The Golden Wolf

by Linnea Hartsuyker

  “We are all free here,” he said. “Do as you wish.”

  Freydis began to cry again. She felt as though she had done nothing else since her capture. She was Rolli’s captive, and at Hallbjorn’s mercy. She had less freedom here than when she was in Sogn, ignored by Aldi and his family. “You don’t understand,” she said thickly. “I need your protection.”

  “You will have Hallbjorn’s protection instead,” said Rolli.

  * * *

  That evening Freydis dined in the kitchen with the other women, and then waited upon the men. Rolli and Hallbjorn sat with Thorstein and Rolli’s uncle Egil at the head of the table. They all ate quickly and messily, seeming like animals in a burrow under the dirt ceiling of the turf hall. Hallbjorn, at least, had better manners, though perhaps he only ate neatly for Freydis’s benefit. She felt his eyes on her often. If it had been Einar pursuing her this way, she would have been happy, and they did look very similar. But Einar would not have injured her, enslaved Aldi’s men, or forced his kisses on her.

  Freydis brought a heavy wooden platter back to the kitchen, and when she returned with more ale for the men’s cups, they were arguing.

  Egil sat close to Rolli, who was turned a quarter away from his uncle on the bench. “You should stay here, Rolli,” Egil was saying. “There is no place for a man to be free in Norway, not with Harald as king.”

  Rolli turned back toward him slightly. “I heard you were outlawed when you fought against Harald at Hafrsfjord. That you broke your oath of loyalty to Harald, which you had given personally.”

  Egil jutted his chin forward. “There is no room for men of ambition in Harald’s Norway. What land will be yours?”

  “The sea,” said Rolli, spreading his arms wide and half knocking Egil off the bench. He smiled and turned red, and then tucked his long arms back in.

  Rolli’s man Arn called out from lower down the table, “They say as many as a third of ships bound for Iceland are lost in storms.”

  “We could raid from here,” said Rolli.

  “No you couldn’t,” said Thorstein, speaking up for the first time. “These islands do not support many men, especially not men as big as you.”

  “He’s right,” Arn put in. “Harald means to clear the raiders out of the Orkney Islands, haven’t you heard?”

  Thorstein snorted. “But he doesn’t come,” he said. “Why do you think that is? Because no one can navigate these islands except the best sailors, who know them well, and even then the weather can turn against them in an instant.”

  “We are not the best sailors,” said Arn. “All the more reason to go back.”

  “All the more reason to go on to Iceland,” said Hallbjorn.

  “Your father will protect you if you go home,” said Arn to Rolli, sounding desperate. “What good is it to have such a famous father if he can’t help you protect your friends?”

  “I don’t want him to protect me,” said Rolli. “He has told me often—he did not have a father’s help to make his fate.”

  * * *

  Freydis hid that night, sleeping in straw among the cows, and in the morning could not rid her nostrils of the dairy stink. The cook wrinkled her nose when she arrived to help, though the old woman in the kitchen gave Freydis a friendly smile.

  As Freydis helped serve breakfast, Hallbjorn brushed by her, finding her waist with his fingers, a sensitive place that made her squirm and blush miserably.

  Storms blanketed the island all day. When breakfast was over, Freydis took some mending to a small chamber full of wool where a few women servants gathered. A peat fire smoldered in one corner, giving off thick black smoke that made Freydis’s eyes sting. When she stood up straight, her head brushed the ceiling.

  She went outside in the afternoon and let the rain lash her skin. The wind blew from the south today, and the rain was warmer than the wind that drove it. She closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the sky, letting the droplets wash over her, imagining she was home in Tafjord, standing by the spray of a waterfall. She had wanted a bath since even before Rolli attacked Aldi’s ships, but the idea of disrobing made her feel too vulnerable. Perhaps if she reeked, it would keep Hallbjorn away.

  The hiss of the rain kept her from hearing his approach until he was close enough for Freydis to feel his warmth as he blocked the rain from reaching her. She opened her eyes and saw him standing on the downhill slope below her.

  “Are you a daughter of the sea goddess?” he asked. “Ran’s daughters glory in wind and rain. I think you might be.” He pulled on her head scarf and freed her hair so it started to gather rain as well.

