The Voyage of Freydis

by Tamara Goranson

  Éowyn’s soothing voice tinkles in my ear. In a singsong tone, she reminds me that she, too, has met Fenrir, the wolf, and Jormungand, the world serpent, in Thorvard’s longhouse when she was his thrall. Perhaps this is why we share a bond. In that wretched place, I, too, have experienced my own living Hel.

  Trying to breathe, I attempt to steer my thoughts away from Thorvard of Gardar. By Óðinn’s eye, Ivor betrayed my trust and hooked me as though I was a fish, baiting me with the promise of teaching me a few grappling moves. I see it now. I bet he thought Einar would train me up to kill my husband. Perhaps he worried that Einar himself would try to avenge my honor and kill Thorvard without penalty.

  Gingerly, I feel my cheek. The blood is crusted over. Wincing, I finger the gash, and it suddenly begins to bleed again. Curse my husband! Curse all Norsemen who abuse their women because they think it is their right. I won’t stand for this cow shit anymore, but what can I do? I have no rights. I was married off two months ago and now I am stuck on this godless farm forevermore.

  My mind drifts back to my wedding day, and I see my gyoja, an old woman without any teeth, crouching at the water’s edge where I am bathing in the mineral pools. She wants to prepare me for the marriage bed. She is stirring the bridal herbs and the oil, the elixirs that will encourage my fertility. I am floating in the hot spring, weighed down by the heaviness of my red hair fanning out around my face with my arms spread wide.

  Faðir’s only care was to have me well-matched, but Thorvard played a jest on all of us. What lies he told! That two-faced bastard never loved me, and he never will. Mother told me that the inn matki munr, the mighty passion, was less important than great wealth. I disagree. Thorvard is a wealthy man, but I lost my life when I married him. Now I must do my duty and produce an heir. It is what is expected. Faðir needs a grandson to guarantee his ancestral line.

  There is a knock at the longhouse door. In a panic, I shimmy backwards and almost bang my head against a post until I recognize the familiar voice. Slowly, I get up and stumble forwards and lift the latch to let in the stocky Norseman who did me wrong. Ivor is a thick-necked warrior with a muscled gut. Short in stature, his gait is stiff and purposeful.

  “My lady! How come you are so late?” Ivor asks as he steps inside. Behind him, the sunshine streams in through the open door and irritates my swollen eye. “When you didn’t show, I worried that you were ill.” He closes the door and turns around. Then he stops. “Your eye is black and your cheek is bleeding!”

  “It is nothing but a scratch,” I say. I am afraid to be alone with the overseer, this owl with his swiveling neck and keen, bright eyes. I now know why Thorvard elevated him above all other Norsemen on this wretched farm.

  “Did Thorvard do this to you?” Ivor asks as he takes my elbow to steer me to the nearest bench. I shrug him off and shy away. Ivor eyes me hard. “Last night I sensed that your husband was in a mood.”

  “There is no need to worry,” I lie. “The hour was late, and I was clumsy. I tripped and fell.” I dig my fingernails into my palms, and feel a burst of pain shooting through my temples.

  “May the gods take pity on your poor, poor face. It looks so painful,” Ivor murmurs with sympathy. Another surge of anger ignites faster than the driest piece of flint.

  “I am well enough. I took a fall, and that is all.”

  “Freydis, I am a friend,” Ivor whispers carefully.

  “You have proven yourself to be most loyal. Now leave me be.”

  I wince in pain as I limp towards the back of the longhouse where I have a ready supply of arnica and yarrow mixed with seawater, salt, and a drop of wine to apply to my oft-broken skin and throbbing welts.

  “My lady, where is Thorvard now?”

  I am as disoriented as a longboat without a rudder. I can hardly stand on my own two feet. The pain is too sharp.

  “Get out!” I spit as I bend over the wash basin and splash some water on my face. The cold is good for my black eye. There is a sudden cramping in my gut and I panic, fearing for the baby growing in my womb. Ivor reaches out and steadies me. I freeze.

  “Please leave, Ivor. I can’t afford to have Thorvard come barging in only to discover that we are alone. You know his jealousy.”

