged through the barn. A dull roar set in, then the roof burst, sod and stones swirling high, as a pillar of fire pierced the sky.

  Calls rang over from the farm. People ran back and forth. Maids and farmhands with wooden buckets and vats rushed out of the stables. Dogs barked. Now Thorgest and his sons could be spotted in front of the house. The shouting increased, but the barked commands were louder still. The food supply was on fire!

  Tyrkir could imagine their shock and horror. They had to try to save some of the hay and extinguish the flames. The pasture gate was pushed open. All the farm people stormed to the brook in the meadow. They drew water and ran toward the fire, the farmer first, with Odd and Toke and the three dogs close behind.

  Tyrkir turned his attention from the pasture to the other warehouses. He saw no movement there. He scanned the yard. Erik should have already come from the east, but there was nothing—nothing to be seen of his friend and the other men. Great Tyr, help me! Tyrkir hit the grass with his fist. That damn Viking! Suddenly, he stopped.

  The gate of the barn swung open. His prayers had reached Valhalla. Erik strolled out of the storeroom. Why
didn’t I see you before? It doesn’t matter. Erik’s men followed close behind, with pairs carrying a beam on their shoulders. The fifth servant pressed the gate shut again, covering the rear.

  Without any further caution, the group moved at a run toward the fountain.

  Tyrkir glanced at the pasture. The people from Breida Farm were still fighting the flames. He turned his attention back to his master. Erik had already opened the main gate. The way down through the meadows was long, and there was no protection up to the shore road. Only one glance in their direction, and they’d be discovered. Faster! Tyrkir had to force himself not to spur his friend on loudly. Faster? How pointless! Weighed down by their valuable load, the group couldn’t go any faster.

  “Father!” Toke had turned around and stretched his hand toward the path. “Father!”

  Instantly, the farmer was beside him. Odd dropped his bucket of water. The three roared and cursed. From his place, Tyrkir made out ambush, and one other word: thieves.

  Then the old man shouted orders. His sons raced away, accompanied by four servants, jumping over the brook and toward the yard.

  It wouldn’t be long before the pursuit began. Tyrkir left the hill. “Move!” Glow pot, sack, and tools were left behind. He had to try to reach Erik as soon as possible.

  He definitely wouldn’t make it in time, but if a fight broke out down at Sharpcliff, or on the beach, maybe he and his three men could still help his friend.

  Though the snow was blinding, Thjodhild was hot. Her eyes almost closed as she stomped ahead with small steps, Hallweig following her tracks. The women had not spoken for an hour. Each struggled with the unusual effort. Sweat seeped from their necks into their cloak collars, and the underwear stuck to their skin. Why do we torture ourselves so much? Thjodhild wondered. If it is true what they say about Snow Rock, then he must have long since noticed us. That must be enough for him. She stopped resolutely and turned around. “Should we climb even farther?”