The Voyage of Freydis

by Tamara Goranson

  The Voyage of Freydis

  Tamara Goranson

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

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  Copyright © Tamara Goranson 2021

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  Cover design and illustration by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

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  Tamara Goranson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

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  Source ISBN: 9780008455712

  Ebook Edition © July 2021 ISBN: 9780008455705

  Version: 2021-05-05

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  Content notices: domestic abuse, physical violence, and use of the historical descriptors “Red Men” and “Skraelings” for the Indigenous peoples of Greenland and Vinland.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part II

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for reading…

  You will also love…

  About the Author

  Also by Tamara Goranson

  One More Chapter...

  About the Publisher

  For my parents,

  Elaine and Alan Goranson

  She was a domineering woman, but Thorvard was a man of no consequence.

  Saga of the Greenlanders, c. 13th century, translated by Keneva Kunz

  Prologue

  The great auk travels free

  Harpa, 996 AD

  The icy wind whistles past my ears, whipping my unruly red hair into my face as I clamber out of my hiding spot, panting heavily. It has taken months to plot a course to freedom. It could take only moments to lose it if my husband finds me here.

  He won’t now that they have come for me.

  Savoring the moment, I scan the seashore, and my heart skips a beat and then slowly settles when all I see is a group of Icelanders wandering down the beach. No one is hiding amongst the rocks. No horse is galloping down the vast stretch of sedge meadows full of tundra browns and saxifrage purples and lichen-covered mossy greens. Truly, I have managed to escape. Even the screeching wind cheers for me.

  Like a fool, I release a carefree whoop as another blast of chilly air hits me squarely in the face. My husband can’t touch me anymore. He no longer has any power over me. There is a sudden urge to wrap my arms around the dragon’s head that adorns the prow in giddy celebration.

  From the longboat’s helm, I watch the waves come crashing in to shore, rolling across the rocks, dragging through the rattling pebbles. Lifting my hands into the air, I close my eyes and feel the tickle of sweet success, knowing that I have duped the great Thorvard of Gardar. Soon I’ll be free of this so-called husband, this three-headed monster whom I’ve been forced to honor and obey, this hawk whose eyesight is so keen.

  I stare down at the Icelanders beetling across a beach strewn with bulbous strings of seaweed hosting swarms of sandflies.

  “Góðan morgin, Freydis. Did you sleep well?” Finnbogi shouts in the voice of a conqueror. The helmsman’s smile is like the brilliant sun.

  I wave to him, not trusting my voice to speak.

  “My ship is a good one. You’ll soon see how it steps through the waves.” He shields his eyes against the morning sun hemorrhaging onto the horizon and spilling sunbeams across the white-capped seas. A moment later his wife comes into view.

  “As soon as we pack the remaining goods, we’ll be ready to set sail,” Logatha calls up, shooing Finnbogi off. “Praise Óðinn, you are almost free of your husband.”

  Just then, I catch a blend of voices rattling through the deck planks from down below as the Icelanders begin hoisting the livestock crates, the freshwater barrels, and the smoked meat and fish on board. Only Logatha knows how bloody anxious I am to leave Greenland shores and take back my worth and build a new life where I won’t have to endure my husband’s wrath or his brutal fists.

  By the gods, this is a new beginning, a chance to make my broken self whole again, a way out of the nothingness. I am dead already so what is there to lose?

  Behind me, there is a sudden crash as a barrel is dropped with a heavy thud into the belly of the ship. The longboat creaks and shudders as it is hit by another wave. Someone curses loudly, which makes me jump. For a moment, I hear him yelling, and I get pulled into the darkness, into the memories of Thorvard’s fists landing on my body. He is bruising me on the outside, crushing something deep on the inside.

  In the distance, a great auk calls and I surface out of the fog, listening to its low, deep, gurgled cry echoing through the chilly air as if it is screaming a farewell blessing. Tilting my head back, I follow its flight path as it catches air currents, travels free.

  For a moment, all is still, and I find my peace knowing that I have tackled Fenrir, the Hel-wolf.

  Thorvard has stolen much from me, but I am not broken. I am standing on the brink, pounded down like sand but willing to go in search of peace. I have found a way to trick him and now I am about to soar.

  Part One

  He stole her future

  Chapter One

  The weight of the knife

  Feast of Lithasblót, 993 AD

  Summer Solstice

  My husband’s mood is foul. I sit up straight, hoping he won’t notice the perspiration marks underneath my arms because he hates it when I look unkempt. The longer I sit, the more difficult it is for me to share the news. Selfishly, I want to savor my victory and keep the joyful secret to myself. My silence provokes a scornful look.