  “Freydis, you need my help!” Ivor begins again.

  I cut him off. “You have helped me well enough,” I mumble, spitting out a gob of blood.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ivor’s brow constrict, and I almost break. I remember what I’ve endured since my wedding day – the day when I first set eyes on Thorvard’s handsome face and my heart thrummed like a well-played harp.

  To think that I cared about Thorvard’s dress! His blue kaftan jacket with borders of decorative silk and golden embroidery stitched up and down his sleeve; his belt of fine, polished embossed silver; his black hair swept back and oiled. By the gods, I tremble to the core of my being when I think of how I longed to sip the honeyed mead imported by Faðir – the “honeymoon gift” as he called it. My husband shared the entire keg with my brother, Leif.

  The memories fade, and I leave Ivor standing awkwardly by the door and feel my way to the nearest bed platform where I collapse. Stealing a glance in his direction, I see the concern creeping into his weathered face. I have learned that looks can be deceptive, that some men give kindness like they throw bones to dogs.

  “Your services won’t be required anymore,” I manage.

  For a moment, Ivor doesn’t move, but when I turn my back on him and curl up tightly in a ball, he quietly takes his leave. The door bangs shut behind him as another surge of hot, searing pain builds and bursts.

  Then, I sleep.

  It is almost nearing suppertime when I wake again in a state of agony. My face is throbbing and my ribs are sore. The savory scent from the roasting meats cooking on the outdoor spits entices me to try to sit, but it is hard. I am too sore. Glancing around, I see that there is no more drinking water in the pail. My throat is parched and a headache pounds. With a grimace, I struggle up, praying I won’t be noticed when I step out into the yard.

  I am never lucky. On the way back to the longhouse, I meet Finna who meekly tells me that Thorvard has ordered her to help me dress.

  “Help me dress?” I ask, confused. The thrall looks at me with her big doe-eyes.

  “He wants you in your very best for the feast that has been prepared.” She lowers her eyes, refusing to acknowledge that my eye is black.

  I look down at the coarse smock I am wearing and realize that I arm myself with toughness before allure in an effort to unsex myself. After tasting blood instead of tender lips, I have no desire to look my best, but I also worry that Finna will pay a price at Thorvard’s hands if I refuse to let her dress me for his godless feast.

  One must howl in the presence of a wolf.

  In silence, I follow Finna into her hut where she fits me into finely pleated linen garb with sleeves that fasten at the neck. My pregnant bump isn’t showing yet. I thank the gods. I don’t want others to know before Thorvard does. He would not be pleased. Besides, these are early days.

  Over the linen shift Finna places a tightly fitted woolen gown with shoulder straps held on by oval brooches with decorative chains that loop across my chest. Around my neck she hangs another heavy chain with beads of colored glass. I hardly care. The novelty and expense of the glass mean nothing anymore.

  After tying a belt around my waist, Finna beckons me to take a seat so that she can fix my hair. The thrall works fast. Her nimble fingers form fancy plaits that she deftly positions into place. When she offers to fit me with the tall headdress that marks my high position as Thorvard’s wife, I push her hand away.

  “I won’t wear that,” I say. For a moment she simply stares, but then she places the headdress aside.

  “Your husband is waiting,” is all she says.

  I tremble like a leaf in autumn before enduring another wave of sickness and a jolt of pain.

  “My lady, you must go to him,�
� Finna urges. “Here, take this shawl. You’re shivering.”

  Chapter Three

  Her cloak of falcon feathers

  I hem courage into my skirts and do my duty even though I feel like a tiny mouse about to face a fearsome cat. As I retrace my steps to the longhouse that I have come to hate, I can’t help but notice Thorvard’s men beetling across the yard to the dinner hall. I keep my head down, knowing I shouldn’t care what others think when they see my blackened eye. I shouldn’t care, but I do. The rumors are that I am a clumsy bat.

  I am perspiring heavily when I cautiously re-enter the longhouse where it is warm and I can smell the roasting meat. Thorvard is sitting on his dais dressed in all his finery. He invites me to come and sit with him.

