We Roam The Seas

by Theresa Marguerite Hewitt

  ***

  “Celebrate what, Ivan?” yells another and Freya’s heart starts to race. What is her father talking about? He shared everything with her. What is he keeping secret, and why does she have the sinking feeling that it concerns her?

  “They’ve come to celebrate a wedding,” her father says, squeezing her shoulder once again as she gazes up at him. His golden hazel eyes seem to be tearing up as he speaks and it puzzles her. She rests her hand on his, perched on her petite looking shoulder under his massive size, and she can feel what is coming.

  “A wedding between Halvard’s youngest son, Asgar, and my daughter, Freya.” Her eyes never leave her father as she hears the low mumble run through the room. Her mouth drops open as her father tries to give her a smile, but she can see the hurt in his eyes; the unshed tears still lingering on his tough lashes.

  Her head starts to shake in defiance as she hears Eska yell, “No she will not.”

  Turning toward her best friend, she sees two of her uncles jump from the dais to hold him back, to keep him from her as her tears find her cheeks.

  “No, Father,” she whispers, turning her gaze back to him, but his face is hardened, showing emotion no longer; the face of a warrior and king. She grasps his hand with both of hers, holding it in place on her shoulder and she rises up to bring her face closer to his. “Please, Father, say you are not serious.”

  Eska is still arguing with her uncles behind her as her father nods to her, pulling her to her feet as he stands, waving over her shoulder. “I am, my daughter.” With both hands on her shoulders, he spins her to face two approaching women. Seamstresses, Freya remembers as she feels her father’s presence surround her.

  “Now, go, my daughter, and get ready for dinner,” he whispers in her ear and kisses her cheek quickly. “No crying. Show them you are not afraid to help your people.”

  She doesn’t understand what he means by that. The two older women take her hands and her father pats her lightly on the shoulders. She lifts her chin. She pushes the tears back, obeying her father for now, at least in front of everyone. Eska yells her name and she turns to face him only for a second, turning back as she sees her father approach him, pulling him off to the side.

  Help my people? She asks herself. What had her father been hiding from her that has made him go this far to protect their island? A squeeze on her hand brings her back and as her feet hit the dirt, leaving the great hall, she looks over to one of the seamstresses.

  “Come now.” The woman, called Bess, smiles at her, patting her hand. “Let me and my sister Lily help you ready to impress your betrothed.”

  This can’t be happening, she keeps telling herself as she notices the stares and whispers of the villagers as the three of them walk by. They all know.

  She feels as if she is a sacrificial lamb, being paraded through the square to slaughter. Well, to hell with that, she notes, telling herself she won’t go without an explanation and a fight. Her father better be ready.

  CHAPTER TWO:

  Asgar watches his future wife being led from the hall by the two stout women whispering in her ear, as the blonde man across the room argues with those surrounding him. He takes his eyes off of Freya’s disappearing figure to watch the angry man argue with Ivan and the Chief tower over him, but Asgar just puts his mug up to his lips, cringing at the sweet taste of the mead.

  “Brother.” Asgar turns to face one of his older brothers, Herlof, and nods for him to continue as he keeps surveying the room and the rising tension between the Chief and the younger man. “At least her father didn’t lie about the beauty, but I wonder if she is still a maiden.”

  The brothers laugh as Asgar just shrugs and their father silences them all, slamming his mug down on the table and sloshing the sweet fermentation over the lip. “If Ivan says she is a maiden, than she is. He is an honorable man. Do you think he would be giving his only daughter away to the likes of us if he wasn’t? He’s afraid and he can sense the same thing I can.”

  “And what is that, Father?” Keir asks, his blonde braid swishing against the chain mail of his vest as he averts his attention from the Chief still arguing with the lad in the corner to look at his brothers.

