The child also had to survive those first seven days. She showed every sign of doing so, drinking lustily at Freydis’s milk, which flowed well enough from her small breasts, even after her exhausting birth.
After the baby’s first feeding, Svanhild persuaded Freydis to let go of her little daughter so she could be more thoroughly washed and swaddled. She examined the girl while Freydis looked on hungrily, her whole body a soft well of need to have her daughter back in her arms.
“She will have bright red hair,” Svanhild pronounced, handing the tightly wrapped bundle back to Freydis. “And either very good luck or very ill. No matter what, she will be as strong as her mother and grandmother, if not stronger.”
Freydis’s body ached all over, and she still had a sharp pain between her legs. Unna told her she had ripped, and had put in stitches to put her back together again. She had also bled more than Unna liked to see with the afterbirth, and Unna wanted her to drink beef broth to help her recover. Her daughter slept on her, eyes shut tight, mouth a little open. She moved sometimes in sleep, swatting at things she imagined with her tiny fists. Freydis kept dozing off, then startling awake so she could look at her again.
“I remember feeling like that with Eystein,” said Svanhild. She sat by Freydis’s bed and stroked her hair.
“Did you feel that way with me?” Freydis asked drowsily.
Svanhild was silent for a moment, and then sighed. “Your birth was very hard. It was not for many days that I could hold you, and by then you had been given to a wet nurse. I did nurse you, and you grew to like it, but it took longer for our bond to grow.”
“And then you left with Harald,” said Freydis. She stroked her daughter’s cheek.
“Yes,” said Svanhild. “Should I apologize for that? If I list the things I could have done differently, there would be no ending to them. You did not seem to need me as Eystein did, and I craved the adventure.”
Freydis could not imagine leaving her daughter for anything, but she would not be here, with this miraculous scrap of a person, had her mother made different choices.
The coming of Freydis’s daughter seemed to have started the tide of spring. The snow began melting even faster, and soon patches of brown showed on the fields. A thick, cold fog sat over the farm but carried in it a promise of warmer days ahead that lifted Freydis’s heart.
By the time her daughter was to be named, Freydis could stand and walk around with only mild pain. Unna checked the stitches from her tearing every day and said she was healing well.
She had thought of many names for her daughter, and kept returning to Svanhild’s words: a red-haired girl, stronger than her mother and grandmother. She had thought of a spring name for her—Freydis was a spring name—but tradition dictated she could not give her daughter her own name, so she settled instead on Thordis—Thor’s priestess, or the goddess version of Thor’s self. There could be none stronger than the blustery farmer’s god. Freydis wanted a farmer’s life for her daughter, tied to land and growing things, for her to feel the joy of her own daughter in her arms as Freydis did now—though hopefully a few years older than Freydis was. But if she was as strong-willed in life as she had been in the womb, she would do what she wished.
Unna cooked all of Freydis’s favorite foods for the naming feast, and even slaughtered a cow. She invited all of the settlement to come, and they visited in waves, tramping mud into Unna’s house, congratulating Freydis, asking if she would name a father, or choose a husband, and congratulating Svanhild and Solvi as well.
Whenever Freydis grew overwhelmed by the attention, she had only to look down at her daughter, enchanted by the bustle and new faces, her blue eyes wide, to feel at peace again.
Solvi pulled himself to his feet and used a voice she had seldom heard to quiet the crowd: “I am glad you are all here to welcome my first grandchild, Thordis, to our community.” The pride in his voice made tears spring to Freydis’s eyes.
The crowd cheered, and raised glasses, some demanding refills so they could toast properly. Unna sent her servants around with skins of ale for refills.
“It is customary for a woman to hold a sword in trust for her son, but my womenfolk do nothing customary,” said Solvi. “For my daughter, and my granddaughter, a gift of daggers. Freydis, this one is for you, and this is for you to hold in trust for our Thordis. My wife, Svanhild, can teach both of you how to wield it, for good and ill.”
