God's Daughter (Vikings of the New World Saga)

by Heather Day Gilbert

  Suddenly, the fish tastes rancid in my mouth, and it seems I can smell berserker mushrooms everywhere. My stomach heaves. I bash my leg into the corner of the table before running out the back door, where I stand and vomit out all the sourness of my first day back at Brattahlid.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Even snug in the new linen bedclothes Stena laid out for me, I am unable to calm myself for bed. Finn pretends to be asleep, his breathing taking a long time to drift into its regular rhythms.

  Snorri sleeps in a little wooden bed that might have belonged to Gils. I tucked him in so tightly, he didn’t wiggle at all before going to sleep.

  Hol and Hellir sleep like animals, as close to the floor as possible. Hol’s little dark arms and legs stick out in all directions. Hellir sleeps curled into an impossibly tight ball, as if warding off any possible beatings. Stena brought them reindeer hides and pillows stuffed with lavender before bed, using her special talent for comforting others.

  Finn and I talked about renaming the boys—something honorable, like Eirik or Thorvald—but we couldn’t agree on anything. They don’t have Eirik’s blood, making it more offensive than complimentary to name them after family here.

  My nausea keeps me awake, along with the creeping feeling someone watches me. I know it’s impossible for anyone to see into our house, which only has tiny square windows near the roofline. No one could climb up to look in without making noise, which I’d surely hear in my alert state. Sensing unfriendly spirits in this house, hours pass until I finally toss into a weary sleep.

  Sure enough, in the middle of the night, I’m trapped in a horrifying dream. Little Snorri walks toward a tree surrounded by dancing pagan girls. They chant something, and I feel the words, rather than hear them—words about a need for blood. An evil, moldy smell hangs in the air, reminding me of the midden heap. As I run toward the tree, it grows until its branches scrape the gray sky. The volva chant changes into the Yggdrasil chant for the world-tree. The limbs droop down toward the earth, grabbing at us. Branches wrap around my boy’s chubby little arms, jerking him up into the air, and I wake myself up crying.

  Finn rolls over, groggy, but aware of my cries. “What is it?”

  I feel smothered, as if I can’t even speak. Finn seems far away, on the other side of the room. I don’t want to faint, so I say the only thing I can think of.

  “Christ is God!”

  The powers release, and Finn is next to me again. He rests his hand on my forehead, like a mother comforting a child. Although I can’t put my fears into words, he seems to understand.

  “Brattahlid’s not what it used to be, is it?” He jokes, trying to stop my tears.

  I give him a weak smile. No, it certainly isn’t. And something tells me that the root of unrest lies with Gunna. She’s brought her pagan spirits and ways here, with no fear of God or man. Only one thought flashes through my mind. I can’t let Freydis be around the eitr—the poison—that is Gunna. Freydis is unstable enough without evil spirits tormenting her.

  Dawn comes to Greenland exactly how I remembered, with yellow light dancing on the dust and roosters crowing proudly. I half-expect Eirik to bawl into my doorway, “Get up, woman; feed those chickens!” He loved to tease me about my eagerness to care for his cows and chickens. I did it because I knew it pleased him.

  Thjodhild meets me in the grass between houses, taking my arm and turning us toward her chapel. “I want to show you what Leif made for me.” She gives me one of her rare smiles.

  Inside the stone fence, we walk through a light wood entryway draped with a purple flowering vine. The church itself is small, with hardly any carvings on the doorposts. Inside, the floor is cool with flat stones that Leif has laid down. A large cross is the only ornament. It sits on a table in the center of the room, made of dark stone that could be marble. The back door directly overlooks the sea. We each sit on one of the benches.

  “Leif brought back something else, a gift from the King of Norway himself.” Thjodhild pulls up a heavy object from the end of her bench. I look at the black leather binding, trying to read the Latin letters the monk taught me long ago.

  The Holy Writings!

  Thjodhild’s smile now matches my own. It is what I’ve needed, a book to tell me of this God I love, and of the Christian heaven that even women can go to. But I must learn more Latin words first. I take it from her, fingering the gold lettering on the outside. Looking over the first page, I only know two words. I'll find a way to change this.