  ***

  Halvard takes a long drink from his mug. He feels the liquid dribble down his chin and into his beard, but he doesn’t care. There are no pretty ladies to impress and his wife is thousands of miles away, but knowing she would scold him and swipe her apron across his face, he wipes the back of his hand across his chin, grumbling silently to himself. He skirts his eyes over to his friend, Ivan, the tall man’s face being red from arguing with the son of slaves he had told Halvard about. The one who will object to the wedding, for he loves Freya himself, and he lets out a snort of a laugh, knowing the boy doesn’t stand a chance against Asgar if he were to challenge him.

  He knows Ivan’s reasoning for wanting him to take Freya as far away from here as he could manage with someone he trusts, and Halvard can’t say that he wouldn’t do the same thing. Traders who visit their inlet village have passed the story of the mysterious raids along the Scotland coast; telling of the massacred bodies and horrific scenes they have witnessed and they chilled even Halvard’s battle hardened heart.

  In his younger years, Halvard the Hammer was one of the most feared men on the battlefield. He had had tribes turn and run from his men when he raised his mighty hammer and swung it over his shoulder, even before the first contact had been made. He had had men fall to their knees, their faces bloodied with the blood of his men and have them beg for their lives, but he showed no mercy to those that killed his kin. He had executed only Thor knows how many sniveling and screaming men with his hammer that sits proudly at the side of his chair back in their village; it being too valuable to bring with him to a peaceful exchange.

  “There is an evil brewing,” he mumbles half into his cup as he spies Ivan shoving the boy, toward the door. The boy’s eyes fall on him and his sons. Halvard feels the hate radiating off the young man as he stalks past, his blonde hair following in the breeze and the sword at his side shining in the sunlight as he hits the dirt.

  Throwing back the last of his mead, he slams his mug down onto the table and turns back to his sons, signaling a servant girl for another. “There is an evil growing and both Ivan and I know it will come here in due time. He wants to protect his daughter the best that he can.”

  ***

  “The stories from the traders are true?” Asgar rests his elbows on the table and leans toward his father. He had heard the many stories, but hadn’t given them a second thought. They were probably just drunken tales from sea weary travelers.

  As his father just nods his head, turning his eyes down into his mug and taking a long drink, Asgar glances up to the dais. The tower of a man Ivan is sitting in his massive throne, his head resting in his hand as he rubs his forehead and temples. The worry on the man’s face pulls at something inside Asgar, which scares him.

  He’s never been one to want to be married, but, faced with his father telling him that they need this alliance, Asgar agreed. Now, seeing the worry on the usually stoic face of Ivan the Good, Asgar feels something he has rarely felt in his twenty eight summers of life; he’s worried. Even when he was a young toddler and his father had left for months on raiding expeditions, Asgar had never worried. He turned all his faith into his father, his father’s crew, and the Gods.

  But now? Well, now, he looks from Ivan, rubbing his temples and talking quietly to his brother on the dais beside him, to his father, Halvard the Hammer, seeing the same worry play across the normally strong and emotionless features. His three older brothers are silent, as well, all studying the men around the room or watching the servant girls giggling off in the corner.

  “Does the girl know she’s basically being traded for around one hundred men and the promise of assistance if needed?” Raghnoll chimes in, smiling and waving at one of the plumper servants as she blushes and whispers to another. Asgar just snorts out
a laugh at him; both at his question and his flirting. If his wife Katla saw him do that he’d be strung up and stuck like a pig.

  “No, but I’m assuming she’ll find out soon enough.” Their father takes another drink and Asgar sees him nod to Ivan, who stands and approaches them, trying to wear a welcoming smile.

  Asgar can see the hesitation and hurt behind it. The man has the weight of an entire island on his shoulders and the hard job of trying to smooth everything over with an already angered daughter. Asgar pities the man and tries to gather his strength to face the feisty Freya by downing the mead and signaling for another.

  ***

  “Why is my father selling me off like I’m nothing more than a prized pig?” Freya asks as Bess and her sister, Lily, measure, cut, tuck, and pin the dark blue fabric around her waist and chest.

