Praise for GOD'S DAUGHTER:
"Vivid, powerful...triumphant. This story took me by the heart."
~ Joanne Bischof, award-winning author of the Cadence of Grace series
"God’s Daughter offers a brave, fresh look at a lost way of life and the Vikings who left an indelible mark in history. Author Heather Gilbert weaves a riveting novel with unforgettable characters and circumstances, the first installment in a series sure to resonate with historical fans. The stunning cover is only the beginning!"
~ Laura Frantz, Christy finalist and author of Love’s Reckoning
"As a lover of Vikings, I was hooked from the start, but what drives this story is Gilbert's ability to somehow eliminate the thousand years between the Viking age and modern day, reminding us that our thoughts, our feelings, our struggles, our goals are not dissimilar from what they were so long ago. I identified with Gudrid every step of the way, and as I learned about her story (both what was and what could have been), I also learned about myself."
~ Amanda Luedeke, Literary Agent and author of The Extroverted Writer
"Opening with the chaos of a pagan sacrifice, God's Daughter will sweep you up into the intriguing world of the Vikings, a people who lived with the same kind of passion and courage and yearning that we do today. Heather Day Gilbert's voice comes out raw and haunting through Gudrid, a real woman struggling with real issues, in a time when survival meant strapping your dagger to your thigh rather than wearing your heart on your sleeve. A gorgeous novel about a fascinating time in history."
~ Becky Doughty, author of Elderberry Croft
"A gripping and unique insight into the life and emotional turmoil of a Viking woman at the cusp of their adoption of Christianity."
~ Graeme Ing, author of Ocean of Dust
"God's Daughter by Heather Day Gilbert is a stirring tenth century saga of early Christianity, and one Viking woman's heroic struggle to sustain her faith and her marriage amidst a dangerous voyage to North America. Heather Day Gilbert's voice is strong and certain, her story world breathtakingly vivid, the character of Gudrid one I will never forget."
~ Lori Benton, author of Burning Sky
"Powerful. Moving. Gritty. God's Daughter is an action-packed adventure laden with Biblical truths. A hearty Viking war cry to author Heather Day Gilbert for penning a hard-hitting debut novel."
~ Michelle Griep, author of A Heart Deceived and Undercurrent
"God's Daughter was a fascinating read, with strong characters, complex relationships and a good dose of adventure. Most of all, I loved the intriguing glimpse into Viking history."
~ Rachel Phifer, author of The Language of Sparrows
GOD’S DAUGHTER
HEATHER DAY GILBERT
God's Daughter
By Heather Day Gilbert
Copyright 2013 Heather Day Gilbert
Cover Design & Illustrations by Jon Day
Published by Heather Day Gilbert
ASIN: B00GAJKV8G
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.
Author Information: http://www.HeatherDayGilbert.com
To my husband David. Like Gudrid, I’d travel with you anywhere. And to my three children, who prayed every day for many years that Momma would get her book published. And to any who share Viking blood—long may that indomitable spirit live.
Table of Contents
Map
Prologue
Part One: Straumsfjord
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Part Two: Brattahlid
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
“Gudrid was a woman of striking appearance and wise as well, who knew how to behave among strangers.”
–The Saga of the Greenlanders
Prologue
Hellisvellir, Iceland
The gods only accept what is valuable.
Gudrid repeated this to herself as they hoisted her mother into the tree. Her beautiful mother with the long shining hair, like her own.
Her cousin, Yngvild, touched her hand. Not a word was spoken, from anyone. No one could believe a young mother would die for the required nine-year sacrifice, along with the expected slaves and animals. But the chieftain had ordered it. And the chieftain was her father.
Gudrid's aunt hunched over, sobbing into her sleeves. Uncle Thorgeir did not even look at the tree. He seemed happy to gain more control of her mother’s family farm.
Gudrid clenched her fists on her shift, bunching it so tightly she felt she could rip it apart. She longed to fight the men who would drop the ladder, breaking her mother’s neck. But interrupting a sacrifice to Thor was punishable by death—the immediate death of hanging.
The sprawling, twisted tree loomed like a giant against the gray Icelandic sky, its limbs clutching at the dangling dead animals and people. Gudrid imagined the tree held them back from dropping straight into Helheim. Truly, Mother should go straight to Valhalla for being a willing sacrifice. But only the men who died bravely in battle got to go there, to drink endless mead for eternity.
Her father blew the ram’s horn, and a slave kicked the ladder out. For one second, Father’s eyes glazed over, as if he was far away. Even though he was devoted to Mother, he believed the only way to restore the bounty of the farm, failing since he had charge of it, was to give up the one thing he really cared about.
