“It is all so uncertain,” said Ivar.
“Yes,” said Ragnvald. “Only death is certain, and even then draugrs walk.”
Ivar bid him good night, and Ragnvald continued to watch the sunset. Many of the warriors had fallen asleep by the time the sun finally dipped below the horizon, leaving a stain of orange behind. Ragnvald watched as it faded, and then grew again, red into orange into yellow. He dozed on a dune, and woke with the sun high in a faded sky, his ankles itchy from the sand fleas that had bitten him during the night. The advance party had not returned.
By breakfast the following day, the mood in the camp had turned very quiet. At dinner, Harald sat next to Ragnvald, methodically sucking the meat off the bones of the shorebirds, then throwing them over his shoulder for gulls to squabble over. Dagfinn sat with them, making his own pile of bones, while the rest of the young men played on the shore with a leather ball.
Harald smiled and joked with his warriors until he finished his meal and turned toward Ragnvald, his eyes haunted. Ragnvald felt it too, the vast emptiness, with the sky wide and watchful overhead.
“Do you think they will return?” Harald asked.
“No,” said Ragnvald. “They are captive or dead.”
“What should we do, then?” Harald asked.
“If the Skanians could defeat us in open combat they would have come by now. They want us to divide our forces for them,” said Ragnvald.
“Then we should all go,” said Harald.
Ragnvald smiled. He sounded just like Ivar. “Or we wait them out. There must be a reason they do not want to meet in the open.”
“What do we do if no one comes?” Harald asked. “We will run out of provisions before they do.” His hair, which had grown darker with so much time indoors, was bleached gold again from the sunlight. His face had burned red and peeled across his nose, showing tan underneath, as though the young king Ragnvald had once followed was hidden under his skin.
Ragnvald made his suggestion about taking to the sea. “Or failing that,” he added, “the kings of Roskilde have always desired control of Skane—we could make a common cause with them and see if, with their aid, we can do better than we can alone.”
Some argument between the young men ended the play at the shore, and they tramped over to Harald’s fire. Ivar picked through discarded bird carcasses for scraps, while Gudrod slaked his thirst with a skin of ale, and Thorir sat down next to Ragnvald.
“You don’t think we have enough warriors to take battle to them?” Harald asked.
“I do not like to go blind into a trap,” said Ragnvald.
“We should not wait,” said Gudrod. “We should send a larger party into the woods and try to find them.”
“I see you do not know your history,” said Dagfinn. Ragnvald could not help but smile. Dagfinn liked nothing better than to show off his memory for Norway’s laws and legends. He continued, “When my father and King Ragnvald fought in Naustdal, King Vemund’s much smaller force still caused great losses because they knew the land better. There is a song, would you like to hear it?”
“No,” said Ivar and Gudrod, practically in unison. Dagfinn did not look offended—his suggestions were usually greeted that way.
“We can’t just sit here,” said Ivar. “Father, give me leave to take a bigger scouting party. If we go inland for a few days, we are certain to find something.”
“And give the Skanians more hostages?” Ragnvald asked, frowning at him. “No, I forbid it.”
“You think they will come to us?” Ivar asked. “How would they know we are here? We have seen no one.”
“They know,” said Ragnvald.
“What if another force is coming to trap us here?” Dagfinn asked. “That’s what happened at the battle of Hafrsfjord, where Solvi Sea King and all of his forces—”
“Yes, yes,” said Ivar impatiently, cutting off another tale.
Gudrod cleared his throat. “We should take a larger party into the woods, capture one of their scouts, and torture him for information,” he said to Ivar. “Your father is too cautious.”
Ivar looked at Ragnvald, who shrugged. He had been hearing such complaints his whole life and they had ceased to trouble him much. “It is Harald’s decision,” said Ragnvald.
Harald looked at him and shook his head slightly. “I will decide tomorrow,” he said.
* * *
Thorir prodded Ragnvald awake early the next morning. “Father, Ivar and Harald’s sons have left without your permission. They’ve gone to find the Skanians!” Thorir told him.
