Paths of the Norseman, page 25
part #2 of The Norseman Chronicles Series
“Freydis, I don’t know what you are talking about with Leif.”
“When we were young, he seemed like such a man of promise, but now he is just a weakling. He barely touches me when we are in bed and I’m glad of it because he is so weak,” she said to the fire.
“Leif comes to your bed?” I asked. “He is your half-brother and he is in Greenland. What are you talking about, Freydis?”
“What are you talking about, Halldorr?” she asked with confusion in her voice and eyes.
“I’m talking about Leif. What are you talking about, Freydis?”
“Torvard. I talk of my weak husband. I cannot understand why you bring my wretched brother into this.”
I nodded to her with a sad smile. I have seen some men lose their ability to decipher reality, usually after battle where their brothers-in-arms are sent to a premature death before their eyes. However, I have never seen a woman exhibit such erratic behavior as Freydis did that night. I should clarify; there was once a woman in Dyflin who went from bed to bed for jewelry and silver trinkets from the soldiers or mercenaries. She sometimes confused me when I spoke to her on the streets. She actually frightened me so, that I did not ever choose to join myself to her, but the woman was often at the yard of Kvaran, Dyflin’s king, because he had a penchant for young, dark-haired girls. I do not know what ever happened to her.
In any case, shortly after that our conversation became more normal, continuing on quite pleasantly for some time.
Then it came time for her to leave. Freydis’s visits ended each night in the same manner. She would sigh and say that Torvard expected her to leave during the night, but that he would expect her back shortly. I remember thinking that Torvard’s expectations likely rarely figured into Freydis’s considerations, but nonetheless, I let her white lie go unchallenged.
But in time, the brothers’ longhouse was complete, and we all moved in just as the weather turned cold. We would be warm with nearly thirty of us sleeping in the small hall. The four thralls who came with Helgi and Lifa stayed with Freydis and Torvard’s thralls in the small hut outside my old house. The day we carried our baggage inside the walls of their new longhouse, Finnbogi gave me the choice of where I would sleep, so in jest I said, “Well if it’s truly my choice I’ll rest my head next to Ketilridr, but I cannot say we’ll do much sleeping.”
Helgi and Lifa roared in laughter, with the woman giving a sharp elbow to her sister, Ketilridr. Finnbogi became a little flustered but tried his best to send a witty remark in my direction. “I would hate to ask you to go back outside for the cold winter.”
“It’s a shame that you plan to send your beautiful wife outside for the winter months, but if that is where she’ll be, I guess we’ll have to find a way to keep warm.”
This further frustrated him so that he stopped trying altogether, feigning disgust. Ketilridr smiled sheepishly at all the fun at her and Finnbogi’s expense, so I returned the smile and answered, “Finny, I am sorry for having fun with you on this. I know you meant the offer to be taken seriously, and I do, for I will, for the first time in my life, choose a place on the sleeping platform. I do tire of the cold air down on the earth.”
As we unpacked everything, Lifa, hanging a black iron pot from a dangling chain over the cold hearth, asked me, “You were raised with Freydis, were you not?”
Here she was again – Freydis. I moved out of the house without being asked because I did not want to be near her. I slept next to the lake to be isolated from her, yet she came in the night to piss and talk. Now I moved in with wonderful new friends, and Freydis was the first topic of conversation. Finding one of the pegs we set into the wall, I hung my belts before answering, “More or less,” hoping that was enough.
It was not, “Then you can help us.”
Helgi joined his wife, “Aye, she’s right. We need help with that woman.”
People were stacking items on shelves, bustling about to strike jasper stones in the dry grass between the stones of the hearth for the longhouse’s first fire, so I hoped that I could feign busyness by announcing, “I had better gather some of my raisins from the work shed at my old house.”
I could not. Helgi answered, “No, we’ll send Bedwyr.” With a nod of Lifa’s head, the Welsh thrall ran out the door. “Now what shall we do to make this relationship work with your sister?”
