Panicking, I go to turn and run, but just up ahead the hill drops off so that I have no choice but to stop and curl into a little ball. An instant later Thorvard goes to deliver a brutal kick, but just before his foot connects with my chin, I propel myself over the steep, rocky bank. Careening wildly down the hill, I feel shards of rock tearing through my flesh as I pick up speed, vaguely aware that Thorvard is tumbling behind me in a cloud of dust, cursing vilely.
By the time I stop, parts of me are scraped and welting, bruised and raw. There are bits of pebbles in my knees, and my shoulder is a meaty mess of raw, oozing flesh. Sitting up, I brace myself when I see a gash on my shin oozing blood. A moment later, there are stars exploding in my periphery.
When my vision clears, I shake my head. Just ahead, Thorvard is lying flat and winded in a patch of arctic thyme. He looks so still that for a moment I wonder if he is dead, but then I hear a raspy rustling sound, a moan that sounds more like dying wind.
“Husband, are you alive?” I ask as I hobble over to where he lies. Leaning down, I run my thumb across his brow. His eyes are closed. His face is white. Bending lower, I take up his heavy wrist in my hands, but as I go to take his pulse he springs up suddenly and grabs my arms.
“By Óðinn’s beard, I’ll say this once,” Thorvard threatens as he begins to shake me so violently that my teeth rattle and my eyes tear up. “If you ever turn against me and go to your brother to ask for help, I’ll break your bones and throw all your bleeding parts to my dogs. Not only that, but Thorgunna will pay a price as well.”
His eyes are like silverfish. His jaw is clenched. His breath is warm upon my face. I try to avert my eyes from the spittle dribbling down his chin, but he shoves his face in close to mine. When I catch a whiff of sour wine upon his breath, I try to wriggle free, but in one quick move, he twists my arm and flips me over and throws my face into the ground. My mouth tastes dirt. There are a thousand fluttering lights more brilliant than the summer sun, a whizzing swelling noise, like the nasty hum of circling flies.
The drone crescendos inside my head. With a burst of strength, I draw my knees up from underneath and feel his weight upon my back. An instant later, I drop my chin to my chest before lifting it with such a quick and mighty force that I bang my head into his chin. Yelping, he brings his hand up to his face. Instantaneously, I wriggle onto my side, and when I get my leg in place, I kick him hard. It does no good. He grabs my foot and, twisting me, he delivers a painful backhanded slap.
For a moment I am stunned. Then I lie back, playing dead. Eventually he turns away.
As soon as his back is turned, I shoot up tall and wildly scramble to get away, but Thorvard is too quick. His arm shoots out and he grabs me before I can escape.
“Oh, Freydis, whatever shall I do with you?”
I close my eyes and brace myself to endure another violent slap, but nothing comes. Instead, Thorvard begins moaning like a dying calf. Cracking one eye open, I watch him crumble. As he weeps, he stares at me with eyes that change, that soften up. He is a sea monster camouflaged amongst the rocks. I know this game.
Slowly and cautiously Thorvard leans forwards and begins to tenderly pluck the grass from my dishevelled hair, pulling gently at the ringlets and then letting them go so that my hair springs up around my face.
“Don’t tell Leif about what happened here.” He smiles and licks his thumb and smears his spittle across my cheek to wipe off the blood and dirt.
I nod, even as he turns away.
The walk back to the farm is slow and laboured in my injured state. My ankle swells so that I can hardly hobble into the yard, but when we finally make it safely to the well, my two-faced husband will not leave my side. To my dismay he orders a thrall to bring some salve that he gently applies to my welted, mangled flesh. I am too sore – indeed, too weary – to find the strength to play his mind games. I can’t even muster the will to ask for Loki’s help. The trickster god wouldn’t help me anyway.
As Thorvard works hard to fix me up, a crowd begins to gather. A thrall asks if I can stand on my throbbing foot, and when I shake my head, she studies me. All I want is to get away from all these curious do-gooders. If I could only go to sleep and not wake up…
“Bring me a goblet of wine,” I say, tugging on the thrall’s arm.