Mother’s face went slack and lost color. Gudrid was strangely thankful that she did not turn blue, with her eyes bulging, as some of the slaves had. It meant she died quickly, as a perfect sacrifice should.
Gudrid looked around, aware she needed a protector. Even at eleven years old, she understood this. Father had never wanted a girl. Her aunt was too grief-stricken—she would barely be able to care for her own children now, after watching her sister die.
Orm’s sad gaze met her own. He was a neighbor from a nearby farm, on a cliff overlooking the shoreline. His wife, Halldis, was a volva, a seeress who knew magic. Gudrid refused to look at her. She did not want to see the eyes of the woman who had told Father he needed such a significant sacrifice this year.
The last body was hanged, and another volva led a chant with the drum. Since many slaves had been killed, their families began t
o sing quietly in their own languages. As the words clashed, each group sang louder and louder. It was the only time they sang publicly.
Gudrid felt her insides burning, down to the core, like the volcanoes on this island. Anger and loneliness forced her from her seat. She hated Thor and anything to do with him. She groped for her knife before raising it to her throat. Then she charged straight for her father.
PART ONE
Straumsfjord
(upper North America)
Circa AD1000
Chapter One
Some bulls are just better off dead.
The beast huffs on the other side of the wooden fence. The fence has no permanence, like the rest of the makeshift houses in this camp at Straumsfjord. A stopping place, Finn said, just a place to live until we can search for Vinland. And now we have been here over two years. I hate this empty land as much as I hate this bull.
I grip my seax, its long blade tight against my thigh, and walk toward the bull. Deadly as my knife is, I would be lucky to sink it into the bull's side without being gored or trampled first.
“Get on with you.” Usually my low-toned warning works, at least with the smaller bulls my father gave me. But this bull, his reddish hair dropping out in patches, his horns far too long, paws the ground and bellows.
I hold his gaze, stepping backward on the soft grass. We have two pastures here, and one is far too small. The four cows who survived the winter are crowded into the larger pasture, giving this bull his fill of summer grass in his own pen. Even so, he causes no end of trouble when he can’t be with the cows to breed them.
“Don’t move, Gudrid!” Freydis shouts from a tree on the other side of the fence, her red hair gleaming in the afternoon light.
Freydis acts more like a brother than a sister—always prying into my love life, practicing with knives, and climbing up trees. She knows no better, since her father, Eirik the Red, trained her with swords and bows from the time she could carry them. She’s the only family I have here. Her brother, Thorstein the Red, was my second husband for such a short time. Yet even after his death, I remain part of Eirik's family.
What does Freydis have in mind? If I stand still, the bull might charge me. But I won’t let her risk her own life for mine. She is with child, even though she forgets that fact most of the time.
Surely someone in the longhouse at the foot of the hill can hear this bellowing. Surely someone other than my overly confident sister-in-law will protect me.
The bull plods to the fence and rubs his head on it. Maybe he just needs to scratch. But the top board breaks as he pushes heavily against it.
Freydis inches down the tree, her pale legs sticking out beneath her skirts.
The bull charges. Turf rips and boards splinter close behind me. He’s out of the fence. Freydis gives a distracting warrior shout as I race toward the closest maple and scramble up.
I catch my breath, hanging onto a limb. Freydis stands in the middle of the pasture, her bow drawn and ready. The arrow she releases penetrates the bull’s rump. Our men finally approach from the bottom of the hill, axes and swords drawn.
Before anyone can move, the bull turns on Freydis. He struggles to gain speed, trying to run up the hill. Blood trickles out of the wound, but not enough to kill him. Freydis turns and runs, fast as any wild animal, toward the other side of the fence. She climbs toward her previous tree perch just as the bull collapses, sides heaving, in the middle of the grass.
Before the men reach the bull, Snorri Thorbrandsson positions himself beneath my tree. The man has an uncanny sense of where I am at all times. I tell myself this is only because he’s my husband’s trading partner, and not for a more personal reason. But it’s hard to forget he once asked me to marry him.
He extends his arms, waiting for me to drop into them. Instead, I scoot down the tree, pinning down my rough linen skirts with my hands.
I could have died today in this foreign land, with practically no family to mourn me. Here, it makes no difference that I’m a chieftain’s daughter. Here, I bring water to angry bulls, grind barley, and do countless other slaves’ chores, making myself and everyone around me uncomfortable. For it is necessity, not loss of position, that has forced this work on me.
Perhaps sensing my dark thoughts, Snorri nods without a word, then walks over to help the men repair the fence. Someone pulled the arrow out of the bull, and though it’s still panting and sweating, it’s grounded for now. I’m glad Freydis didn’t kill it, so the cows can keep calving and we’ll continue to have milk. But I won't be the one to feed it again.