  “Show me the bruises on your wrists,” he says as he stabs a chunk of walrus meat and stuffs it whole inside his mouth.

  Gingerly, I extend my arm. He flicks a glance at the purple welts.

  “You brought it on yourself. You must learn your place,” he says as he opens a flask and pours more wine into his drinking horn.

  I hang my head and slowly bring my frozen fingers to my che
ek feeling like a groveling fool, a whining mammet.

  I never used to be like this. Before I wed Thorvard of Gardar, I was the envy of every maiden in the western settlement. The bride-price he offered Faðir for my hand in marriage was greater than any other mundr anyone in Greenland had ever seen: sealskin hides, arctic fox pelts, and sheepskin fleece, narwhal ivory pieces, an expensive iron pot and tempered scythes, twelve ounces of silver, one horse and oxen, and four milking cows. Now he tells me that I am always wrong, that nothing I do is ever good enough, that I am as worthless as a grain of sand. Perhaps I am. He has a way of making me feel small.

  “As my wife, you must do your duty and obey my rules,” Thorvard yells. His eyes are bloodshot, his lips slick with grease.

  “I have been dutiful,” I mumble, keeping my face stone-cold. I have no more tears to shed, no more of anything left to give.

  “Ach, Freydis! You disgrace your faðir’s house. No Eiriksson are you. Your comportment needs to change,” he says as he takes another bite of walrus stew. The flickering firelight highlights the tattooed knotwork on his muscled forearm. I used to think that he was handsome, that his body was lithe and toned. Now his looks don’t matter. Nothing does.

  “You slug,” he spits.

  By Óðinn’s beard, I’ll not give him the satisfaction of bringing me lower than I already feel. It is his habit to treat me as though I am a child. He tells me what to wear and whom I can see. He even controls the foods I eat. Tonight, I am not allowed to have any of his favorite dish. The feast of seabird eggs dipped in salt lies untouched on his pewter plate.

  “I have tried my best to conceive a son,” I say. Thorvard’s eyes narrow into slits. He leans in closely, and I lick my lips and stare at my folded hands as my muscles begin to shake.

  “Believe you me, no other husband would tolerate your barren womb.”

  I begin picking at the pilling wool on my shawl. I can feel his eyes burning into me.

  In one smooth motion, Thorvard heaves himself off his chair. Startled, my hands fly up, and my head snaps back as he shoves his face into mine.

  “You wench,” he hisses. “You think I don’t know that you leave my farm? You think I haven’t had you followed when you sneak out of my longhouse and make your way into my meadowlands? I know where you go. I know whom you see. Your trainer keeps me well-informed.”

  He tsks his tongue and shakes his head, and I keep my fingers splayed across my face. I have been an utter fool to put my hopes in Ivor, Thorvard’s trusted bondsman.

  “Have pity, Thorvard,” I blubber pathetically. He begins belaboring my shortcomings in a long monologue, his spittle spraying across my hands. My ears are tingling. My throat is dry. I would kill him if I had the chance.

  Thorvard’s voice ratchets upwards, and my heart picks up a beat and I begin to shake as a chill creeps into the room. Very carefully I go to reach for the hidden knife stashed inside my boot, but in one quick move, Thorvard grabs my wrist and squeezes hard. Wincing, I try to swallow a building sob, knowing that he is breaking skin. If I kill him, his clansmen would accuse me of being a murderess.

  Thorvard yells again, and my thoughts snap back. On instinct, I leap out of my chair and push him hard so that he stumbles backwards and lets out a vicious growl. A moment later, he recovers and runs at me with a menacing grimace on his face. There is no time to think. Falling backwards on my chair, I draw my knees in closely to my chest and kick him viciously in the groin. Thorvard roars in pain as he trips and falls and narrowly escapes falling into the firepit that runs the length of the room. In a flash, I am up again and scampering backwards, shielding myself with my knife in hand, acutely aware of the building pressure in my chest that feels like a calving iceberg of fear shearing off as a surge of boiling hatred pushes up.

  “Come and get me,” I whisper in a daze.

  “You weasel! I’ll make you pay for your defiance,” he growls, cursing loudly as he rights himself. “You’ll beg for mercy when I am done!”

  I reach inside and find my strength hidden in a half-dead place. The weight of the knife is heavy in my hand. The blade is sharp. Shuddering, I imagine seeing blood dripping from the tip as the hazy light from the midnight sun trickles in through the smoke hole directly above Thorvard’s head. For a moment, I am frozen as I watch his mouth moving but hear no words. A moment later, there is a sudden surge of hatred, a burst of anger, a red-hot rage. Without thinking, I run at him with the dagger aimed directly at his heart.