  She has stood here and stewed, rolling the different reasons of why her father would be doing this around in her head, for the better part of the afternoon and the sun is just starting to fall in the sky. The sisters are amazing; she has to give them that. They try to keep her spirits up with chatting mindlessly about their own husbands and children; giving her pointers and warnings, all while skillfully making her a masterpiece of a dress.

  The dark blue material is thin and light, so the sisters put a thicker white layer underneath, splitting the blue up the middle in the front to show off the underside. Lily had attached the tight blue bodice, which she had also quickly embroidered some simple yet elegant flowers on, to the skirt with golden cord, cinching it tight so that, at this very moment, with all of the anxiety and anger flowing through her, Freya is having a hard time breathing.

  “Lass,” Bess scolds her lightly, holding her arm out so that she can slip the thinner golden cord around her middle finger. The sleeves come to a point just at the back of her hand and Lily had also embroidered a flower on each, attaching a thinner version of the cord to slip around her finger. It is the most elegant dress Freya has ever worn, but she’s not enjoying it.

  “Lass, hand out!” Lily scolds and snaps Freya out of her angry musing. She turns her face to watch the plump older woman skillfully stitching the left shoulder together.

  “Your father has his reasons for doing this, Lass,” Bess continues while moving on to do Freya’s hair. She ponders over the red locks, envisioning it in many small braids and pulled back, letting the curls wave down the middle of her back and the seamstress smiles to herself. “You will know soon enough and your heart will bend, knowing he does it because of his love for his only daughter.”

  “You know then?” Freya asks, yanking her head away from Bess’s grasp to face the woman, wanting the answers. The dress maker huffs angrily at her and firmly spins her around, but Freya is defiant and steps off the little stool they had placed her on. “I. Want. Answers.”

  “Don’t talk to us like that, Lass,” Lily snaps, pulling tighter on the ties at the back causing Freya to gasp and squirm. “You may be the Chief’s daughter, but the Chief would not like the way your tone is disrespecting those who are making your dresses.”

  Trying to catch her breath and rein in the anger that is boiling inside, Freya sighs, nodding her head. “I am sorry, I just…” she stops, feeling her throat tighten as her emotions take over and tears try to well in her eyes. She pushes them back, determined not to look like a blubbering wimp. “I just don’t know why this is happening all of a sudden.”

  “Sometimes good things happen when least expected,” Bess says lightly while patting her shoulder and giving Freya a sweet smile. Seeing the young woman nod, the plump seamstress returns to braiding her beautiful hair, jealous on the inside of its red tones.

  Freya takes that little piece of advice to heart and she stays silent as the women continue their work, their humming and chatter filling the silence as the sunset grows orange in the sky. Her eyes water off and on, but she holds the stream of tears in. She doesn’t want to look weak and unworthy in front of her father and their entire village. The sky is deeper shades of orange and red as she hears rough and deep voices right outside the door laughing, and her heart lifts as the door to the seamstresses shop swings open.

  “Arik,” she almost screams as her older brother’s tall and strong frame fills the doorway, a wide smile on his face as his hazel eyes shine in the flickering light from the small fire burning in the hearth. Arik’s tower of a stance looms over her as he wraps his arms around her waist, twirling her from the stool as if they were little kids again.

  “Little Freya,” he smiles, hugging her tight again, before setting her back on the stool to the small smiles of Lily and Bess. As his sister looks him over, noticing that he has put on a few pounds since winter when she saw him last, she lets a few tears slip out, but they are happy ones this time.

  “Have you come to talk Father out of making me go?” She asks with hope building in her heart. It dies as quickly as it grows when Arik shakes his head, a solemn look moving over his features as he takes a seat at the seamstresses table, pulling a left over piece of flat bread apart and shoving it in his mouth.

  “I am here to send you off with my blessing, Lass,” he mumbles, grabbing a cup of water and downing it before returning to the bread. “I am your oldest brother and Father thought it would be a good sign of kinsman-ship if I were to come and meet your husband to be; to get acquainted with some of the warriors I will be taking back with me.”