  Freydis turned to snatch it back from him. He retreated from her, and she chased him for a moment, and then stopped. She did not want to lose her dignity any more than she already had.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked, anger making her voice thick.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, young Freydis,” he said. “Here, you can have your scarf back.” He placed it back on her head, and ran his hands over the sides of her hair, then tied it carefully on the nape of her neck. The heat of his touch on her cold neck made her shiver. Her eyes were level with the open neck of his shirt, a hand-spun of an indeterminate color, not rich, but clean at least, and he smelled clean too, like grass and fresh washed wool, and warm.

  “Where are you going in this weather?” he asked.

  She did not answer. She no longer wanted to bathe. The rain droplets made his skin shine. The feeling of freedom that the rain gave her had fled with his coming.

  “Sweet Freydis, why do you torment me so?” he asked her. “Why are you frightened of me?”

  So many reasons rose up in her that she felt as though if she gave any of them voice she would scream. “What do you want of me, Hallbjorn?” she asked.

  “I want to be in your bed and to be your husband if you will have me. I have your cousin’s blessing and we sail to your father now—will he object?”

  “King Ragnvald would,” she said.

  “King Ragnvald killed my father and robbed me of my inheritance,” said Hallbjorn. “And he is your father’s enemy. We are, both of us, unwanted. We belong together.”

  “Why?” she cried. “I am too young, and I have—I can gain you nothing. I am worth nothing, except perhaps as a hostage.” She looked up at him, and admitted, “My father does not know me.”

  He stepped in close to her and tipped her chin up to face him. His resemblance to Einar seemed like another aspect of his trickery. She felt as a hare must when a fox stalked it. If she ran he would pursue, and press her again. Better to give in to this, to meet him at least part of the way. He leaned down and kissed her softly, the way he had that first night. “I remember you do not like rougher kisses, Freydis. I will be gentle with you always.”

  “You hurt my shoulder,” she said, laying her hands on his chest as if to push him away, but she put no strength into it, only rested them there. Would it be so bad to have this handsome, strong man protect her? She might aim higher, or she might fall to worse.

  He reached out to touch it, and she flinched. “I am sorry for that,” he said. “If I had—just know I am sorry for that.”

  He kissed her again, and a warmth spread through her that she mistrusted as much as she did him. “Sleep alone tonight and I will come to you and show you great pleasures. There is none to object.”

  When Freydis went back to the hall, the cook sent her to a stream where some of the women were bathing, enjoying the warm rain. Freydis stripped and washed herself, and resolved that she would not sleep where Hallbjorn could find her.

  That night, though, she could find no servant willing to share her pallet, and after the rains that dampened the inside of the turf hall, even her cat, Torfa, had gone to sleep in the warmer confines of the kitchen and yowled when Freydis tried to move her. She waited in the kitchen until she thought the rest of the hall had fallen asleep, but as she made her way to the cow byre, Hallbjorn stepped out of the darkness to take h
er hand.

  He was a black shape, outlined by the hall’s only light from the embers in the fire. All smelled of peat and earth, as though she were underground. His closeness made Freydis’s heart hammer with the fear of a trapped animal. She held still as he kissed her neck, put an arm around her and slid a thumb across her breast.

  Perhaps it would be better to get it over with. Hallbjorn meant to have her, and to torment her until he did. He was gentle now, and he promised gentleness, but she had felt his blows and knew he had cruelty in him too.

  He pressed his hand between her legs, and she felt pleasure from his touch. A part of her did want him, he was right about that. Perhaps this was why the women of Tafjord had warned her against being alone with a man, of listening to a man’s praise.

  Why should she fight him any further? She let him lead her to her empty pallet. He lay down next to her under the blankets, and put his hands where he wanted them. His fingers became more insistent, adding burning with their pleasure. He slowed when she murmured protests. She knew it would hurt eventually; she had listened to enough gossip to know that.

  He made room for himself inside her, and pressed in, giving her some pain but also a pleasure that made her cling to him. She tightened her thighs on his waist, and he covered her mouth as he thrust into her and she made little cries against his fingers. Tears leaked from her eyes but still she rocked against him, and felt bereft when he stiffened, stopped moving, and slipped out of her.

