The Voyage of Freydis

CHAPTER ONE:  WE DINE

Feast of LithasBlot (31^st July, 1000 A.D.)

 

My husband’s mood is foul.  I sit up tall, hoping that he won’t notice the perspiration marks underneath my arms because he hates it when I look unkempt.  But the longer I sit, the more difficult it is for me to share the news.  Selfishly, I want to savour 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 dismissively 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 cheek.  Thorvard of Gardar has made me into someone I despise: a grovelling fool, a whining mammet.  Fie!  I never used to be like this.  Before I wed, I was naïve, but I was proud: the envy of every maiden in the western settlement.  And Thorvard.  I thought he was a different man.  The bride-price he offered Faðir for my hand in marriage was greater than any other mundr anyone in Greenland had ever seen:  seal skin hides, arctic fox pelts and sheepskin fleece, narwhale ivory pieces, an expensive iron pot and tempered scythes, twelve ounces of silver, one horse and oxen, and four milking cows.  I savour the memory.  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.

 

Thorvard pulls me out of my reverie when he begins to yell.  “As my wife, you must do your duty and obey my rules,” he growls. I stare at him.  His eyes are bloodshot.  His lips are slick with grease.

 

“I have been dutiful,” I squeak.   I keep 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 disgustedly.

 

By Óðinn’s beard, I will 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, and I am resentful.  The feast of sea bird eggs dipped in salt lies untouched on his pewter plate.

 

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

 

“Believe you me, no other husband would tolerate your barren womb!  You are a disappointment, especially after all I’ve done for you.”

He knows just how to upset me.  My life has been worn out with sorrow since I married Thorvard of Gardar.  Forsooth, he will find a way to strip the joy from my happy news.  He always does.  Nervously, I begin picking at the pilling wool on my shawl.  I can feel his eyes burning into me.

 

Unexpectedly, Thorvard heaves himself off his chair.  My head snaps back as he shoves his face into mine.  Startled, my hands fly up.

 

“You wench!” he hisses.  “You think I don’t know that you leave my farm?  You think that 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.”

 

I gasp.  I have been deceived.  Betrayed.  Forsooth, I have been an utter fool to put my hopes in Ivor, Thorvard’s trusted bondsman.  I keep my fingers splayed across my face as I slowly inch my chair back.  To my horror, Thorvard has me trapped.

 

“Have pity, Thorvard,” I blubber pathetically.  He begins to belabour my shortcomings in a long monologue, his spittle spraying across my hands.  My ears are tingling.  My throat is dry.  O’ gods, how I hate my husband!  I would kill him if I had the chance, but what would become of me?

 

Slowly and carefully, I lower my good arm while Thorvard continues ranting like a madman, his voice ratcheting upwards.  As I begin to reach for the hidden knife stashed inside myboot, Thorvard grabs me and squeezes hard.  I grit my teeth and wince and try to swallow a building sob because the pain is harsh.  He is breaking skin.  Slowly, my mind begins to drift.  If I kill him, his clansmen would call me a murderess.

 

Thorvard yells again, and my thoughts snap back.  On instinct, I push him hard.  He stumbles, recovers, and lunges for me just as I draw my knees in closely to my chest.  Viciously, I kick him in the groin, and Thorvard roars in pain.  In a flash, I scamper backwards with my knife in hand, out of reach.  There is a building pressure, a caving iceberg of fear shearing off, a surge of boiling hatred pushing up.

 

“Come and get me!” I whisper, taunting him.

 

“You weasel!  I’ll make you pay for your defiance.  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 heavy in my hand, the blad, sharp. I imagine blood dripping from its point.  Directing my gaze at the lone windowpane above Thorvard’s head where the hazy light from the midnight sun trickles in, I run at him, aiming the dagger directly at his heart.

 

Thorvard’s face convulses.  He begins to swear.  It is as though I am under water drawing in mouthfuls of sea-salt with the cold licking my translucent skin.  All I hear is a hissing noise, a distorted voice I can’t make out.   I lift my arm and go to strike, but Thorvard blocks me.  In the skirmish, he grabs my wrists and forces me to drop the knife.  I feel the tang slip 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 Thorvard’s crooked smile just as he shifts his weight and draws his muscled forearm back to drive his fist into my face.  My eyes shoot wide.

 

Please help us, mighty Thor!  I can’t pass out!  I haven’t told anyone that I am with child.  O’ gods! I won’t be able to protect the little one growing in my womb.   I beseech thee, Óðinn!  I am too young to die.