“She is not my sister, she’s not even Leif’s full sister. But why do you even care to make this work?”
Finnbogi took up the cause, “We made a bargain with her and our father taught us to honor bargains. We said we would split the glory and rewards for this trip. Everyone who has come back from these voyages to Vinland is renowned. Even if our profits from this journey amount to nothing, we will win future trade because of it. We cannot have this woman speaking ill of us. So the question remains, what will we do about the woman?”
Hands now on my hips, I stared up at the clean timbers of the roof, preferring to study the underside of the turf and wood forming the gable than become further embroiled in such nonsense as this. Helgi grew impatient with me saying, “The story goes that you nearly married the woman, so you know her better than any man who is a part of this house.”
“It’s only by God’s good grace that I did not marry that woman. She and others meant ill for me, God set the results of their actions right. I do enjoy you, my new friends, but I do not want to become involved in childish arguments.”
“Halldorr, you must help us work with this woman,” pleaded Helgi. “I fear that we could have bloodshed between our bands if we do not straighten this out.” He stopped when I scoffed at the suggestion, but continued when it was clear I would say nothing, “You may be right that my concern is unwarranted, but I have seen how some of her men look at us. I’ve been approached by enough pirates in the marketplace to know when we are being examined for attack. And if you don’t care about our welfare, remember the lovely form of Ketilridr. You would not want any harm to come to that.” He flashed his charming smile when he finished.
I liked the man and his troupe. I did not want any harm to come to any of them or to any of Freydis’ men. “Damn you Helgi, but you make a good argument. But if my plan is to work to my maximum benefit, I ought to wait to offer help until old Finny is underground from some skirmish. That way I get the delights of Ketilridr to myself.” All but Finny, I think he tired of our jokes, laughed and then we settled down to discuss a plan.
. . .
The three day Christmas celebration of midwinter was upon us, but there was no hlaut sprinkled anywhere in Leifsbudir for we were universally Christian. We also had no horse or goat or other livestock to sacrifice because none was brought with the new batch of adventurers. I had no man such as Thorhall the Huntsman with whom to reminisce about our old customs and stories growing up with Odin, Thor, and the other mighty gods of the Aesir dynasty. Now the only way to relive those times of my youth was to go to Asgard in my mind.
One aspect of the old days would return this Yule. Our talk on the first night in our new home saw to that. Two weeks ago, I was dispatched like a young messenger to organize games and entertainment with the house of Freydis as a sign of peace. At first my suggestions were greeted with contempt, but eventually Torvard and even some of her ruthless looking men began to support the idea. But I think it was her two children who did the most good in convincing their angry mother that the sport would be a welcome diversion from the winter that settled more and more closely around us with each passing day.
We hosted the first two nights of merriment at our new house on the shore of the frozen pond. In truth, the evenings went very well, certainly better than any of us expected. Even after starting rather ignobly, with stares across the hearth between the two groups, eventually the ale spread cheer among both sets of explorers so that laughter and Yule songs rose to an ear-splitting roar. The hall was warm that night as it was packed with more people than it was ever intended to hold.
Both of the nights, four thin men sat in a corner atop a sleeping platform playing various tafl games on an old, weathered board with simple game pieces freshly carved from oak scraps that had been set aside for kindling. I had played these games many times in my life, and they could be fun. However, I never witnessed them go on very long without arguments breaking out, then escalating. You see, each region, or each man in some cases, had its own rules for the tafl games, even though they were all basically the same. Invariably, one player would try a move that was accepted in his home village, and his opponent would cry foul. When ale or mead flowed excessively as it did during that Christmas celebration, someone ended the night with a badly swollen eye while his counterpart ended the night with sore knuckles. These thin men were no different, and both nights they argued, then fought one another, only to come back together to play again. There was never any danger of their fight catching fire among the entire crowd since they all hailed from Freydis’ house. In fact, their scraps helped bring the two parties together as we all cheered them, toasting the man who was successful enough to get a particularly good pummeling in.