Thorgunna overhears. Pushing her way in closer, she takes up my hand in hers. “How bad is it?” she asks in her singsong voice as a million crinkles work their way into the folds around her eyes.
“She fell,” Thorvard lies. Thorgunna blinks.
“It’s true,” I say in a shaky voice. “I tumbled down an embankment while I was out walking with Thorvard in his fields.”
“She is lucky I was there,” Thorvard mutters as he gathers up my boots.
At that moment Leif emerges from behind the well. I feel his probing eyes scrutinizing my scrapes and scratches and the growing welts on my flesh. A moment later, he spots my husband’s bloodied scratches, and I silently breathe a prayer for protection. The god, Hlin, takes pity. Leif stays mum.
That night, Thorvard allows me to sleep alone but only because he stays up late in the drinking hall. In the morning, it is proposed that I travel with Leif and Thorgunna back to Brattahlíð. Thorvard insists on accompanying me in my injured state.
When the horses are bridled and waiting in the yard, Thorvard gallantly lifts me up onto my gelding, taking tremendous care to protect my foot. I am no fool. I have seen him nurse his guilt before by being overly thoughtful and attentive. He likes to prove to others that he is a valiant man, a Norseman like no other.
On the journey back to Brattahlíð, Thorgunna rides beside us. Her voice is cheerful as she talks about her kin and her life in the Hebrides. Keeping my back erect despite the throbbing pain, I stare off into the frost-covered fields and watch my breath puffing out clouds of mist as I listen to her babbling and worrying about everything. My soul-sword work needs to give me courage so I can try again to broach the subject of divorce as soon as I get the chance to speak with Leif alone.
Mother is there to greet us when we arrive in Brattahlíð. She scolds me for not visiting sooner, and I bow my head and close myself off from feeling responsible for her happiness. Then she tells me that she has had a guest for many months – a Christian priest who was sent by the King of Norway himself.
“I am thinking about converting,” she whispers as she takes me by the arm. I go stiff. She clings to me.
“Thorvard and Thorgunna, you must come inside and receive a gift,” she warbles as she throws a look over her shoulder. “It is something that should have been presented long ago when my husband was still alive.”
Thorvard studies the two of us, his eyebrows arching high. “Freydis, come with me.” He goes to say more, but Mother will have none of it. She drops my arm and waits for him to join her so they can walk together.
“Thorvard, I want to give the gifts in private without my two children hanging over me. Go change, Freydis. Prepare yourself for the welcoming feast.”
Thorvard’s eyes cut into me. Leif says nothing. I can hear the turkeys gobbling loudly in the yard.
“I’ll not keep your spouses long,” Mother continues as she breaks away from Thorvard so that she can go and help Thorgunna adjust her elaborate headdress stitched in gold. “I’ll present my gifts and then I’ll bring them back to you.”
A crimson flush rises in Thorvard’s face. He is a prisoner in Mother’s house, a man who is no longer able to use his power to get what he wants. For the first time in many months, I feel strangely smug.
As soon as Thorgunna and Thorvard are led away, Leif cautiously reaches out to touch the bruises along my hairline. Startled, I draw back. Behind him, the setting sun highlights the luscious furs draped around his neck with their bristles moving back and forth in the gentle wind.
“We should go inside,” I say as he reaches out and gently turn my chin into the light.
“Did he do this to you?” he asks.
&nbs
p; “Don’t,” I say in a pathetic whine.
“Freydis, we have little time,” he pleads.
“I can’t speak to you. He wouldn’t like it.” I want to tell my brother all about my husband’s wrath, about the way he abuses me, about his fists and my broken bones, but I can’t seem to use my tongue or find the words.
“It is just the two of us, and we are safe. You must tell me, sister. If your husband is abusing you, I’ll demand blood money.”
My lips are quivering. I pull away. In the distance, I hear a seagull cry.
“Come, then,” Leif says calmly, his tone steady. “I’ll walk you to your bed closet.”
We walk in silence through the yard until we reach the smithy where Leif stops and turns. “Freydis, you are dear to me,” he stammers. “When I left Greenland, I worried about you constantly.” His eyes search mine as he presses on: “I will set things right beginning at the feast tonight. When you arrive, you must sit beside me and pretend that there is nothing wrong.”
