“My name is Gudrid.” I motion to myself.
Linnea must have picked up Snorri, because now he chatters on the bench behind me. She’d better keep hold of him. We have to stay calm with this stranger. One false move, and I’ll have to kill her before she kills any of us.
“Gud-rid.” I point to myself. Then I point to her.
“My…name….Gud-rid.” Her cracked lips form the words. She doesn't understand.
I turn, looking around the room for something to trade. Our hut is sparsely furnished, because I keep telling myself we won’t be here long.
Snorri laughs loudly at Linnea as she makes a troll face at him. As I wonder about trading milk for the dress, a shout echoes in the camp. It’s a Viking war whoop.
The chair crashes down, the clothes fall to the floor, and the old woman is outside before I can even turn around. Linnea cradles Snorri and rushes to my side. Do we stay in the hut or go to the woods? The woods are too far, so we move into a huddle under the bed, pulling the blankets down low. What kind life is this for my son, always having to hide under things and keep quiet?
I carefully slide my seax from its sheath, ready to thrust it up through the bedding if I have to. Steps sound in the doorway. But then Freydis whispers my name.
I peep from under the blankets. She holds her precious knife in one hand and a spear in the other. She’s also somehow strapped a shield on her back. Freydis embodies the rune about the disir—ruthless female spirits. “Malicious disir stand on both sides of you, and wish to see you wounded.” Even the bravest warriors flee when the disir are roused.
“Gudrid.” Her long legs get in the way as she tries to kneel to my level. “I saw where that Skraeling hag went—should I go kill her?”
“No, Freydis—no. Who gave that shout?”
“I think it was Bjarni. Some Skraeling tried to take his sword. He pulled his spear and ran that fool through. I watched from the back of the men’s hut.”
“Are they fighting now?” Given Freydis’ lust for violence, she’ll probably join them if I don’t stop her.
“No, the Skraelings ran for their boats. Only a few had crossed the stockade anyway. What a quick kill! I like that old man.”
I breathe out a long sigh. Snorri nuzzles into me, ready to nurse. I pull down my shift, happy my son’s healthy enough to feel hungry again.
Freydis goes out like a warrior, spear held high, once again forgetting she’s with child. Once Snorri finishes eating, Linnea asks with her eyes, and we finally crawl out from under the bed.
Deirdre comes into the hut soon after, running toward me with her arms out. “Gudrid!”
We embrace. I think she’s gotten more white hairs this week. I forgot she had to say goodbye to Magnus, as I did to my Finn.
I cling to her, breathing deeply of her comforting, rosewater smell. She has become like a mother to me since we’ve been here—helping with my birth, showing me how to feed Snorri, and staying by my side. Though Halldis loved me, she was more my teacher than my comforter. And I have so few memories of my own mother.
There is one I cherish, though. When I was only four, my mother combed my hair in front of a mirror Father had brought her from a raid. Her face, reflected behind my own, looked so similar. Only her eyes were different. They were bright blue, while mine were green as the grapes Father brought back from Europe. Our hair was exactly the same color—the clear yellow of Icelandic poppies.
“You’ll grow up to make your mother proud.” Her voice was musical as she smiled down on me. I’ve wondered many times why she was so sure of this. It’s easy to say things like this to your child, hoping for the best. But she said it as if she knew the future.
Deirdre pulls back and looks at my face. “Are you well? How is the boy?”
“He can nurse again.” I twist at a wayward strand of hair.
She looks at me in that way she has, head cocked slightly to the side, and I know she sees far deeper than my face.
“But how are you?”
I sigh, pulling my hair back.
“It has been much for you, with the baby’s illness and Karlsefni’s departing.” She speaks my thoughts. “And Freydis with her pains…and the Skraelings.”
Snorri squirms in Linnea’s arms, and she steps out of the shadows. “Soon it will be mealtime, m’lady.”
I welcome the change of thought. “Linnea, please feed Snorri something, but no cheese or butter yet. Maybe just broth with softened bread.”
Linnea nods and gathers my son into her arms. Deirdre chatters on about the men shipping out, Freydis and her birth pangs, and several men in camp who seem to be getting sick. I listen, but can’t really understand the words. Darkness seems to close around me. My body collapses to the floor.