The rest of us bore a merry, raucous tone both nights. I adored the hours of watching and participating in glima wrestling. Normally we scheduled wrestling during daylight hours for more room, but we pushed observers up onto the sleeping platforms so they stood three or four deep in places, creating a small, cleared area around the hearth on which to sport. Glima is a particular style of wrestling that emphasizes technique over strength. The crowd keeps the rules sacred as any man who is seen infringing upon them is harshly jeered, with wooden or horn mugs quickly pelting him, inflicting more shame than pain.
Glima is popular among the masses of Norse and our Danish and Swedish cousins. The children love it so much that Freydis’ two offspring found a flea-ridden dog whose right ear, like my own, had been damaged in some fight or another, dragging the docile beast into a space under a sleeping platform to practice their own form of wrestling on the dog. The women, too, wrestled each other using the glima style.
Lifa and Ketilridr had a particularly boisterous contest, sending the men into fits as they cheered, secretly hoping that one or more of the women would lose an article of clothing. It was not to be however, as Lifa soon tired and her sister easily sent her falling on her backside. Both of the women’s husbands proudly kissed their women after the match, with Helgi happily squeezing a hand on his wife’s ass. It was sore from the fall, however, so she let out a surprised shout, slapping Helgi playfully on his chest. He smiled, apologized, then grabbed her rump’s other cheek for good measure for all to see. We gave the two young lovers a merry cheer. I liked them very much.
Soon it was not only Lifa’s behind that hurt, but her groping husband’s as well. After many terrific matches between the men, it was Helgi and I who were left for a championship bout next to the roaring hearth. We were stripped to our waists by that point because of the heat generated by the billowing crowd and nearby flames. The wind howled outside, finding its way into the longhouse through several small cracks that would need sealing and through the larger smoke hole near the roof. I shivered briefly from a cold draft hitting my back at the start of this last fight while bathed in sweat from the previous grappling. But then the crowd called for the start, and we began the stepwise dance.
In glima, the participants must remain standing tall while we circle one another in a sun-wise manner, always moving, which creates many opportunities for attack or defense, preventing a boring stalemate. The objective is to get your opponent to touch a part of his body between the knee and elbow to the floor by throwing him. Once thrown, the pursuer is not permitted to follow or drive the other man into the floor. So the sport is all about leverage and technique, not so much brute strength.
Helgi and I circled one another barking out good-nature taunts as should begin a confrontation. In an instant, the shorter man left a part of his middle exposed with one misstep so I reached in with both hands, grabbed his belt and waist, but my hand slid from his slippery skin. We continued the dance. Over and again we grabbed at one another trying to gain the upper hand. His shorter height was actually proving to be a benefit to him and twice Helgi successfully tossed me, but I used my feet and hands like a cat to catch myself and stay in the match.
At last I successfully latched both hands about his belt securely, but instead of twisting him, pulled him toward me, over my bent left knee. His feet spun out over his head and he landed with a dull thud on his rump, puffing up a cloud of brown dust. The crowd, both camps, cheered. I lent a hand to Helgi to pull him up, and we basked in the small glory of being the champion and reserve champion wrestlers that night. After so much glee, I resolved to plan a water wrestling tournament at the height of the following summer. These matches were pure joy in which to participate and almost as much fun to watch.