Freydis, short husband by her side, makes her way to me. Though he has a name, most of us call him “Freydis’ husband,” for he lives in her shadow. She tosses her red curls, proud of herself.
“Did you see that shot?”
I throw my arms around her to stop her bragging. “You foolish, foolish girl, what were you thinking?”
Her blue cat’s eyes regard me slyly, as if I should know. “I told Leif I’d look after you over here.”
“He wouldn’t want you to do it at the expense of your own life!”
“Well, my fair Gudrid, wouldn’t you be shocked to know what my brother would want me to do?” She glances at her silent husband. “Go, be of some use in this camp, Ref.”
Her mention of Leif brings a picture to my mind—Leif, his soft beard the color of chicks, telling outlandish stories just to make me laugh. Leif, begging me earnestly not to leave his farm at Brattahlid to sail here. I didn’t listen. And though I traveled across the ocean so Finn and I could be closer, it’s still Leif I dream of every night.
Finn and I married two winters ago in Greenland, when I was only twenty-two but already twice widowed. He planned to sail for Vinland, legendary land of grapes, wood, and self-sown wheat, to seal his fame as a trader. Leif encouraged this, thinking Finn would leave me behind. But I was with child and didn’t want to be alone again. So with a crew of nearly a hundred men and three of Leif’s ships, we left Greenland, our baby boy coming soon after we set up camp at Straumsfjord.
“I’m not ready to die yet, you know.” Freydis breaks my thoughts as she hitches her bow over her shoulder. “And the gods know it.”
“But only one God controls these things, Freydis—the Christian God. Who knew the bull would charge the fence today?”
Freydis snorts. “Same as Thor, your God kills whoever he wants to. He’s no different, really.”
Sometimes I wonder at the depth of my love for this wild girl, so determined to fight with everyone she knows. Usually, I don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing my anger. But, as the bull starts bellowing again, everything I’ve seen today builds in me, until my very arms shake.
“I served Thor for years, Freydis. I saw how he warps the mind, bringing nothing but death to women and babies alike. Death is nectar to Thor. The Christian God takes no delight in death, even of the wicked.”
“Well, I won’t serve either one; I don’t care what you say.” Freydis kicks a torn clod of turf at my leg.
A rough shout fills the air. “Go bother someone your own size, Freydis, like your scrawny husband.” Hallstein lumbers up the hill, almost like a bull himself. The swarthy old man is a never-ending curse on this camp. He tries to win my favor now by interfering with Freydis. But I only despise him more for it.
“I told your husband I’d make sure you were safe.” Hallstein’s eyes rove over my body. “We wouldn’t want that vexing bull of yours to hurt you, now would we?”
“Leave us, Hallstein," I say. I doubt Finn instructed this rogue to check on me.
His dark face wrinkles and his jaw tightens: he has no choice but to obey. Not only am I wife of the expedition leader, Thorfinn Karlsefni, but I am ward of Leif Eiriksson, his chieftain.
He mutters all the way back down the hill, his solid form finally vanishing into the longhouse.
“If he had just died on his last trip to Vinland, I wouldn’t have to kill him over here.” Freydis blows a
curl off her face and shoots me her winning half-smile. Freydis came here to take lives—to avenge her older brother, Thorvald, who was killed in this land by a native arrow. But, like the goddess she was named for, she shows no discretion in her killing. She hates Hallstein, because he shows her no respect.
I will ignore her today. But I know the day will come when I can ignore both Freydis and Hallstein no longer.
Chapter Two
Mornings bring bands of color I've never seen before, with reds as vivid as the rooster’s comb. Halldis used to grind roosters’ combs, making salves to ease the pains in her father’s hands. Her healing techniques, so carefully taught, have become part of who I am. It’s strange that the volva who ordered my mother’s death became a second mother to me. But she stopped me from stabbing my father during the hanging, and took me home as her own child, knowing my father was not concerned with my welfare.
I wake early to nurse my baby. There have been times, in this harsh land, when my milk has been the only thing keeping him alive. He is so thin, and even though he’s taken a few steps, he seems too sleepy to keep trying. Sometimes I blame Finn for letting me join him on this expedition, though I was determined to travel here with him, even knowing I was with child.
These days, there's heat in the air from the men as they divide into groups. Hallstein stubbornly rallies men to go north with him, convinced he’ll find wondrous treasure. He doesn’t think of the price he’ll pay if he brings Leif’s ship back to Greenland empty.
Finn breathes deeply, sleeping sounder than the boy. His name fits his love of the ocean. I stroke his long, curly hair, the golden-brown color of oats. It seems as if baby Snorri will have his father’s hair and my eyes, which Finn says are green as a cloud-filled jasper.
God's Daughter (Vikings of the New World Saga) Page 1