  Thorvard ducks just in time. I go to strike again, but Thorvard blocks me, yelling fiercely as he grabs for me and twists my arm. Wincing, I feel the knife tang slipping from my grip and hear the metal hit the slate. From somewhere distant, Thorvard laughs.

  “Freydis, you are too strong-willed,” he gurgles. I cock my head and catch a glimpse of his angry face, his crooked smile. My eyes shoot wide when he shifts his weight and draws his muscled forearm back to drive his fist into my face.

  Please help us, mighty Thor…

  From a woozy place, I feel my knees buckling as a scream escapes. Oh gods, please don’t let him hurt the child growing in my womb.

  I beseech thee, Óðinn!

  Help me.

  Please.

  Chapter Two

  One must howl

  I lurch forwards with a sudden gasp. My head throbs, my lip is fat, and I can barely see. Clawing for air, I struggle to sit, but I sense a presence – a shadow – towering over me. The room begins to spin. I freeze until my right ear pops. Then I suddenly realize that my mind is playing tricks. The speckled shadows are climbing up and down the longhouse walls. Thorvard isn’t here. For a moment, I sit and stare up into the rafters and taste the iron tang of blood. Ivor will be expecting me in the yard to practice my grappling drills. Fie on him! By Óðinn’s beard, I expected more from Thorvard’s overseer, that two-faced snake!

  The thoughts come in swarms, pinging off one another so that I can hardly breathe. Ivor must have tracked me into the hills where Einar and Éowyn tend their sheep. The shepherd and the shepherdess have become one of my few and only friends. I visited Éowyn just the other day. We ate together and her youngest fell asleep in my lap. By the gods, what if Thorvard hurts them to punish me? Ivor, that piece of dung, betrayed us all.

  I sift through memories as carefully as I sift through a sack of barley looking for weevils before making porridge. How did it come to this? All I did was slip out for target practice with Einar who was eager to teach me how to use a slingshot. I didn’t think. I should have asked Thorvard for permission. Now my face feels bruised and puffy, and my eye is swollen shut.

  This is Ivor’s fault! He is a righteous troublemaker who panders to my husband and treats him like a white-plumed swan. When I think on it, I scarce know whether to scream or cry. Ivor was the one who told me that I should learn how to defend myself against the musk oxen wandering through Thorvard’s meadowlands. I never should have gone behind his back and asked a lowly shepherd to help me learn the shieldmaiden ways. I should have asked Ivor instead. Gods’ bread, it makes me mad! Do they not realize that I am desperate to learn from any man?

  My mind begins to float into a sea of mist. There are memories of Thorvard standing in the shadows of the byre, cooing as if he were a dove, whispering sweet nothings in Ivor’s ear. I am in hiding in one of the empty stalls, watching my husband through the slats of the ill-placed planks where slivers of wood are sticking out like bristled hairs.

  Slowly, Ivor steps forth and plants a long, wet kiss on Thorvard’s mouth. The memories hiss, or is it me? Even now, there is a cold and nauseous feeling that makes my heart twist so I can hardly breath.

  Staring into the memory well, I hate myself for becoming a trophy wife, a woman who was married off to a lawless cheat. Thorvard tied the knot to protect his life, to escape from the scrutiny of his clan. He would be banished to the hinterlands if others found out that he liked men.

  I cast my eyes upwards, replaying everything. Thorvard tricked
my family. He stole my dowry. He duped Faðir and dishonored me.

  What horse dung!

  Someone shouts outside, and I fall back into the room with a heavy thunk and the sudden awareness that I am lying on my back staring at a beam of dust-speckled light streaming inside from the only shuttered window above my head. The rushes thrown across the slate grope my bruises and itch my welts.

  Ivor must have followed me. He must have suspected that I would tell Einar about his great love affair with my husband, Thorvard of Gardar. Who does he mistake me for? A gaggling goose? How would I benefit if others knew?

  My head is spinning. My bruises hurt. Poor Einar. He is a valiant shepherd – a drengr who is brave and honorable, someone with a sense of fairness who possesses the strength to do what is right. As my protector, he has warned me about the dangers of walking alone in the meadowlands where there is always the possibility of encountering vicious beasts. He would be shocked to learn that inside the dim, dark extravagance of Thorvard’s longhouse, I face this fear every day. Truly, I should show him the small hammer-shaped pendant that I wear to honor Thor and ask him to teach me how to defend myself against wicked men. I close my eyes, imagining what he would say.