  He put his hand between her legs, touching the wetness there that they had made between them, and then he whispered in her ear again. “Perhaps I have made a son in you tonight, Freydis. If not, I will try again.”

  The words twisted in her stomach while her body betrayed her and she lifted her hips to press against his hand, wanting firmness rather than his too-soft touch. He kissed her forehead and left her to sleep alone.

  * * *

  She woke the next morning feeling sore between her legs, an uncomfortable sweetness and shame. It had not been a dream. As she walked toward the kitchen, her body reminded her of the reality of Hallbjorn’s touch. Her clothes rubbing against her skin seemed like both too much sensation and not enough. When she saw Hallbjorn at breakfast, her face heated to a fever brightness, and she turned away.

  She was walking back from the stream with a bucket of water for washing, when the old woman from the kitchen appeared. Her face was as wrinkled as an old apple, her eyes deep set, her eyebrows and eyelashes all gone.

  “Freydis Solvisdatter,” she said. Though Freydis had seen her before, she still wondered if this woman was one of the hidden folk, undying and inhuman, come out of the crumpled cliffs that resembled the wrinkles on her face.

  “I am she,” said Freydis.

  “I am called Runa,” said the woman. “You will be gone from here soon. Or you can stay, and hide on one of the outer islands. You can find a new home here, away from the foolish boys who have captured you.”

  The words woke a hunger in Freydis that she had buried under all her other miseries—a longing for her true home, Tafjord’s cliffs, and Alfrith to guide and teach her. She had to take a deep breath before her voice would obey her. “You are too late,” she said bitterly. “He has—I am already spoiled.”

  Runa laughed gently. “Is a ewe spoiled by a ram?” She shook her head. “No. You can be hidden here. Your captors can never search every island. They will dash their little boats apart first.”

  Even through Freydis’s distress, she understood what Runa was offering. She was still a valuable hostage, and those who hid her would suffer for it. “No,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “Rolli is my kin, and my best chance to go home.”

  “Kin, and not kin,” said Runa. “You will never go back to your home. I have seen you returning here, but never there.”

  Her words seemed to have the force of prophecy, making Freydis feel rebellious. “You do not know me, old woman,” said Freydis. “Now let me be.”

  Runa stood aside and let Freydis carry the water past her. She smelled of herbs and sweat, old woman smells, not like Freydis imagined a spirit would. She was still thinking of Runa’s words that night, when Hallbjorn came to her again. She could hardly bear his touch, still stinging and burning from the night before, but he moved her and used her as though she were some possession of his, to do with as he wished. She had felt like someone else’s property her whole life, moved from Tafjord to Sogn, then carried off to Vestfold, with no one asking her what she wished. At least Hallbjorn wanted her.

  He and Rolli had continued to argue over the following days about whether they should stay or go on to Iceland, and came to blows one afternoon, nearly a week after they had arrived in Orkney. Freydis heard the commotion outside the kitchen door and went out with the rest of the servants to see what was happening.

  Hallbjorn was shoving Rolli away from him. Rolli stumbled back a pace, clenching his fists. Hallbjorn looked like a child next to his hugeness.

  “Coward,” Hallbjorn spat at him.

  There had been something hesitant in Rolli’s movements before; now that fell away, and he drew his sword in the space of a heartbeat. Freydis had forgotten how quickly he could move when he wanted to. His size made all of his movements look slow and deliberate, but he was a good fighter, better than many grown men, both fast and strong.

  “You have been a friend, Hallbjorn, but I will kill you if you do not apologize,” Rolli growled.

  Freydis did not feel her usual fear as she ran between them crying, “Stop this. You are friends—sworn brothers. Why are you fighting?”

  “I have learned something my father must know,” said Rolli.

  “What is it?” Freydis asked.

  “Halfdan Haraldsson has made alliances among all of Harald’s enemies. They are massing in Skane.”

  “You have only your oath-breaking uncle Egil’s word for that,” Hallbjorn replied. “You want to hide behind your mother’s skirts again.”

  Rolli advanced again. “Apologize, or I will make you,” he said.