When I wake up, I’m on my bed. Deirdre stands over me, holding a cloth to my forehead. I believe Snorri Thorbrandsson sits on the bench, but everything looks fuzzy.
“You are ill.” Deirdre explains how my head hit the floor.
I can’t concentrate on anything. The room moves in slow circles.
Deirdre pulls the cloth from my head. Blood colors the light fabric. I wonder where it came from.
Snorri Thorbrandsson walks to the bedside, bringing another cloth. Linnea sits, rocking my baby’s cradle. Or is that me sitting there? Snorri’s hand on my forehead reminds me of another man’s hands, a man who stood with me, even when Thorstein the Red did not.
“Leif.” Surely I didn’t say that aloud? Snorri Thorbrandsson leans in close, his eyes sparking yellow as my wolf’s in the firelight. Hurt fills his gaze. I have altogether too many men in my life.
Chapter Eighteen
Dreams torment my feverish sleep. Men go walking through my mind. Husbands, as well as men who only wanted to be my husbands.
I see Thorstein, with his red hair, only a shade darker than his father’s. The shivering disease took him, just like the wife of the farmer we were staying with. Unfortunately, the farmer thought he needed a new wife. I knew the only way to be safe was to be under Eirik’s wing again. Somehow I convinced that lonely farmer to return me to Brattahlid, with the bodies of Thorstein and his men. Thjodhild loved me for bringing her youngest home. Perhaps she felt guilty for urging Thorstein on the very hunt that carried him to his death.
I see Einar, and the way he looked at me that summer. He was determined to marry me. But my father was far more determined, and blinded by his pride.
The Eastman appears to me, just as he often did, with one hand on his sword and the other on his hip. This always seemed an aggressive stance to have with one’s wife. His almost white hair hung down to his shoulders and matched his long beard perfectly. He was extremely fond of both, saying it showed his pure Norwegian heritage. He thought I wasn’t as well-bred as he was.
Now I’m back at our first winter at Brattahlid, joking about Leif’s unexpected marriage and eating Finn’s delicacies around the roaring fire. Eirik the Red was never stingy with two things: fire and food. His slaves worked hard all summer, chopping plenty of wood for the long winter months. Eirik’s rich laugh filled up the room. I’ve never felt more loved, or more at home. I miss not only Leif, but the family I left behind.
And now I see Snorri Thorbrandsson, his hand hoisting me from our ship onto Leif’s. The Eastman wrecked our ship on the rocks outside Eiriksfjord because he was drunk. But that shipwreck wasn’t the first time I’d seen Snorri.
My mind takes me back, further than I want to go. Back to the bottom of the tree, Yngvild’s hand touching mine, Mother’s flowing hair blowing on the breeze. But Snorri Thorbrandsson stands outside the circle of people with his older brother. He never takes his eyes off me, not even to look at the sacrifices. When I jump up with my knife, his hand flies to his own. I suddenly recognize what Snorri was to me in Iceland, and what he is now, in this strange land. He’s like my brother. He has seen my past, he knows the horrors of it, and he’ll protect me. I sink into a deep, comforted sleep.
When I finally wa
ke, I lightly touch my throbbing head. The tightly-wrapped cloth on my forehead makes my whole face too warm. I strip it off, examining it. It appears the bleeding has almost stopped. I roll over to check on Snorri, and my bedclothes stick to me. I’m covered in the fever-sweat.
Snorri isn’t in his cradle. What time of day is it? I look up, toward the hole in the roof. Quick-scudding clouds fill the bright blue sky. How many days have I lost over these past few weeks?
Perhaps I should bathe. But the very idea of plunging into the cold creek water makes me shiver. I’ll find someone to bring in water and heat it for me.
I put my cape on, even though my shift is thin underneath. I’m too hot and weak to dress myself. Maybe Deirdre or Inger or one of the slaves could help me.
As I lift the door cover, fresh air rushes into my chest and fills it, taking my breath away. My head swims, and I brace my arms on the doorframe until the feeling passes. Silence blankets the camp. It must be about time for the mid-morning meal.