I stare at him, feeling numb. He wants me to pretend that there is nothing wrong when everything has been wrong right from the start.
“When tomorrow comes, you and I will ride out to inspect your lands.” He slows his breathing and looks past me to scan the yard. When he is certain that we are alone, his eyes return to me. “The plan is simple so listen closely. We’ll create a ruse using clever deception to trick Thorvard of Gardar. After we return from the fields, you will pretend that you are deathly ill and I will send you off to bed and ask the gyoja to attend to you. She will quarantine you inside your bedchamber and tell our kinsmen that you have the plague. If that trickster god, Loki, is on our side, our kinsmen will believe that you are too sick to travel back to Gardar.”
“Thorvard will insist on seeing me,” I moan. Leif cuts me off.
“Neinn. The gyoja will tell him that he would be a fool to visit you in your sickly state. She will tell him that it is best to leave and return to his farm. I’ll reassure him that as soon as you are well, I will escort you back to Brattahlíð.”
I glance up into the smoke-grey sky. “The threat of the coming winter storms will make Thorvard anxious to return to his farm,” I say as I take a shaky breath. My mouth is dry.
“I am counting on it,” Leif replies. “Let us hope that the god of winter is on our side. We should offer sacrifice. If Skaði is willing, the snow will trap you here over the winter months.”
I bite my cheeks to hold back tears. When we were children, Leif used to fight injustices on my behalf. Now we find ourselves in a more dangerous game. I should tell him that by defending me, he risks his life – Thorgunna’s, too.
“Freydis, do not despair,” my brother sighs as he looks deeply into my eyes. “I will get you out of this.”
“Óðinn has inspired you,” I manage weakly.
“Praise Óðinn then,” my brother says. He tries to give a reassuring smile before taking me by the shoulder and steering me down the hall. “Freydis, we must be careful. I won’t tell anyone about our plan, not even Thorgunna. If Thorvard were to discover what we are all about, it could be our ruin.”
I am ruined already, I think soberly.
Leif throws a glance.
“It was difficult while you were away,” I whisper.
“Freydis, I am sorry that you were married off to him. You must have borne a terrible weight.”
I have longed to hear these words, but now that he has spit them out, there is no relief. My sorrows have not been halved. There is only fear. I look down at my red hands, chafed from the work of dying wool.
“I’d best get back, brother.”
In the end, our deceptive plan works well. With my gyoja’s help, we manage to dupe the household thralls, my husband, and all his men. In a foul temper, Thorvard leaves the farm threatening to return for me before the snowstorms come. A few days later, the weather turns bone-chillingly cold, and the first snowstorm hits. In the blowing snow, ice pelts against the door of the hut and everything freezes solid overnight. I welcome the sound of the raging storm as I sit safely tucked underneath a sheepskin throw.
For days I remain hidden in the darkened hut where I light my herbs and return to giving sacrifices to the gods as I try to turn my wounds into scars. The thralls are too scared to bring me meals so Leif is the only one to visit me. He tells me that Thorgunna is worried about him catching illness. Poor woman. I wish that we could tell her that Loki has inspired us.
As time drags on, the guilt I feel for deceiving Thorgunna begins to itch. I am alone with my thoughts and plagued by a persistent building fear that Thorvard will return for me. While I am finally free of a vicious man, his hurtful words continue to tumble around inside my head, and I question every little thing I do. He has broken and changed me, made me doubt everything about myself.
One morning I tiptoe across the creaky planks and throw open the heavy door to catch some air. As the cold creeps in, I am met with the sight of my brother cutting a path as he snowshoes towards my hut. His shoulders are bent into the wind.
“Freydis, the gyoja says that you are cured.”
For the first time in many months, I feel my lips curling into a smile.
“Here,” he says as soon as he has unstrapped his snowshoes. “Take these berries and smash them against your lips and pinch your cheeks for color so that you look well. With that red hair of yours and your pale skin, you still look ill, and we can’t have that.”
“Neinn,” I murmur. “We can’t have that.”