Plenty of Icelanders still remembered when Svanhild had threatened Princess Geirny with a knife, and the trouble that had caused, and laughed, while Svanhild smiled tolerantly.
A latecomer pushed through the crowd to the front, and Freydis stood up to see Svanhild’s man Falki. He had not returned before winter fell, and Freydis had watched Tova grow grave with worry for him as the winter nights passed.
Several grizzled old vikings came with him, including one whose smashed nose identified him as Ketil Flatnose, once a companion of her father’s. Some of the earlier visitors spilled back outside; many Icelanders did not want much to do with the raiders who threatened the peace. Iceland was allowed its independence because it stayed out of the wars between the Scandinavian kingdoms.
Svanhild moved among all these fierce men as though she should be counted their queen, and they parted to admit her to their circle, and Solvi too, while Freydis fed Thordis. She had not seen Hallbjorn among them and that was all she needed to know.
Unna spoke loudly over the noise of the interlopers. “If you have not come to give young Thordis a blessing, you must go outside,” she told them.
The men did come, one at a time, to make gestures of blessing with gnarled fingers. Ketil’s fearsome face broke into a wide grin. “Solvi, you’ve made a good family here. Now you should marry her off to the father and get some grandsons as well.”
Freydis felt a chill. Solvi looked down at her. “My Freydis can do better than him,” he said. “But thank you, my friend.”
By midnight the raiders had mostly gone, and Freydis fell asleep with Thordis nestled beside her.
Unna had many more visitors over the next week. Now that spring had arrived, those who had been putting off treatment during foul weather came for herbs and advice.
Freydis was napping in the afternoon, following a night during which Thordis had woken her three times for feeding, when Unna’s yell from outside woke her. “She does not want to see him,” Unna said, her voice harsh with anger.
Men’s voices said something indistinct, followed by Unna again, “You need to leave now.” Freydis heard sounds of a struggle, and then a grunt of pain. She remembered that Unna had sent Donall into the settlement to trade with the merchants who had arrived with the spring weather.
“She will see me,” a voice said, a resonant voice Freydis knew too well. Her stomach clenched. “She will see me or you can use your doctoring to fix a broken arm.” Freydis took a deep breath, picked up Thordis, and threw a shawl over her shoulders.
She stepped out into the sunlight and saw Hallbjorn holding Unna with her arm wrenched back, anger twisting his handsome features. He had men with him this time, warriors in leather armor, some of whom she recognized from Thordis’s naming. Too many.
“Let her be,” Freydis cried, running toward Hallbjorn before she could let her fear root her to the ground. “I would not be alive without her. My daughter would not be alive without her. Would you incur the gods’ wrath by hurting her?”
“A daughter,” said Hallbjorn scornfully, though he let go of Unna.
“A daughter,” said Freydis. The gods did not want Hallbjorn to have a son. “No use to you, even if you were the father.”
Hallbjorn sneered. “So you persist in that? Have you named a father? Or do you claim to be such a whore you do not know?”
Thordis began to whimper and Freydis bounced on her toes until she quieted, hoping her daughter could not feel her trembling. “Did Rolli tell you that King Harald has divorced my mother? I am not worth what I once was as a wife.”
<
br /> “You are still the mother of my daughter. My daughter.” Hallbjorn nodded at one of his companions, a finely dressed man, who rushed forward and grabbed Unna again. Unna grimaced in pain. “See, now it will not be me who kills her,” said Hallbjorn.
“What can you want with me?” Freydis cried.
“You are mine,” said Hallbjorn. “You cannot change that, except with your death or mine. Come with me, and you will not cause the death of this woman.”
“Let me leave my daughter with Unna,” said Freydis, around the tightness in her throat. “She is only a girl. You can have no use for her.”
“She is mine too,” said Hallbjorn. “And you should know, even if you are too stupid to know anything else, that I will keep what is mine.”
“You will risk her to a sea voyage?” Freydis cried. “She is only a few weeks old. The lives of babes are precarious. My brother died at six after too much sea travel.”