I peer into the darkness of the longhouse, barely making out a woman’s form at the table near the back. My steps seem to drag as I hold onto the walls.
Inger rushes out to hold my arm. “M’lady! You’re awake! Nerienda said you mustn’t be up for a few days yet!”
My voice sounds foreign to me, raspy and low. “My head is well, and my fever’s broken, Inger.” I don’t care what Nerienda says—I’m as much a healer as she is.
Inger takes my scolding, recognizing my authority. She helps me sit at the table and pours a bowl of soup for me.
“Is Snorri eating well?” I sip at the warm green broth.
“Oh, yes’m, he is. Nerienda made up this special broth for him and the others who suffer with this illness. It has spinach juice in it. Helps if you can’t keep water down. Do you like it?”
Not really, but I’m glad Nerienda actually thought to make it up. Spinach juice can work wonders. But what did Inger mean by others?
“Who else is sick?”
“Quite a few. Some of the strappiest men are down now. Strange illness. Your Snorri got over it quicker than the rest.”
Thank God for that, as children are usually the worst hit, between the fever and the fluid loss.
“And where’s my boy?”
“Oh, Deirdre bathes him at the creek. Geisli watches over them.” Her eyes brighten.
“I don’t think I’ve met Geisli.” The lukewarm soup seems to curdle in my stomach.
“Well, he said to me he saw you once, at the creek it was, in the night.” Her words jumble together.
Ah. The boy-man with the long fair hair and the deep voice like Leif’s. The one my wolf decided not to attack.
“I really should meet all these men who were willing to stay behind,” I say.
Inger continues stirring the soup with sure, strong movements. “Freydis is quite taken with Bjarni since he ran that Skraeling through.” I’m sure this bit of gossip was dropped straight from Deirdre’s mouth.
“And how is Freydis?” I hand my half-full bowl to Inger, and she takes it out back to dump it.
She turns back to me. “Nerienda wants her to stay inside, away from the sickness. But Freydis hates it.”
Of course she does. The red-haired forest child would live in a tree if she could. But she must care for this child—this grandchild of Eirik’s—more than she cares for herself.
I glance at the stack of clean bowls, and Inger answers before I ask. “Oh, I’ve already taken her soup, m’lady. She ate it fairly well.”
“And where is Linnea?”
“She’s with Nerienda, spinning. Shall I fetch her?”
“Yes; I need warm water in my hut to bathe. But don’t be gone long or your soup will burn." I don’t have strength to stir it myself.
“Yes, m’lady.” Inger rushes out. Though she is short, her movements are quick and efficient.
Snorri Thorbrandsson comes in and sits next to me, like a bee that always flies back to its hive.
He speaks first. “You’re too pale.”
“But I am eating. And I’m warm.” Now he can answer to me. “What of the men? What was Bjarni thinking, killing a Skraeling? They could retaliate when our men lie sick.”
“I know, I know.” Snorri rubs his beard. “We’re planning for this. And Bjarni did what any of us would have done.”
“Not all of us. I was almost trading with their wise woman.” It seems Snorri doesn’t see the whole picture. “Now we can’t drop our guard—we must watch for their skinboats day and night. That old fool!”
Snorri holds my angry gaze. “I wasn’t sure about keeping him here, but your husband is a smart man. Bjarni has his own talents.”
“So I’ve been told. All I’ve seen are talents for killing, and not for peace.”
“Perhaps so…but sometimes killing’s necessary, Gudrid.”
He says my name so earnestly, I can’t think of a response.
“Some men have to be killed, or they’ll kill you.” His eyes flick to the back door of the longhouse—where the dead man was laid out on the bench.
“Do you know something about the murder?” Perhaps my boldness is a result of those feverish dreams I had earlier.
“If I did, to be sure, I wouldn’t tell you.” He laughs as if he’s made a great joke.
Well.
He recognizes my offended look. “Wouldn’t be safe for you, you know.”
My eyes drift down and shockingly fixate on his tight leather pants. Everywhere Snorri Thorbrandsson goes, women laugh about his pants. Truly, they must have been fitted to him by someone.