As the days grow shorter and the snow piles up, Leif helps me regain a place at his hearth. My clansmen embrace me, but I feel flat, like I have nothing to offer anyone anymore. I know that I am a tainted woman who is silently judged for abandoning her husband over the winter months. Leif has rescued me, but in many ways, I still feel trapped.
My brother, on the other hand, is full of stories. He likes to talk about his Vinland voyage to Leifsbidur. Our people love him for it. Especially Mother. In her eyes, he can do no wrong. With me, she blames and shames me. When I go to her, she tells me that she is relieved that I am well, but she accuses me of purposefully falling ill.
One day, I approach my brother who is stacking furs and counting tusks in Faðir’s old counting room, an area at the back of the longhouse that has been partitioned off.
“I have grounds for divorcing Thorvard,” I state simply as I use my teeth to rip off a piece of broken hangnail that is bothersome. Leif stops his work and glances up.
“Freydis, I know that you have not fared well at Thorvard’s hands,” he begins, “but you are safe here on this farm with us.”
“Já,” I say, “but what will happen when winter turns to spring?” I clench my fists and steel my nerves as a wave of anger overwhelms me. I could crush a giant, I am so worked up. “Good brother, please just hear me out. The way things are, I have fallen out of love with Thorvard of Gardar. Unless I divorce, I am not free to marry someone else and have children of my own.”
“Falling out of love is not a reason for divorce,” my brother says dismissively as he glances at a table where piles of shark and whale teeth lie in heaps.
“It is not just that,” I continue, boldly locking eyes with him. “Thorvard has been cruel to me. He hits me hard. He has abused me openly in front of witnesses on his farm. If I am to understand the Althing laws, a husband cannot slap his wife more than thrice, and I suffered more than that when I lived with him. Good brother, don’t you see? I know my rights. Divorce would be possible with your help.”
“Where are your witnesses, Freydis?” my brother sighs. He is growing impatient.
“Back on Thorvard’s farm,” I reply, feeling a little less confident now that he makes me doubt.
“Would they be willing to testify against their chieftain?” he murmurs as he stands and begins sorting hides. I see a tiny bug scurrying across the counting table. In this cold, I am shocked to see that it is alive.
“I am unhappy with my union, brot
her.”
“I can do nothing more than what I’ve done.” He glances over his shoulder. “If there was mutual unhappiness with the union, a quick divorce would be within your reach. Your dowry goods would be returned in full. Even so, we would be forced to scrounge up funds to pay the bride-price and the morning-gift back in full. Forsooth, divorce is a very expensive proposition. I won’t support it. Not right now. Quite simply put, a divorce from Thorvard is beyond my means.”
He sees the bug on the table. In one quick sweep, he swats the insect to the ground and squashes it with his foot. When I stay silent, he looks at me.
“Freydis, don’t be stupid. There is too much to lose.”
“Too much to lose?” I hear my voice spiraling up. “If I divorce, my estate will grow. I am entitled to one-third of our common possessions including a portion of Thorvard’s lands. You and I could both gain access to Thorvard’s wealth.”
“Come now, Freydis, calm yourself,” my brother says in a soothing tone. “You assume that you will win your case. That is unlikely, sister, and I’ll tell you why. Thorvard is a powerful man who can afford to pay off witnesses to tell his lies. Think on it. Lay hand on heart.”
I lift my chin and study him. Squirming, he looks behind me towards the gathering room where our clansmen are sitting and talking while they work.
“Our family would easily lose a hefty chunk of land if you divorced. Is that what you want? Do you wish for me to lose the hard-won lands that Faðir settled when he first came to Greenland’s shores?”
He stops to catch his breath. A moment later he stands up tall and scrutinizes me with his hard metal eyes.
“If Thorvard had full control of all your lands, he would have the largest farm on Greenland’s shores. After that, he could usurp control. My position as the goði of Greenland would be jeopardized.”
“I see,” I mumble. In actuality, the only thing I see is that Leif has turned greedy since he became a married man. He likes the power that his title brings. He likes his wealth. His sister’s fears are not his own.
The Voyage of Freydis Page 11