“Please forgive me.” My voice comes out all rattled.
“For what?” she asks.
I take a breath and see the dark smudge of a rowboat coming towards us from the direction of Helgi’s ship. “For not believing in the gods,” I breathe.
Chapter Sixteen
Worm meat
“Ready about. You lot there, lend a hand and belay the ropes,” Finnbogi orders as his boat pulls alongside the ship. His face is smeared with streaks of mud illuminated by the first sunrays breaking over the horizon.
“What happened?” Gunnar shouts.
“An iceberg ripped through the ribs of my brother’s longboat. Helgi’s ship is going down into Rán’s coral caves,” he says with his face upturned. “The sea goddess was lurking near that underwater ice mountain up ahead, glowering with her grasping fingers. She enticed my brother to bring his ship her way, hoping to draw him down into her cheerless realm with her nets, but I won’t let her take Helgi or his men. We need to send this rowboat back to pick up the remaining crew.”
Snorri steps forwards when he hears the news. “Make way, you sheep-fuckers,” he says gruffly, taking charge.
At his command, the Icelanders scramble to throw down ropes and clear an area big enough to accommodate another crew. The deck becomes a moving mass of bodies as gear is moved and ropes are coiled. Snorri can’t stop bellowing.
“Bring ale!” Logatha yells as she scrambles to help the first batch of men on board. They look haggard, shocked, and frozen stiff. I give them furs and heated stones. Within minutes we are waving Finnbogi off again.
“Thor, give us strength. We might be forced to break bulk to make room for Helgi’s crew,” Asta says as she clamps my arm.
“We won’t be throwing no supplies overboard,” Snorri growls as he crooks his finger and motions to a passing thrall. He glares at us. “Summer is almost halfway gone. We’ll be lucky if we arrive in Vinland in time to hunt. We can’t afford to throw nothin’ overboard.”
Across the water, a cow is bellowing in distress. “What will happen to the livestock?” Logatha frets as she approaches us carrying a load of furs for Helgi’s men.
“We can’t accommodate any more animals. Our hold is full,” Asta mutters as she reaches out to help with the furs.
“Then someone will have to kill the cow,” I say simply, but there is a feeling of betrayal, as if I’ve murdered the beast myself.
It takes most of the morning to deal with the ship and relocate the men. In the end, we lose half the sheep. Helgi is heartbroken as he watches the sternpost of his ship slowly slipping into the ice-cold depths of a watery grave. Feeling gutted, I watch him struggle to control his grief. When I see him shut his eyes and cover his face with his hands, I need to look away. Helgi is leaving behind his heart’s passion, his life’s work. The ship is the total sum of what he is worth. He loses it to Rán who swallows it whole as it spirals down. She gets the ship. We get the crew. Our decks are crowded; our hold, too full.
“The poor man,” Logatha remarks when we find ourselves standing alone at the stern.
I feel the stirrings of a hot, hard rage begin to coil around my heart. Loss has become so familiar that Helgi’s situation is nothing new. I have become a hardened shell who now shares space with a broken man. When he withdraws, I cannot bring myself to approach him in his misery. I cannot bear to feel the cold daggers of it. It is too familiar. Too painful for me to watch.
For two more days, we sail under cloudy skies, enduring the rhythmic waves pitching up and then rolling down, spraying mist and churning up white sea-foam in the choppy waters. There are no more stops until we hit the coast of a land that is flat and forested, sloping gently seaward with many white sand beaches.
“This must be Markland,” Logatha sighs. There are dark circles underneath her eyes. Finnbogi orders the oarsmen to break the rhythm that they’ve set down.
“Tomorrow, we will go ashore and find a spot where our cows and sheep can graze,” he announces in a booming voice that cuts through the excited chatter. He does not announce that going ashore is essential because our provisions are running low now that there are double the mouths to feed onboard.
The shipbuilder, Sven Forkbeard, seems pleased by what he sees. “Look at all those trees,” he murmurs as his face lights up and his whiskered mouth breaks into an exuberant smile. “With one tree alone, I could make a mast for a massive ship. By the gods, it will take no time to rebuild the longboat that Helgi lost.”