I look up sharply, and his eyes crinkle, a friendly light amber color now. “Wondering about my pants, I suppose?”
“The women have wondered, yes.” I should be embarrassed, but I’ll treat him like the brother he was in my dream.
“They’re leather—made from a bull I had to kill in Iceland, years ago. My mother sewed them for me. A reminder. So you and I have both seen our fair share of bulls.”
He rubs his beard and looks into my eyes. “What do you recommend, besides killing?” He’s quite serious now.
I’m not used to a man asking me for advice. Of course we have to protect the camp. And my baby. I won't hesitate to kill a Skraeling, if one comes near my child.
“I just want to be in a place where we don’t have to think of these things. Where we don’t have to hide like cowards, or fight with our backs against the wall.”
“Well said, Gudrid.” He doesn’t correct me, or explain why we have to stay and find more goods. He just agrees. I’m flattered.
“I do know what you want.” He searches my face, his cheeks reddening. “I guess I won’t forget that anytime soon.”
It takes me a moment, then I understand. “I said it out loud?”
He nods, his lips in a tight smile. “I’m sure the women think you were crazed with fever. But I think I heard the truth in the way you said his name?”
“Snorri, you can’t tell anyone, especially Finn. It was…it was just a mistake.”
He looks offended. “I’ve no reason to tell him.”
“But your loyalty to Thorfinn—”
“Has a lot to do with you.” He holds my gaze.
I can think of nothing to say to that. His face is much the same as that young teen, watching me at the sacrifice. He had wanted to protect me then. I suppose this is his chance, while Finn is away, to look out for me. But even if Finn trusts him, he doesn’t know the whole story.
Linnea comes into the longhouse, breaking the silence between us.
“Sorry, m’lady, but your bathing water’s ready in your hut.” She stirs the soup, then cuts slices of meat and cheese for the mid-morning meal, which will be late today. From the hot water pot, Snorri fills two small bowls. He knocks things around in the wooden cabinet until he finds chamomile. As he drops the dried flowers in the water, his hand brushes mine.
“Take this and get some sleep in your hut, but first clean yourself up, for t
he love of everything.” He grins.
“I have to check on Snorri first.” I know he jokes, but I can think for myself.
“Deirdre has him. A bouncier boy couldn’t be found in all of Greenland. He has truly recovered. Please, sleep. The time will come when we’ll all have to stay awake.” He speaks like an oracle predicting the future.
I sip some of the weak tea, ignoring Snorri’s eyes on me. I nod to him and Linnea before leaving. But instead of going back to my warm bathing water, as I should, I feel I need to maintain my power around here. Ignoring Snorri’s order, I walk to the creek, searching for Deirdre and my baby. I don’t like taking direct orders from men, or anyone else, for that matter.
At the creek, no one is in sight. I wander farther into the woods, not really caring where I’m going. I keep a sharp eye out for more rabbit traps. Deep in the forest, the men chop logs, adding to the stockpile of wood. The thought of another winter scrounging for food weighs on me. When I reach an overturned tree trunk, I sit on it to think.
Ferns and moss blanket the moist forest floor. A few trees already change color. At least we’ve had adequate rain this summer, and will probably get more in the fall.
A yellow head emerges from the trees. Geisli walks down the path—young, carefree, and completely unaware I’m sitting here. When the path winds around, putting him right next to me, he startles and pulls his sword.
“Stop!” At my shout, he quickly sheathes his weapon. He should have been paying more attention.
“Sorry…thought you could be a Skraeling hiding out here.”
“Didn’t you already comb the woods? Are you on guard?”
“Yes, m’lady. I did. But Skraelings are good at hiding, or so I hear.”
I stand, looking up at him since he’s taller than me by two heads. “From who? Who has even had dealings with Skraelings?”
Leaning on a tree, he thinks better of it and stands straight again.
“Bjarni, m’lady.”
The old man who probably stood around when Skraelings killed Thorvald Eiriksson? The old fool who nearly got us all killed today, starting a war with the Skraelings?
God's Daughter (Vikings of the New World Saga) Page 11