  Thjodhild examines my face intently. “You’re even more beautiful now than when you sailed for Vinland, dear. Eirik couldn’t speak highly enough of you.” She leans toward me. “Gudrid, you know I don’t like Skraelings—they killed my firstborn—but I do respect you for taking in those children.”

  I search her pale violet eyes, looking for clues that she’s joking. She’s never called me dear before. What happened to Eirik’s cold, bitter wife?

  “We all changed, after my husband’s death.” It’s as if she knows my thoughts. “When Stena left, I finally saw how she’d always treated me kindly, even in my harshness. And her children are dear to me. They’re all I have left of Thorvald. I was alone here with only Leif and that woman and her child. She hates being in Greenland, even more than I hated it when we came here so many years ago.”

  I keep quiet, not willing to get involved in family conflicts with Thjodhild. I don’t know how much my mother-in-law has truly changed. What I say could find its way back to Gunna’s ears.

  “I am sick.” She grips the bench. “It is not a sickness that will pass. There’s a constant aching in my bones. I don’t think I have long to be on earth.”

  My face mirrors hers now—lips downturned and eyebrows tight. “Have any healers seen you?”

  She nods. “Many. They all agree, even the ones from Norway.”

  I look over her pale hair, crumpling back, and wrinkled hands and neck. Yes, she’s aged too quickly. My tears spill over. She’s the last parent I have left, no matter how she’s acted in the past.

  “Don’t cry for me, my daughter.” She surprises me again with her endearing names. “We both know where I’ll go. I’ve spoken with a nun from Norway. She came to try to convert everyone at Brattahlid. She didn’t have much luck, but I did ask many questions about heaven before she left. No need to bury treasures with me, as we did for Eirik.”

  The Vikings still foolishly bury all their wealth, often leaving their families practically penniless, just like the Egyptians. The Eastman used to read me Egyptian stories, knowing how angry they made me. I told him gods who demanded those kinds of sacrifices have no mercy for the living. He just laughed and said I was dreaming if I believed women would do anything besides sweep for all eternity. He said we were lucky Odin remembered us at all, since we’re so unpredictable and curvy and weepy, and of no use whatever in battles. I wish he could have seen Freydis that day in the forest.

  I hug Thjodhild, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. I have to be strong for her. “Does anyone know?”

  “Leif does, and Stena. That’s all.”

  We both fall into silence, looking at the cross while balancing our duties and our feelings. No one else needs to know of Thjodhild’s illness. But many preparations need to be made. The power of Brattahlid will transfer to Leif soon. And, if there’s any mercy, none of it will pass to his hateful wife.

  “What happened to Leif’s other ships?” she asks.

  “Bjarni should arrive someday with the smaller knarr, but Hallstein took the larger one and went north. We couldn’t find him.”

  “Hideous fool.” She spits out the words. “He tried to take advantage of me when I first came here. I never told Eirik, but I should have. He would have cut him down then and spared the world his poison.”

  This is shocking news. Hallstein acted as if he’d been Eirik’s closest friend. I hope he returns soon, to be exposed to Leif as the liar he is.

  A light knock sounds on the door, and Deirdre enters
, bowing toward the cross before turning to me.

  “A slave came from the town east of us. They are needing a midwife for a young girl, hardly fourteen.”

  I touch my mother-in-law’s arm before following Deirdre out. “Thank you, Thjodhild, for everything.”

  Outside, Deirdre’s voice is thick with her accent. She points. “A white horse waits for you just there, in that fence.”

  The slave, a young girl herself, waits on her own horse. I mount the white mare. She must often have different riders, because she doesn't shy away or startle. We gallop swiftly along a path I’ve never seen to a newly built town. As we approach a large, two-floor house, the heavy, moist air can’t muffle the sharp screams drifting out to us. A male slave immediately takes our horses to the stable.

  I step into the well-lit long hall. An older house slave rushes over, leading me up carved wooden stairs to a private bedroom. An oversized bed dwarfs the small girl lying in it, her dark brown hair tumbling around her. I’m reminded of Inger, and pray for her ship even as I’m praying for this child.