  “Warriors?” She asks, giving him a raised eyebrow as Bess tugs her hair back, securing it with a dark blue ribbon and inspecting her work.

  ***

  Arik knows he has over stepped his place and almost chokes on the bread he has stuffed in his mouth, coughing and reaching for the water. His father will kill him when he finds out he told Freya why they are sending her away. His sister’s eyes bore into him as he tries to come up with something to cover his mistake, but there is nothing that she will believe. Her green eyes are so much like their mother’s. As she tilts her head, waiting for him to explain, he takes a deep breath in.

  “Ladies, are you done?” He asks Bess and Lily, hoping they will say no, so that he can tell Freya he’ll see her at dinner and leave; but his last escape attempt is thwarted when they nod, inspecting his sister one more time before each kissing her on the cheek and disappearing out the door.

  He clears his throat, rolling the words around in his head as Freya steps from the stool, slowly turning and inspecting the gown. She looks magnificent. She looks grown up and Arik can barely believe it. It seems like it was only yesterday when he had consoled her for days after their mother’s death; but that was twelve summers ago and Freya had been but a child then. Her tenacity and fearlessness has not waned and, as he scratches his hand through his summer shortened beard, he leans back in the chair, readying himself for the feisty outburst bound to come.

  “Sister, you look beautiful,” he says, quietly trying to win her over. The higher eyebrow and the hand on her hip tells Arik his flattery isn’t going to win her over this time and he sighs heavily again. “Father is only doing this to try and protect you.”

  ***

  “From what?” She snaps and the anger, mixed with anxiety of her engagement rears its head again. She can see her brother is uncomfortable, but, unlike all the other times when she would back off and let him be, she doesn’t care and she wants the answers.

  “There have been stories, Lass.” She watches him stand and straighten his dark green tunic, pulling at the leather tie on the neckline. The worry evident on his normally smiling face makes Freya’s heart race.

  “There have been villages along the coast of Scotland that have been attacked, seemingly overnight, leaving no one alive. Bodies where strung up in trees or tied to rocks, even slung over the cliffs with rope. Left out for the birds and scavengers; even babies and women. The tales have been horrific, but no one knows who is doing this. Their ways are barbaric; something no one has seen in generations.”

  Freya has to put her fingers to her lips to try and
hold in the gasp. Why hadn’t her father told her about this? He tells her everything. As her brother elaborates, telling her of the amount of attacks and how the severity seems to be growing, Freya’s hand starts to tremble. “But, Arik, why send me away? Why not just keep me here, where I can help him if need be?”

  A smile finds her brother’s face and Arik leans down, enveloping Freya in a hug. “He wants to know you are safe and being thousands of miles away will give him that knowledge.” He releases her and looks down into her face, giving her a wink. “Plus, Halvard runs a tight ship. His people have good values and, if the tales are true, Asgar is a talented fighter with a strong heart; kind of like our father.”

  “I want to stay here and face this ghost threat with my family, if it ever comes.” She says, defiantly, setting her jaw and looking her brother right in the eye trying to convey her position in her fate.

  “No, Lass.” He shakes his head, grabbing her chin in his strong fingers and shaking her head slightly.

  His warm smile makes her heart want to melt. It reminds her of the times he use to walk through the apple orchard with her and their other brothers; picking the best looking ones off the trees and dodging the thrown rotten ones. The memory makes her heart swell with sadness, knowing she will be leaving her family and the only home she has ever known. She pulls her brother close, burying her face in the scratchy wool of his tunic.

  “No crying,” he whispers, hugging her tight. “You’ll ruin the coal those plump marms put on your eyes.” She can’t help but laugh at him and, as he releases her, she punches him in the chest, getting him to flinch away in surprise. “Yeah, Asgar will have his hands full.”

  “Oh shut up,” she laughs, gazing at herself in the warped mirror by the seamstresses’ fire place as they come back in. Bess straightens the braids on her scalp and pulls the ribbon holding them together a little tighter, a sweet smile on her lips.