  “I will come by and by,” I say stepping back to smooth out my crinkled skirts. Thorvard quickly stands and comes to me. He smells like mint.

  “Please excuse the thralls. They couldn’t catch your favorite fish,” he says in an even tone as he stretches out his hand to me. I force myself to endure his touch without flinching.

  “Let me first find some beer for you to drink,” I manage awkwardly.

  “I have some here. Come dine with me,” Thorvard counters as he takes my elbow and draws me forth. Underneath his touch, there are goosebumps rising on my arm.

  I brace myself for another fight, but instead I find a feast. Two goblets have been set out beside a flask of wine, and Thorvard has ordered a savory stew of roasted duck for us to eat. The iron pot hangs over a low-burning fire. Glancing sideways, I feel a chill. The blazing firelight highlights Thorvard’s chiselled jaw, but his smile is stiff. I shift my gaze and focus on his well-manicured nails, his long fingers, his glistening clean hands.

  “What did you do today, Freydis?” Thorvard asks as he pats the seat of the elaborately carved chair with the fancy runic inscription on the cresting rail. He knows full well.

  “Today I wasn’t feeling well,” I say stiffly. “I stayed in bed.”

  “Ivor told me that you don’t want to learn from him anymore. I thought you were shieldmaiden born?” Thorvard’s voice is silky smooth.

  “I couldn’t see much, husband. My eye was sore.”

  It is a stupid thing to say, but I feel smug when I see him squirm. He is ashamed and this is why he hosts a feast. He always does something honorable the day after he beats me hard.

  “May the gods have mercy, Freydis,” Thorvard purrs. I feel my brows arching as Thorvard continues serving food. “Next time, do not blame me for your clumsiness. The rumor is that your eye is black because you tripped and fell getting into bed.” He pauses and reaches across my arm for the carving knife. “They say that you were too eager to bed me.” He grins, and I gawk at him and feel another jolt. What is there to say to this?

  “This very day is almost done, and I have thought about you way too much.”

  I stare at him, feeling miserable as he begins to eat. He chews his food slowly and carefully before sitting back to study me.

  “Freydis, I worry about you all the time. You never get to see your kin. I am surprised that you refuse to visit your mother and your favorite brother, Leif.”

  I have never refused to travel back to Brattahlíð. Thorvard always says he is too busy to accompany me on the long ride back to Faðir’s farm. Time and again he has told me that he cannot afford to spare his men to accompany me. There is a giant in the room, and I am too small and weak – indeed, too scared – to stand up to him. In truth, I wish I could scurry away and hide like the little mouse I have become.

  “Freydis, I’ll not have my bondsmen thinking ill of me. In truth, there is a code of honor this farm keeps.” He stops speaking to take another sip from his gilded wine goblet before inviting me to do the same. I shake my head. I hate these dinners. I dread sitting alone with him. I feel as tightly strung as a minstrel’s lyre as I watch him begin to suck the grizzled fat off a chunk of bone. An instant later I hear a crack before he spits out the broken bits.

  “I have thought long and hard about how to please you,” he drones as he flails his knife blade in his fisted hand. I poke at the stew with my pewter spoon and listen to him prattling. I have heard this remorseful, repentant speech before, this heap of cow dung, this desperate attempt to make things right. He stands and moves to the darkened corner at the back where he pours himself another drink. I can hear him fumbling. Panicking, I eye the latch.

  “Freydis, I wish to start again, but you must do your part. You have married a wealthy man who has no need of a peasant wife to light his hearth fire and tend his sheep. Neinn! I am not that man. My thralls can do all that for me.” He returns to the table and takes a swig from his drinking horn. “By Óðinn’s beard, my clansmen must see that I treat you well. Your only job is to provide me with a dozen bairns to bear my name. I promise you with my heart’s blood that if you do your duty and give me heirs, I’ll be content. There will be no cause for grief, and I’ll not ask Ivor to follow you anymore.”

  Outside the wind begins to howl. A headache throbs. My bones feel weak.