“It is in the hands of the fates,” said Hallbjorn. “Plus, if she dies you will be fertile that much sooner.”
“If she does, then I have no more reason to live,” said Freydis. Her own life was the only leverage she had left. She felt the same strange certainty that had filled her when she prompted Hallbjorn and Rolli to find Solvi in Iceland.
“Then I will tie you up so you cannot do yourself harm,” said Hallbjorn.
“You can try, but you will need to watch me all the time and I only need one moment to escape.” She met his eyes, waiting for him to falter, and he did.
“What do you want, Freydis?” he asked, in the seductive voice she remembered.
“I will come with you, if you spare my friends here: Unna and her household, Solvi and his household. I will swear not to escape you, either into death or divorce, if you let me nurse my daughter, Thordis, until she is two years old. Babes born in too quick succession are not healthy either.”
Hallbjorn narrowed his eyes. That meant he could not try to impregnate her in that time. He could find other ways to take his pleasure with her, but not force her to risk another pregnancy so soon. And she had no intention of keeping her promises. A daughter of Solvi Sea King would always trade honor for freedom.
“Swear it,” she said. “Do you want a slave wife, dead already in spirit, or do you want to wed Freydis Solvisdatter?”
“I swear it,” he said. “Of course I want you alive, my Freydis. And now your father will have no choice but to be my ally.” He nodded at two of his men who came forward and took hold of Freydis’s arms. “My men will help you pack.”
28
Einar watched the snow-covered hills of the Norse coast slip by as he traveled south from Yrjar with Ivar, Oddi, and two other ships full of Halogaland warriors. They had departed as soon as the sea lanes thawed enough for sailing, in order to meet up with his father, Harald, and all of the allies they could gather in Nidaros. They planned to leave for the Orkney Islands a month before midsummer and surprise the rebels gathered there.
After spending autumn helping Ragnvald and Guthorm convince Harald’s less-willing allies to support their king in his Orkney adventure, Einar and Ivar had passed the winter in Halogaland with instructions to ensure King Heming remained loyal to Harald. Harald had paid his first wife, Heming’s sister, handsomely to compensate her and her kin for the insult of divorcing her. She had better reason than most to accept whatever Harald would give her, since he had granted their son Halfdan mercy after his rebellion. Halfdan had been in Halogaland for some of the winter, proclaiming himself Harald’s heir and successor.
Einar and Ivar left just after a wet blizzard that turned the ships’ wood sodden. Oddi, who had spent the last ten years in Halogaland, said that he could smell spring in the air. Farther south, the snowdrifts were soft, and no higher than Einar’s knee at their nightly campsites.
Bakur, who was sitting on a bench toward the prow, smiled at him, and Einar realized that he had been staring, though his vision was not on anything another could see. Einar had shared a few moments’ pleasure with him earlier in the winter. After lying with Gyda, it had been harder for him to refuse the touch of someone who wanted him, but Einar had not allowed it to continue for fear his father would learn of it. A man might have a boy slave and not be thought less for it, but now that he was grown, he could not share another man’s bed without being shamed.
By the time the ships turned east into the great Trondheim Fjord, Einar could see some patches of bare ground on the passing shoreline. Gyda would still be snowed in to her fort among the high plains and foothills of the Keel. She must be near to bearing her and Harald’s child—or was it his? He tried to imagine her flat stomach distended by pregnancy, and could not.
He went to stand with Ivar at the prow of the ship.
“I think Nidaros is around the next bend,” said Ivar.
He had been saying that for days, but Einar did see more farmland between the wooded hills here, and after they passed a field with snow caught in last year’s furrows, the many roofs of Nidaros appeared over the next headland. Einar clapped Ivar on the shoulder.
“You’re finally right,” he said.
“It had to happen sometime,” said Ivar with a grin.
Nidaros had not been kept up well in recent years and looked drab, choked with mud and dirty snow, especially next to Harald’s flagship, with its vivid silk sail of scarlet and blue. Harald’s other ships were interspersed with vessels that Einar recognized as his father’s. No other allies had arrived yet.