  Hallbjorn pulled Freydis to him. “Careful, my dear,” he said, holding her around the waist. To Rolli, he said, “I apologize. But think, Rolli, my brother, we go to Iceland and Solvi Hunthiofsson, the great sea king. We will be raiders. Great raiders. You will only be punished if you go crawling back to your father.”

  Rolli had begun to sheath his sword as Hallbjorn made his speech but withdrew it again as he finished. “You apologize and then insult me again in one breath. I should kill you and take my cousin back.”

  Hallbjorn moved Freydis in front of him and held her close to him so the whole of his body pressed along her back. Rolli started toward them, and Freydis felt something cold touching the skin of her neck. Hallbjorn’s dagger. The cobwebs that had crowded her head over the past few days seemed to part, cut by Hallbjorn’s knife. She deserved better than to be a pawn between these two. She should have run away when Runa gave her the chance.

  “I do apologize,” said Hallbjorn. “You are not . . . what I said.”

  “But now you threaten my cousin,” said Rolli.

  “She is my wife,” Hallbjorn insisted. “Or next thing to it. I have had her maidenhead, and even now it is likely that she will bear my son. Go if you must, but I cannot let you take her.”

  “Is this true, Freydis?” Rolli asked.

  “Don’t let him hurt me,” Freydis cried. “Rolli, please.”

  “Did he rape you?” Rolli asked.

  She shied away from thinking of what they had done together, but no, she had feared him forcing her, and so she had allowed it, in the end. She began to cry, then stopped when Hallbjorn’s knife scratched her neck. “Please don’t leave me with him. You are a king’s son. You owe me your protection.”

  “She had me willingly,” said Hallbjorn, talking over her. “I will bring her to her father, and marry her in Iceland. I will be a good husband to her.”

  Rolli looked uncertain again. The onlookers’ eyes seemed to burn
into Freydis’s skin. They knew her shame. Still more would know of it if she returned to Norway with Rolli.

  Thorstein pushed through, his red hair a beacon in the crowd. “What is happening here?”

  Both Hallbjorn and Rolli began yelling at the same time, Hallbjorn gripping Freydis tighter again in his anger.

  “Stop, stop,” said Thorstein. “I am ruler here. You will obey my laws while you are on my land.”

  “He wants to go back to Norway and beg his father’s forgiveness,” said Hallbjorn.

  “As well he should,” said Thorstein. “That is what I have been telling him.”

  “What about me?” Hallbjorn cried. “He may be forgiven, but I doubt I will find as warm a welcome. My friend who got me into this mess is leaving me.”

  “Rolli, if you would be a sea king, you must do right by your friends and followers,” Thorstein said. “Hallbjorn, stop threatening this girl. Rolli, put your sword away.” He looked skyward. “Odin save me from foolish boys.”

  Rolli sheathed his sword, and Hallbjorn took the dagger from Freydis’s neck. She wrenched free of his grasp, sobbing as the pain in her shoulder flared again.

  “Girl, is this true? Has he taken your maidenhead?”

  Freydis’s face flamed. “Yes.”

  “Then he should have the chance to go to your father and ask for your hand. Both of you have spent too long here, eating my stores. Be gone on the next tide, and you may find welcome the next time you come here. Stay, and I promise your welcome will be short indeed.”

  9

  Einar did not sleep after he returned to Gyda’s hall but lay on his pallet, listening to the steady breathing of the other men, feeling weightless. In the morning Gyda, just as Einar had instructed, bid the great doors to the fort opened, and walked out at the head of all of her warriors to greet the force that Ivar and Dagfinn brought.

  Einar signaled to his brother that he was safe. The sun was dazzling. The red-gold tendrils of Gyda’s hair, tossed by the wind, kept catching his eye. He should have been tired from two nights with little sleep, but instead the brightness of the day and the broad expanse of grass before him matched his feeling of boundless potential. He wished to be in Gyda’s arms again at this instant, and not for a moment of pleasure, but because he had not known a woman could be like her: as bold as his aunt Svanhild but far more beautiful, untouched by time except in the wisdom it gave her. A woman who seemed to have been waiting twenty years for him.