  “I am grateful,” is all I say, trying to hide my trembling hands. They are cold and clammy. I rub them on my apron dress and feel a hangnail catch before I sit up tall and draw in air.

  “Husband, there are times when I am afraid to walk alone in the meadowlands. Can you spare a shepherd boy to walk with me?”

  “Fie!” he says dismissively. “Ivor has taken great pains to teach you how to defend yourself. You are not in need of protection anymore. Just make certain to take a knife. The one in the calf-leather sheath should serve you well.” He does not mention that this is the knife I almost stabbed him with, that this is the weapon he gave me the last time he bruised my cheek. I shift a little in my seat, but I somehow manage to hold his gaze.

  “By the gods, Freydis, you may walk freely in my meadowlands, but just be careful and don’t blame me when you trip on the hidden boulders that line the fjords. It will not be said that I abandoned you when you go out walking on your own and return with your face all bruised because you slipped and fell against a rock.”

  He reaches for a slab of bread that he uses to sop the juices from the stew. I can’t recall a time where I have ever slipped and fallen during one of my jaunts to the meadowlands.

  Just then the door to the longhouse blows open. I wonder if the ancestral ghosts are wandering in to see how we fare. I hope they see that my eye is black and my cheek has cuts and purple welts. I hope they see the darkness inside my husband’s soul.

  Thorvard stands. In a few quick strides, he travels across the room where he struggles to bolt the latch against another sudden gust of wind. When his back is turned, I dare to give a little smile. I am shocked that Thorvard isn’t forcing me to do women’s work, that he is still going to allow me to take outdoor walks alone. I should tell him that I am with child, but there is an awkwardness that comes with telling a man this kind of news.

  “Husband,” I say quietly. I feel a surge of heat in my cheeks as the wick of the whale-oil lamp sputters and drowns and flickers out. I can barely think. “I am pregnant with your firstborn son.”

  Thorvard slowly turns. “What say you, wife?”

  “I am with child.”

  For a moment, there is silence in the room. Then he rushes forth and pulls me into his massive arms, and I feel nothing.

  “Dear Freydis! This is great news, indeed!”

  Trembling, I can’t help but think that I am giving him a chance to be a faðir, that I am giving him protection, that I am allowing him to maintain his other life. I have come to love my hate and hate my fear, but today there is something else. Today there is pure disgust. I know that I have been wronged and that Thorvard is the guilty one. Someday I hope that my bones will dance when I find a way to shame his name.

  “I will restore all the privileges that you have lost,” Thorvard sputters with a gentleness I can hardly stomach. I swallow bile and turn my head away from him so he can’t see the daggers i
n my eyes. I can hear the shepherds herding sheep into the yard, calling to the stragglers, yodelling.

  “Thank you, husband,” I say with effort before I take a shallow breath. “I’ll make a sacrificial offering to the gods for your continued good health.”

  “What good is that?” Thorvard sniffs. “I have no need for rituals or useless hexes that are meant to convince a man that the only way he will be protected is if he kills a goat and makes a sacrificial offering with sprinkled blood. Come now, wife. Look at me! Your news proves that there is great virility in my lower parts. Curse Freyja and her cloak of falcon feathers.”

  Shivering, I feel the burning in my cheeks, knowing it is bad luck when men curse gods.

  “To celebrate the joyous news that you are with child,” Thorvard continues, “we will throw a feast and you will look your very best.”

  I inhale slowly. I will dress in my finest garb, and Thorvard will drink too much. It is what he always does. I draw my hands together. They feel ice cold. “Can I assume that you will invite all your thralls and freedman to this feast?”

  “Já, of course,” Thorvard says as he moves back to the table and pops a cloudberry into his mouth. “All of my clansmen will be invited. They will rejoice for us when they hear the news.”

  “Einar and Éowyn will be invited too?” I ask a little too quickly. Thorvard stops chewing and looks at me.

  “If you want them there,” is all he says as he drops his eyes, “although I find Einar to be a dim-witted bore. Tell me, wife, do you have eyes for him?”

  “Eyes for him?” I ask, feeling dumb.