Ragnvald rubbed his eyes and listened, but it took a couple repetitions before he woke enough to grasp that they had taken a party of thirty warriors on this mission, against his orders. “And you did not wake me until now,” said Ragnvald.
“I only woke to see them leaving, and I ran after them,” said Thorir defensively. “They said they would not turn back. And . . .” He seemed loath to continue.
“And?” Ragnvald prompted.
“And they said that they would all be kings one day and I should remember that. And I said I would not follow them in this foolishness.”
“But you knew of it?” Ragnvald asked. He had fallen asleep listening to the young men boasting idly of what they would do if they had a Skanian scout in their power. They had not seemed motivated to do more.
“Is this so terrible, Father?” Thorir asked. “They will bring back information.”
“Or they will be captured,” said Ragnvald.
Thorir wore a self-satisfied expression, and Ragnvald wondered if he liked that idea, realizing he would benefit from the loss of his brother, or simply liked that he had behaved better than Ivar. Harald’s sons might not be the only brothers destined for conflict.
“Does Harald know yet?” Ragnvald asked. He pulled on his shoes and stood. He should have foreseen this and kept watch.
Harald had discovered what happened at the same time as Ragnvald, and met him at the breakfast cook-fire. “I suppose they are too old to be beaten when they return,” he said, looking more bemused than annoyed.
“Gudrod is with them, and he is a good tracker,” said Thorir.
Harald shrugged. “I suppose he probably is. He spent his early years in Princess Gyda’s upland fort. There is good hunting on those plains.” He turned toward Thorir. “How many did they take?” he asked.
“Thirty,” Thorir answered. “Enough to scout, and defend themselves if attacked, don’t you think?”
Ragnvald had fought King Vemund on his own territory many years before, and did not think ten times as many men would be enough against a force used to fighting by stealth, on land they knew. Skanian warriors might be watching them even now.
“This decides it,” said Harald. “Our full force must follow them—my men, as well as Aldi’s and Oddi’s, while you wait here. If you do not hear word in a week, you must go to muster all of Norway on my behalf.”
“You should not risk yourself,” said Ragnvald.
“They have three of my sons and only one of yours. I should go.”
“Three?” Ragnvald asked.
“You said that Halfdan is likely here, and he is still my son,” Harald reminded him.
Ragnvald shook his head. “I should go,” he said.
“No, you are the one who should not risk himself. I know your wyrd is to die for me one day, but I would not have it be today. My luck will protect me. The men of Norway respect you as much as they do me.” He smiled ruefully. “If not more, these days. You will have as much luck mustering them as I will.”
Ragnvald argued with him a little longer, but Harald would not be swayed. His party marched out that morning, flattening the grass of the dunes with their passing. Soon Ragnvald lost sight even of Harald’s shining head among the trees in the distance, he too swallowed up by this hungry land.
18
The symptoms of the mushroom Freydis had taken were strange, not what Alfrith had led her to expect. She drifted in dre
ams and did not know when she slept and when she woke. In one, her mother had come to stroke her hair, while Freydis watched her brother, still a small boy, as he had been at his death. He played in a carpet of flowers that grew next to her bed. In another, Solvi came to her and promised her that Hallbjorn’s child, her child, would be a girl.
She thought of that, resting her hand over her womb, and smiled a little. Perhaps she was not going to die. She became aware of Unna watching her and turned away.
“Freydis, look at me,” said Unna.
Freydis stared up at the ceiling instead. “I dreamed my father said it would be a girl. My aunt Alfrith said that dreams are true sometimes. Do you think that one is?”
“That was not a dream. He did say that,” said Unna, her usual dry tone tinged with worry.
So that had been real. Tears wet Freydis’s cheeks before she realized she was crying.
“Is it so very bad?” Unna asked. “Would you rather die than bear your rapist’s child?”