  The house slave is ominous. “There’s no husband. She was used by the men before the master’s funeral.”

  “And she wasn’t killed with him, to follow custom?”

  “Too beautiful to kill, the master said.” She looks fondly over at the girl.

  Perhaps she was then, but not now. Her face, though small, is unnaturally puffy, as well as her feet and hands. She screams like one who sees Death itself coming for her.

  After much manipulation, which only brings louder screaming, I’m able to get the baby into a place where it can descend. Slaves hold the girl by the arms so she can squat over the blankets. Only the rich use blankets for births, and throw them away afterward. Her master left her a very wealthy girl.

  “Is there a wife?” I shout over one particularly loud push.

  “No’m, she died years ago. This girl stayed with the master in his loneliness.”

  I’ll just bet she did, because she didn’t have a choice. It’s a good thing the kindly master is dead, or I might just go kill him myself. How dare he allow her to be used by his men, with no word of protection before he died? She’s just a child!

  It is pagan tradition that one family slave volunteers her body for the men’s parties before the funeral. She’s washed and dressed, then enters the tents of every free man in the household. Finally, she is sacrificed, a gift for her master in the afterlife.

  The poor girl cries like a baby on my shoulder, recounting horrors the men did to her. These things should never have to be spoken, by anyone. Maybe I could tell Leif to hunt down each of those men and kill them. But he might not want to. They were only obeying pagan laws, and having the time of their lives doing it. Once again I stand helpless, looking at the mess Thor has made.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The baby is born, looking remarkably handsome for a child with any possible number of fathers. The slave takes the baby to clean and swaddle him. The new mother is so beside herself, she can’t string words together anymore.

  I ask if there’s dandelion root available. In a house so wealthy, it’s possible they have this European remedy. Another slave brings the herb box, and I dig until I find it.

  “Make a tea for her three times a day with this,” I say. This will reduce some of her swelling. I also order the slave to let the girl nurse the child herself. Usually a nursemaid is called in for times like these. But she needs to bond with this child quickly, or she may grow to hate him for the pain he represents. She also needs to realize she is no longer a child herself, but a mother.

  I ride home alone, lost in thought. What a country Eirik has founded—filled with criminals and exiles. This is where the king of Norway needs to send his monks and nuns, not to Iceland. Much of Iceland embraces Christianity now, from what the women say at mealtimes. The king has outlawed the long-standing pagan practice of eating horseflesh. If that tradition can be overturned, how many others will soon topple?

  My white mare trots along slowly, as if sensing my distraction. I love a good-natured horse. And of course she is, because Leif trains his horses from their first wobbly steps. Too bad he doesn’t have the same gentle hand with his disrespectful wife.

  I breathe in the heavy smell of fallen leaves. Leif. That straw-colored hair and beard that make my breath stop. A largeness of frame that matches his large laugh. But his strength is in his stubbornness, and it’s unyielding. I’ve seen that here. He refuses to honor Gunna. Truly, she may not deserve any honor, but she is still his wife. Perhaps if he would appreciate her, or do her bidding, only once….

  But it’s not his way. He is contrary, like his father. If you tell him he can’t settle somewhere, that is the very place he’ll go. If you tell him not to love you, he’ll just love you all the more.

  I feel for young Gils. He has a hateful mother and a father who wouldn’t have married her, had she not used her child as bait.

  I rein in the mare, listening to the distant, consoling lapping of the ocean. A low-flying hawk swoops over the forest, beautiful in its cruelty as it hunts the small birds. I wish I could fly like that hawk, rising and falling with the still spaces in the air, far above all this sickness and death and evil. And yet, God created me for a reason. Maybe just to save lives, like that young mother and her baby. Or Hol and Hellir. Or maybe I’m here to heal others, like when I weaned Bjarni off the mushrooms or stitched Suka’s arm. Right now, I wish I knew how to heal Freydis’ damaged mind.