Helgi barely glances up.
“There will be timber when we arrive on Vinland’s shores,” Finnbogi says, but his voice reveals the strain of recent days.
“I wonder why my brother didn’t build his longhouse here on these wondrous beaches,” I muse almost inaudibly.
“Leif the Lucky likes to take chances in everything he does, including leading expeditions across the northern sea,” Snorri says. “He is the kind of man who never sits still. When it comes to explorin’, he is never satiated. I’m sure he’d brew some wind and smite the sea just so he could continue to go in search of land.”
I release a tiny laugh. “My brother certainly can be bullheaded,” I admit, “but in the end, it is about the stories. Truly, he is someone who lives to tell the tale.”
“He also likes to make a profit,” Finnbogi says as he slides his eyes my way. The crew goes silent.
“He is a Greenlander,” is all I say.
The next day we go ashore and find dew on the grass that we collect in our hands to drink. Logatha tells me that she has never tasted anything so sweet. Even the sheep seem to bleat more loudly when we send them out to graze.
That night as we sit around the blazing fire where the sparks rise to touch the emerging stars, I catch Sven Forkbeard studying the silhouetted spruce boughs swaying back and forth as if they are worshiping the gods.
“I want to make a sacrifice,” Logatha whispers softly. “I am concerned about the safety of my unborn child.”
“Why?” I ask, feeling scared. “Are you unwell?”
“I have lost a little blood,” she says.
I go to comfort her, but she pulls back. The firelight skips across her face.
“Don’t worry, Freydis, it is nothing,” she says as she struggles up. “I just thought that I should pay homage to the gods and give them sacrifice. I was hoping that you would come with me.”
I nod. “Of course I’ll come, but perhaps we should find Groa and ask her to come along as well.”
She shakes her head and turns from me, and I follow her up the beach to where a lean-to has been constructed. She has placed her sleeping hides there beside a simple stone altar holding three wooden statues. The first is Thor, god of thunder, god of warfare, and god of strength. The second is Óðinn, the supreme deity, the all-faðir, the giver of wisdom, the all-seeing one-eyed master who guards our fates. The third is Freyr, the god of fertility and prosperity, the god of sunshine and fair weather, the god of peace and good harvest.
Where were these gods when I needed them? Why didn’t they protect me from Thorvard’s fists? Logatha’s sacrifices are pointless, but who am I to tell her what to do?
Logatha begins the ritual by praying to each god in turn. I listen respectfully and extend my hand when it is time, knowing what is coming. Still, I wince when she uses her dagger to slice open my outstretched palm. After I drip my blood into a flask that holds a concoction of bitter herbs, she does the same. Then we light a fire and watch the smoke rising, but I am as jittery as a jellyfish.
We stay in Markland for about a week in fine weather. A burst of late-summer sun kisses my wind-burned face as I work with the women to scoop up fish just offshore. Meanwhile, the men go out to try their luck at hunting. Praise the gods, they are successful. They bring home deer and caribou and rabbit, and we set to drying and smoking the meat. Summer is drawing to a close and it is the start of corn-cutting month when the air turns cooler as soon as the sun begins to set.
When Finnbo
gi finally gives the order to pack up camp, Logatha isn’t feeling well. She tells me that she is cramping, but there is nothing I can do about it. To distract myself from worrying, I assist with the reloading of the ship. We now have over sixty men, two cows, some woolly sheep and some sickly-looking, squeamish goats.
For two whole days we sail in a northeasterly wind under a clear blue sky before we spot Leifsbidur on a Thor’s day in mid-afternoon. Throwing my arms into the air, I release a wild whoop as soon as I catch sight of a longhouse nestled amongst the shoreline grasses, set beside some rolling hills. Even Snorri smiles when he sees my exuberance. Breathing in the smell of land, I peruse the browns and yellows and golden flecks popping up amidst the green.
“Look!” Finnbogi says, pointing. “Ulf’s longboat reached Leifsbidur ahead of us.” I follow his finger and see the mast of a second longboat anchored in an estuary down the beach.