“It was not rape,” Freydis protested. “I let him do this.” Her throat hurt as she made herself say it. “I let it happen, and now I am trapped. More than I ever was before.” She wiped her face angrily. “If it had been rape, then I could bear it, but this is mine. This is my shame. And now I may die in childbirth. Better to die now.”
“You may,” said Unna. “Though I will use all my magic to prevent it.”
“Why should I not die now? My only value was in marriage, and now that is spoiled.”
“Well,” said Unna, “if marriage is what you want, that handsome young man has offered it.”
Freydis cried harder. “No, I will not go to him! And I will not—I cannot bear this. I cannot.” Even through her misery she heard uneven footsteps, someone coming toward her. She opened her eyes and saw Solvi standing over her, his eyes grave. He sat down by her and took her hand, a bit awkwardly.
“You are not trapped,” said Unna. “I will care for you as long as you need, and the babe. I owe that much to your mother.”
“My mother,” said Freydis. She drew her hand away. Both of them wanted Svanhild, not her.
“I will too,” said Solvi. “You can stay with me or with Unna. I would not have sent you away from me if I thought it would drive you to this.”
Unna cleared her throat. “She can stay with you, Solvi Hunthiofsson, but not until this recent danger is past, and I am sure she will not try to take her life again.”
Solvi frowned. “Will you, Freydis? Do you truly want to die?”
“I don’t want to die in childbirth,” she said. “I don’t want it to hurt.” Her face reddened—she sounded like a child herself.
Solvi sighed. “I wish I could promise you it won’t.” He looked up at Unna. “Life brings pain, and so does death. But stay for me, if you will not stay for yourself.”
Freydis could not bring herself to speak, but she did nod, and Solvi stood, looking relieved. “I must return to my farm,” he said. “Please come when you are well. You are my daughter.”
* * *
Unna bustled around the house, fixing dinner, sorting herbs, keeping within view of Freydis as she dozed. The other servants came and went, speaking quietly to Unna. Eventually the light from the doorway turned into the blue glow of twilight, and Freydis pulled herself up to sitting. She took a sip of water from the cup by her side.
“Are you hungry?” Unna asked. “If you eat, it will help clear the poison.”
She had a sudden memory of Unna feeding her milk after she ate the mushrooms, and something else to make her vomit. Of Unna cleaning her face with a cloth, and even changing her soiled bedclothes. She thought she might cry again, and hated herself for it. If she was not going to die, she must make herself useful, so Unna would not regret saving her.
She touched her stomach. She was not hungry, but she thought she could eat, and that doing so would make Unna glad. She nodded, and Unna brought over a bowl of stewed rye berries. She sat with Freydis as she ate it, and then took the bowl from her hands.
“Lie down again, child,” she said. “You will need a great deal more rest before you are well.”
Freydis lay down again, placing her cheek upon Unna’s thigh. Unna made a startled noise, but then began to stroke Freydis’s hair. When she found a snarl, she eased it out between her fingers. Freydis had almost fallen asleep again under her soothing hands when Unna said, “I had a daughter once. When I was very young in Scotland.”
“Tell me,” Freydis said. Unna’s leg made a comfortable pillow, made of warm flesh, not the iron Freydis expected.
“I was born on a Scottish island,” said Unna. “My mother was a Scottish thrall and my father was a Norse raider. I wed one of my father’s men as soon as I was old enough to bleed, for women were scarce there. I was not much older than you the first time I fell pregnant.”
Freydis tried to picture her as a young woman, with the pure black hair Unna must have had before she went gray. Still tall and strong, or had that come later? Did she once feel as young and trapped as Freydis did now?
“What was he like, your husband?” Freydis asked.
“A mighty warrior, I was told. Now I would reckon him a young man, but he seemed old to me then, when I was a child. He was not gentle, but he was not so cruel either. My first child was a boy, and after his birth, my husband treated me better. It took some time, but I think we grew to care for each other over the years. I bore him four sons before I bore my daughter, whom I loved more than all the others. She was gentle and fierce, and I promised myself I would give her the girlhood I never had.”