  A horse rushes up behind me, so I move my mare off the path. Snorri Thorbrandsson charges along at full-speed, trying to stop when he sees me. He’s not a natural horseman, so the black stallion continues down the path for some way. Snorri yanks at the reins and finally gets the horse to trot back to me.

  “Looking for you.” He’s breathless, shooting murderous glares at his willful stallion.

  “It was a safe birth,” I say. He gives me a confused look. He doesn’t even know what I’m talking about.

  “What is it, Snorri?”

  He swings his sturdy body off the horse’s wide back. “Nothing horrible.” He smiles, but not convincingly. “Come down here and walk with me a bit, will you?”

  We walk along in silence, his horse huffing, while mine contentedly munches any bits of green along the path. He’s been my friend for so long, and he knows so much about me. After all we’ve seen in Straumsfjord, I feel I could tell him anything.

  “Snorri, you were going too fast. That stallion could have thrown you.”

  “Leif’s been friendly enough with you.” His smile fades as he speaks what he’s really thinking about.

  “Well, of course, you hairy outlaw.” I punch his arm lightly. “I am part of the family, you know.”

  “What—because of Thorstein the Red? He’s dead!”

  How can he be so thoughtless?

  “Well, Thjodhild and I have been talking together, believe it or not. She’s the only mother I have left.” Snorri knows how piercing my own mother’s loss was.

  His eyes soften, and so does his voice. “I understand that. But Leif puts you next to himself at the table, talking with you as his own wife. We all notice this, even your husband.”

  And now he dares to talk to me about Finn?

  “Now you’re the one who should tread lightly, Snorri Thorbrandsson.” My arms shake.

  “Why? I speak the truth. You shouldn’t be alone with Leif.”

  “But I can be alone with you? You, who declared your love for me? Who once asked me to marry you? What makes you any different?”

  Snorri stops pacing. He turns to me, taking my shoulders in his large, strong hands. “Perhaps there isn’t any difference.” His light eyes flash. I can’t tear my gaze away.

  I put my hand on his. “I don’t want to talk about this. Why did you come all the way out here? Just to scold me for Leif’s kindness?”

  He continues pacing, making short turns in front of me. “I’m leaving Greenland.”

&
nbsp; I’d half-expected this. Finn gave Snorri a portion of the Vinland goods to sell, since they’re partners.

  “And Linnea?” I ask.

  “What? Oh…the slave?”

  “My slave, you mean? I’ll give her freedom. Not only does she have good child-bearing hips, she looks at you like a cow at a fresh pasture.”

  He chuckles, a relief to me. Perhaps he has thought of marrying her.

  “I’m going to Iceland.” He looks skyward. “Would you ever think of returning there?”

  “Me? How could I? I have a husband, and now three children, Snorri. One of them is your namesake. Please release yourself from whatever obligation you feel for me.”

  His wounded look swiftly changes into something flaming and alive. His rough fingers wrap gently around my cheeks. A kiss, volcanic as his eyes, presses into the middle of my lips.

  Inexpressible yearning fills the kiss. Many images fly through my mind, but I vividly remember how earnestly this red-beard asked for my hand in marriage. He is hungrier for me now than he ever was before—even willing to cross Thorfinn to have me. And I can no longer think of him as a brother.

  His hands move to my waist, eyes searching mine. The warrior’s soft touch threatens to melt my doubts. “Could you not see us together, as we should have been? I would do anything, just to buy one of your smiles.”

  My lips tingle, full of heat, like my flushed cheeks. Wicked thoughts swirl into my mind. Snorri knows me better than any man. He wants me for who I am. He would make time to protect me, as Finn has been unable to do.

  He bows his bare head, awaiting my sentence. If I open the door to him, he will never leave me. Isn’t this what every woman wants?

  And yet a power stronger than my own, stronger than Snorri’s fierce kiss and longing words, pulls me. The power of doing what is right.

  I unwrap his hands, still resting possessively on my waist. His eyes flicker with defeat. I can’t hold back my urge to comfort him. “Please understand…you helped me survive at Straumsfjord. You have always meant so much to me. But I can’t.”