“Thank the gods Ulf and his crew made it here safely,” Logatha exclaims from her perch on a bed of furs. She is gaunt and sickly looking; her cheeks are the color of the grey sea.
“That longboat down the beach looks familiar. Its single sail is furled, and one of its masts is unstopped,” Helgi mutters through his teeth. He is a different man without his ship.
“Those Greenlanders must have arrived some time ago,” Finnbogi puffs as he squints his eyes and braces himself against the wind. He is looking haggard and old. Forsooth, this voyage has taken its toll.
“We should move our ship in the direction of that stream over there,” one of the seasoned sailors calls out. “Leif said the area is teeming with salmon.” He points, and I scan the sedge meadows which stretch into green low-lying shrubs; behind them is a line of trees far off in the distance.
“Does it stay green like this even in winter?” Logatha asks incredulously as she struggles to stand on wobbly legs.
Finnbogi shrugs. “We will explore it,” he says, but he is distracted.
The ship makes its way past a rocky mountain that marks the entrance to the bay and I follow Finnbogi’s gaze up the coast to where the other longboat sits, half-hidden behind a point of land. There is something in the helmsman’s look that rattles me. I sidestep barrels and crates and push my way through the Norsemen until I make it to the helm.
“Freydis, do you know the markings on that ship?” Finnbogi asks. His voice sounds strange. I shake my head.
“That ship heralds trouble,” Helgi spits as he comes to stand behind his brother.
“Trouble?” I repeat.
“That’s not Ulf’s ship,” Snorri announces.
“Whose ship is it then?” I ask uneasily.
“It is your brother’s ship. That’s the ship he sailed to Vinland’s shores. The last we saw of it, it was anchored in Eiriksfjord.”
Finnbogi runs his massive hands down his face and shakes his head.
“My brother’s ship?” I ask. “But he stayed behind in Brattahlíð.”
“By Óðinn’s beard, that ship was in his harbour when we left Greenland at the beginning of the month of sólmánuður,” Finnbogi mutters. “Either your brother is here, or his ship is being used by someone else. Is it possible that Thorvard outran us in your brother’s ship?”
I stare at Finnbogi. Waves of fear peak then break. It isn’t possible. It can’t be.
“Thor be with us, that isn’t Leif,” Logatha says, pointing. “Look.”
Thorvard is standing on the shore with his legs spread wide apart and his arms crossed, waiting. I can’t even see his face but I feel him fondling me, enticing the ship to come closer, reeling us in with his net like a fisherman would snag a fish for dinner.
“That horse cock beat us here,” Helgi exclaims.
Just then Thorvard turns and wanders back up the rocky beach. I had hoped to escape him and rid myself of his abuse, but once again he has outsmarted me. How is it that this bloodsucker always finds me?
My vision blurs. I reach out for Logatha with outstretched arms, hoping she will be there to hold me up. In a daze, I feel my head roll back and my hands flail out as I start to fall, but at the last moment I catch myself and stumble just before I hit the deck. From somewhere distant, a hungry seagull screams.
“Tack is free!” Sven yells as someone behind him turns the crossbar in the foreship to the other side so it is ready to receive the tack to turn the boat. Sven’s face is a blur.
“We can’t let Thorvard have her,” Logatha says as if through water.
“I assure you, wife, I’ll not let that happen.” Finnbogi’s lips are moving but I can’t seem to catch the rest of what he is saying.
“Give me the sword that hangs from your belt,” I mumble, all wool-headed. “I wish to run it through my husband’s heart.”
“Tack set,” someone calls.
“Cool your blood, Freydis,” Helgi mutters as he begins to trim the line. “Thorvard will expect us to come out fighting. We must devise a better plan.” He curses as he bends his back into his work.
“Give me your shield and sword. I’ll kill the bastard straightaway!”
“You’ll ruin your reputation,” Logatha cautions as she rubs her tummy as if in a trance. “They will call you a murderer and banish you when we get back to Greenland’s shores.”
“We are far away from Greenland,” I remind my friend.
“I’ll avenge you, Freydis,” Helgi mutters as he continues to prepare the ship to come into shore. “Don’t think you have to face Thorvard on your own.” He flicks a sideways glance and it seems as though he is different, as though he is a man reborn again after losing all.