As we gathered our tunics, Freydis proposed a toast to all who gathered, even offering a prayer to the One God for sending his son, the Christ to us this day many years ago. After a somber salute and downing of our ale cups, we all lounged while a skinny freckled man in Freydis’ company, a would-be skald really, began singing and telling stories of old. His voice, of higher pitch than tenors, could carry a tune better than most men, but he was not among the best skalds I had ever heard for his voice cracked at the highest and croaked at the lowest ranges of the songs. His songs of heroic raids on the weaklings in Ireland and Scotland made me proud because of my part in those actions. In one rambling adventure story, he even told of Leif the Lucky and his drinking of dew from the grass of Vinland when we first set foot upon this island some years ago. Though my memory is not perfect, I thought I would have remembered our pitched battle and subsequent victory over some nasty giants in those early days conquering this land. I noticed that nowhere was it mentioned that Halldorr Olefsson was always at Leif’s side saving his hide from one scrap after another, guiding him, advising him, but those gathered in the hall that night knew, and I was something of a celebrity after his songs.
The first night ended with drunks slowly shuffling their way back through the cold forest on the short walk to Freydis’ house. I do not remember much after that for I was so exhausted that a dreamless sleep found me as soon as I found my bed next to the dog the children had been playing with. His breath was terrible, worse than my own, I think. When I awoke the next morning, not having moved an inch all night, the dog still lay with his hot panting breath wafting directly into my nose. When our eyes blinked open around the same time, his tongue came out to lick his nose then my nose while he didn’t move another muscle.
Soon after waking, I cracked the heavy door open so that he could run out into the snow to chase birds and relieve himself. He ran straight toward his normal residence with Freydis, hopping happily in the light, cold snowfall, pausing briefly to make his mark, then continuing on with a merry bark. I smiled at his simple happiness. He made some man a faithful companion, I thought.
I have spent much time talking about the first evening of our Christmas party that year. The second night of celebration was much the same, again held at Helgi’s and Finnbogi’s, with ale and gaiety abounding. I have tarried so long on the singing and wrestling because it brought me so very much pleasure. Few times in my adult life have brought that much excitement without any loss of life, and so as I wrote these words in the universal Latin language, I wanted to spend more time reliving the moments. Pardon an old man for wasting time.
The third night, I found, was altogether different, however. This time Helgi, singing dreadfully off tune, but happy nonetheless, led our band over to Leif’s former house for the drinking and sport. In truth, the first half of the evening went as well as the previous two, with smashed potatoes and blood sausage served, but midway through as I sat breaking open the beaten down Torvard with conversation, our joy eroded.
Drunkenly confused, Torvard said, “No, Tyrkr seems to be a good man. Even though he is free now, he seems very willing to help our family in any way he can. He is always nearby. I suppose it is from a sense of duty he feels to Freydis from his time as Erik’s thrall.”
I sighed, “That is probably the case,” not wanting to dispel the myth he had weaved in his mind, popping another slice of the blood sausage into my mouth.
“I’m glad you agree because I used to become jealous that he and Freydis seemed to be such close friends. But I soon found that something in their friendship brought benefits to me!”
“What could that possibly be?” I asked, swirling another bit of sausage into my potatoes using my eating knife.
“Each day they spend time together, working in the barn or gathering berries, Freydis comes back to my bed filled with passion, taking my body as she never does.” He leaned in as if he were telling me something I did not know, whispering, “My woman knows how to handle herself under our blankets. Then, like clockwork she is with child and soon I have a healthy son or daughter. My seed must be so supreme that I only need one try to form the baby.” Leaning back on his stool with obvious pride, he added, “We’ll see what it is she carries now. Freydis is so large already that it must be one of these moose of which you talk!”
He was happy in his own way so I let it be. Turning the matter, I said while marveling at a spot of sausage on my plate, “I haven’t had blood sausage in years.”
“Oh, we had some wonderful blood sausage just before leaving Greenland!” exclaimed the jovial Torvard.
“What did you use?”
“Pork and rye.”
“In my experience, the most enjoyable is lamb blood mixed with rye flour and oats stuffed right back into the sewn lamb stomach. Oh, that is delicious!” I said dreaming of the delicacy. “I haven’t had that in years, but have lived off this land, which provides enough, I suppose.”
“It’s a wonderful land at that! I hope to convince that part-sister of yours to stay, to make a home. It seems like it would be lonely at times, though.”