Ragnvald met them, clad in his dark winter clothes, a peaked hat pulled down over his ears. “I see a force from Halogaland accompanies you,” he said. “Is there anything to fear here?”
Einar shook his head. “No more than usual, Father,” he said. “They are allies.” His father looked worried anyway.
Oddi caught up to them. “Greetings, King Ragnvald,” he said cheerfully. “I have been trying to fatten up your sons for the hard summer you have planned for us, but you see they are as lean as always.”
“Lean men move faster,” Einar countered. Oddi lunged at him, and Einar landed a mock blow in Oddi’s midsection. He pretended to drive Einar off with an elbow to his stomach, and Einar was about to complete the dumb show by falling to the ground, clutching his waist, but stopped his play when he saw his father’s grim expression.
“Your mother is here,” said Ragnvald carefully to Ivar. “My lady Hilda. She would like to see both of you.” He looked at Einar. “The lady Vigdis is also here, with Guthorm, if you would like to greet her.”
“I will,” said Einar, “but Ivar, you should greet your mother first.”
Ivar smiled, seeming not to hear the tension in his father’s voice, and trotted off toward the hall where the women usually congregated.
Einar shivered from the stiff breeze and pulled on his own hat. Ragnvald began walking along the shore, toward Harald’s largest ship.
“How is the lady Hilda?” Einar asked. “Her words ‘wolf-king,’ making her son into a deer ‘hunted by every wolf that wants a man-pelt’—I have heard them repeated in Yrjar. I have heard Halfdan say them. I think he still means rebellion.”
Ragnvald frowned. “Harald will not believe it, and Halfdan turns the accusation on me whenever I bring it up.”
“You wanted my brother Rolli to . . . take care of him,” Einar reminded him. “But after we meet Rolli in Orkney, he will come home with us. Do you think I should . . . ?” If he was outlawed for killing Halfdan, at least he would not need to worry about the witch’s prophecy coming true.
“Do not mention it,” said Ragnvald. “Do not even think it. There is something you said to me of Halfdan, when you were a boy, do you remember?”
“No,” said Einar. He remembered Halfdan had been a bully, always bigger than him, and willing to use his size against Ragnvald’s sons. He had prompted Einar to become skilled with a sword younger than most.
“You said ‘There are some people you cannot hurt. They can only hurt you.’” Ragnvald met
Einar’s eyes briefly.
“What are you saying, Father? That we should just accept Halfdan’s rebellion?” Einar asked.
“I don’t know,” said Ragnvald. “Only, we must all be careful.” He cleared his throat. “How was Ivar this winter?” he asked.
“His captivity has done him no lasting harm,” said Einar dryly, glad to be in more familiar territory. His father gave him an exasperated look. “Very helpful,” Einar amended. “He will be a good king.”
Ragnvald pressed his lips together. “How? Tell me.”
“Heming likes him, he has made friends with all of the warriors, and bested them on the practice ground and at many winter contests. I know he displeased you earlier, but I do think he will be a good king. A king like Harald.” Ragnvald did not look placated. “But less likely to forget his responsibilities,” Einar added. “Because he had you to raise him and will have me for an adviser.”
Ragnvald nodded, and gave Einar one of his rare, swift smiles.
“I am well content to be his companion,” Einar said. “Do not fear for my ambition.”
“I am pleased to hear you say that,” said Ragnvald. “When we return from the Orkneys, Ivar must take on more of my responsibilities.”
“What?” That took Einar by surprise—one day his father would no longer be king, but that day must be far off.
“I would have him set in the people’s mind as king of Maer, before anyone can take that from him,” said Ragnvald. “We must hold on to what we have.”
* * *
Harald’s hall, built to feast hundreds of warriors, seemed empty with so few in Nidaros. Einar saw Hilda talking with some women at the other end of the hall.
“My lady, you look well,” he said to her. She did. Something of the blazing anger that had given her the courage to speak on Rolli’s behalf still clung to her.
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