She stroked Freydis’s hair for a time without speaking. Freydis wiped her face on her sleeve. Her eyes and throat felt raw from all her crying.
“What happened?” Freydis asked.
“She died in the same sickness that took my husband, my sons, and all of the servants save Donall.” Unwillingly, Freydis pictured it, the dead and dying, and Unna unable to save her family, even with her healing magic. A black-haired woman and a red-haired servant finding pleasure and comfort together when everyone else had become corpses. Donall would have been very young then, just come to manhood.
“How did you end up here?” Freydis asked. Unna continued to stroke Freydis’s hair. The calluses on her palms caught and pulled at loose strands.
“I ran away,” said Unna. “I sold the farm, and bought passage for myself and Donall on a ship bound for Iceland. I wanted a new place, where my children had never been. I had enough silver left over to hire servants to clear the land. I did not know what I wanted besides that. I never fell pregnant again, so I will have no one to pass this land on to. Perhaps, after I die, Donall will take a wife and make an heir for this place.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Freydis asked.
“Because I survived the death of my family, and you can survive this. In Scotland I was only the wife of a warrior, but here I have power and freedom.”
“Was it worth it?” Freydis whispered. “Surviving?”
Unna sighed heavily. “If the gods accepted such trades, I would have my family back,” she said. “I would see my daughter’s face again.” Freydis turned over onto her back so she could look up at Unna. She heard tears in Unna’s stony voice, but her face was as stern and hard as ever. “They do not, though. Now, swear to me that you will not seek your death. Swear it, child, or I will make the choice for you, and tie you up if need be. I will not let you choose death.”
“I want this child to be a daughter,” said Freydis. “Will you help me? Help me give her what I did not have?” She would give her child a mother who would comb out her hair, teach her about being a woman, and protect her from men who would despoil her.
“Yes, child. And until then, I will keep you strong.”
* * *
Unna insisted that Freydis spend a few more days in bed. She checked on her frequently, made sure she ate and did not again try to rid herself of the child, or her life. Freydis floated between those moments, lo
oking up at the turf ceiling of Unna’s house, which pressed through the woven cane that supported it.
The smell of her stale, sick sweat rose up to her nostrils. Her vision blurred when she swung around to put her feet on the floor. The rushes and pebbles, and other detritus were painful beneath them. She was nearly too dizzy to walk. When she went outside, the gray light from the cloudy sky hurt her eyes. Unna was working nearby in the garden. In the furrow between her rows of vegetables, a late lamb toddled on unsteady legs. It must have been rejected by its mother and no other lambing sheep would take it. At Tafjord such a lamb would be slaughtered and eaten immediately—better not to waste the effort.
As Freydis watched from the door, the lamb nosed at Unna’s thigh. It grew more and more insistent and then started to cry before Unna brushed off her hands and scooped it up in her arms. Freydis had seen a pitcher of milk in the kitchen and went to get it, along with a small rag, though she had to brace herself on the doorframe again to avoid fainting.
“Freydis,” said Unna. “You are feeling better?”
Freydis winced at the sound of the lamb’s crying. “I thought I was,” she said with a frown. “Can I feed him?”
“Her,” said Unna, inclining her head toward the creature. Of course, Unna would not have saved a runt of a ram that would never give milk or birth more lambs.
Freydis picked it up, gently and firmly, and balanced it on her hip until she found a stone where she could sit and drip milk into its mouth. At first it would not take the fabric and would only suckle from her finger, crying again when it only drank one drop, but eventually she convinced it to take the rag and was surprised when she found she had emptied the bowl of milk.
“She was hungry,” said Freydis.
“You can have the feeding of her, if you want,” Unna replied. “I don’t have time to give her the attention she needs.”
And, Freydis was sure, Unna thought this task would reconcile her to the necessity of bearing and then caring for her own child. She could expose her baby after it was born—the other way to deal with unwanted children—but she did not think that if she survived birth she would have the stomach to let her child go. The little lamb in her arms, satisfied, seemed to smile up at her as it fell asleep.
The Golden Wolf Page 20