“If that son of a bitch is bold enough to follow us to Vinland’s shores,” Finnbogi says as he grabs hold of the rudder stick, “he should be bold enough to accept my challenge to a duel.”
“Neinn!” Logatha spits out angrily. “I’ll not lose my husband at Thorvard’s hands.”
“Hush now, wife. Do you not believe that I am capable of squelching such a worm?”
Logatha’s eyes pop wide.
“Stop this nonsense. All of you. I am Freydis Eiriksdöttir, trained by the great swordsman Ivor of Gardar. I will defend myself and fight my husband, but I need a weapon. Give me your leg biter, I say!”
“You can’t face him yourself,” some Norseman says.
“Begone if you are not deathless! By Óðinn’s missing eye, I’ll smite any man down who tries to hold me back.”
Helgi unbuckles his belt which holds his sword. Then he climbs over the heads of several men to retrieve his scuffed shield which he brings to me. When he hands over all his fighting gear, I bob my head to mark my gratitude.
“Thorvard of Gardar is a snake. We must make him bleed,” Helgi sniffs. “He is a fattened worm who should be squished. Those of you who are not needed to man the ship, take up your swords and shields and be ready to go to battle against that thief. Freydis Eiriksdöttir will lead us out and make him bleed.”
In the chaos that follows, I gather up my fighting men and bellow out orders and words of encouragement as the ship pulls into the bay. In the distance, the settlement of Leifsbidur looks deserted.
I study the faces of the Greenlanders, before my eyes move to the dragon carving that marks the helm. Finnbogi is gazing at the beach, but Logatha is not with him. She has disappeared.
As soon as Finnbogi’s crew rows us into shore, I jump out in the shallows and feel the icy water clawing at my legs. I have thirty-five Greenlanders following me with Helgi and his crew bringing up the rear.
Leifsbidur is a dreary place with an abandoned yard. To my surprise, Thorvard has been using the longhouse, the byre, and the smithy that my brother built. A fresh pile of dung lies in the middle of my path. Just ahead there are two sleepy sheep.
“Where are you hiding, you Loki ass-kisser?” I shout. It is so quiet that I consider unsheathing Helgi’s sword. Instead I raise my arm and flick my wrist to signal my men to follow.
“Be careful, Freydis,” Helgi cautions as he advances f
rom the back.
With sweaty palms, I grit my teeth and try to close off thought, but there is hatred burning in my gut. How did Thorvard arrive here first? Where is Ivor, his right-hand man? How about my brother? Where was he in all of this?
I make my way towards the longhouse, stepping carefully over puddles of water left by rain. Just as I go to lift the latch, the door flies open, and Thorvard steps out dressed in all his finery. His massive frame fills the doorway so I can’t see what lies beyond.
“Why did you put your belongings into my brother’s longhouses?” I ask disdainfully. “Leif lent me the longhouse, and he said nothing about sharing it with the likes of you and your Greenlanders. Get out, you dog!”
Thorvard turns the order over in his head and sucks on it like someone would suck on a blade of grass. “Ach, Freydis, I will never be a match for your ill-will,” he eventually says as he lifts his chin and sizes up my fighting men. I draw my sword.
“Where is Ivor?” I ask boldly.
Thorvard spits a wad of phlegm at my feet. “Freydis, your actions vex me.”
“I won’t ask again about Ivor’s whereabouts.”
Thorvard sniffs. “Ivor is my trusted man, and he is not here. I left him behind to manage the running of my farm. Unlike some, he is an honest member of my household who shows me loyalty and does what he is told.”
Thorvard glares at me. I throw a tiny smile.
“When I return, I’ll honor him,” Thorvard continues, eyeing me with his snake-like eyes.
“Indeed you shall,” I smirk.
Thorvard’s face turns cold. “Wife, I am not pleased that your brother gave you permission to sail to Vinland without my consent. Swine’s piss! I am your husband, and you dishonored me. Your brother should not have allowed you to go anywhere with Finnbogi and his good-for-nothing brother. They are Icelanders and all they do is cheat and steal.”
The Voyage of Freydis Page 17