They Came On Viking Ships (17 page)

The trees lost their leaves. Now there were finally cheeses in the storerooms, for the Skraelings had stopped coming to trade.

‘Perhaps they move away in autumn,’ said Freydis.

Hekja shook her head. ‘Their village looked too substantial to leave every year. Snorri might know,’ she added, trying to say his name carelessly.

‘Snorri has never been to their village,’ said Freydis comfortably. ‘Only on hunting parties. He hasn’t seen
any sign of them either.’ She shrugged. She had become more relaxed since her pregnancy. ‘They’ll come back in their own time, I’m sure. Not that it matters. We have more than enough trade goods to fill our ships next spring. And then…’ Freydis looked out, past the harbour, at the sparkling sea.

‘Then what?’ asked Hekja. But she guessed.

Freydis laughed. ‘And then our ships will bring back more silver than we have ever seen—and more ships, and more men too. This is just a start, Hekja. My father founded one colony. By the time my child is grown I will have villages all down this land. And maybe there are still more lands to be found.’

To Hekja’s surprise Freydis put an arm about her shoulders, and gave her a brief hug. ‘You will tell your grandchildren you sailed with me, Hekja,’ she promised. ‘And by then you will be one of the first families of Vinland.’

Each morning now Hekja’s breath turned white as she went to milk the cows, and each night a giant log was dragged into the fire pit, to smoulder all night and warm the house. But Leif had been right. Even through winter here the grass stayed green, and the cattle and sheep stayed fat in their fields. There would be milk all through winter, it seemed, in this rich land.

Then one morning the Skraelings attacked.

Snarf heard them first. Hekja rolled over on her furs when she heard him bark, then shut her eyes again. It was a, ‘Hey, look who’s here!’ bark, not a, ‘Watch out! Danger! Enemies!’ bark. Perhaps, she thought, some of the men in the other long house were setting out on an early hunt.

Suddenly Snarf barked again, more urgently now. He ran up to the big wooden doors as though telling her to open them.

‘Do you want to go out? Wait a moment then.’ Hekja shrugged off her sleeping furs. She yawned as she crossed the silent hall, and pulled at the wooden doors.

Suddenly she froze. The grey river was black with Skraeling canoes, silent and purposeful, their men with arrows ready at their bows. ‘Skraelings!’ she screamed.

‘What is it, girl?’ One of the men ambled past her out into the dawn. ‘Another trading party? A bit early, isn’t it?’ He blinked into the dim light, then realised what she had seen. ‘Thor’s boots!’ he yelled, scrambling back into the long house. ‘Attack! Attack! Everyone to arms! Attack!’

Freydis stumbled from her bedchamber. Already men were scrambling for their swords and shields and axes. ‘What is it?’ she shouted.

‘Skraeling raid!’ someone yelled to her.

Hekja grabbed Snarf by the scruff of the neck, and shrank back against the wall, to keep out of the way. Thorvard was yelling orders now. Freydis was the colony’s commander, but she had never fought a battle or led a raid or even seen one, apart from the accidental landing at Hekja’s village.

Thorvard had. Hekja bit her lip. Thorvard was a good man, but not a man that others followed. Could he lead them now?

Freydis gazed around, then picked up her skirts and ran out the door—ungainly as her belly was now so large. She was going to the other long house, Hekja realised, to warn them too. An arrow landed on the door behind her. Hekja darted after her, but was caught in the rush of people pushing through the doors. She struggled through them, into the courtyard, and looked around for Freydis. Men were pouring from the other long house now.

Suddenly Hikki grabbed Hekja’s arm.

‘Come on! Run!’ he yelled. ‘None of them can catch us!’ Hekja shook her head.

‘There are too many of them!’ Hikki shouted. ‘Don’t be a fool! Run!’

‘Freydis…’ began Hekja.

‘You owe her nothing!’

‘No!’ cried Hekja.

Hikki hesitated, then sprinted across the fields without her towards the trees.

An arrow fell at Hekja’s feet. Someone screamed—one of the women, with an arrow in her stomach. She doubled over, then fell to the ground. An arrow whizzed
past Hekja’s face, close enough to feel its wind. She heard the wet smack as it buried itself in a man’s shoulder.

Another woman made to go back into the long house. One of the men grabbed her. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘You’ll be trapped in there! Into the trees! You can hide up there!’

The woman began to run after Hikki. The other women followed her, lifting their skirts high so they could scramble through the bracken. Suddenly Hikki screamed. It was a long scream and it went on and on. Hekja turned and saw him just as he staggered forward a few steps, trying to get to the safety of the trees. Then he collapsed, the feathered arrow in his back.

Hekja hesitated, then pushed forward to try to get to Freydis, just as another rain of arrows showered all around. The Skraelings were out of their canoes now, but for the moment they came no closer. Why run towards the Viking swords when their arrows could kill them at a distance?

A Norseman crumpled to the ground, and then another.

‘Hekja!’ It was Snorri. He grabbed her, putting his body between her and the Skraeling bowmen, just as an arrow thudded into him, below his heart.

Hekja screamed as he slumped next to her. She bent to try to help him, but one of the men pulled her away. ‘Run,’ he yelled. ‘There are too many for us! We all have to run to the trees!’

‘No!’ Freydis stumbled from the other long house, her pregnant belly big before her. ‘Why do you flee, brave men like you?’ she yelled. ‘You should be able to slaughter them like cattle!’

No one seemed to hear her. Hekja crouched on the ground, as though to shield the dying Snorri from more arrows. His eyes were open and he saw her, though there was blood trickling from his mouth.

‘Run,’ he whispered. ‘Run.’

‘Harrrrrrrrrrr!’ It was a wilder shriek than Hekja had ever heard. She looked up. The fleeing Norsemen stopped and stared.

Freydis shrieked again. She ripped her dress open, so the bodice hung down and showed her pregnant belly. She bent down and picked up a sword from a man crumpled at her feet, then stood and slapped it three times against her naked breast.

‘If men will not fight then women must!’ she called. ‘Hekja!’

Hekja blinked. Part of her lay there with Snorri. Snorri, who had sung of heroes…Suddenly she seemed to find herself. She grabbed Snorri’s sword from his limp hand.

It was a big sword, too heavy for a woman. But Hekja held it above her head and could not feel its weight, and shrieked as Freydis did.

And then they charged.

A pregnant woman and a girl charged a horde of Skraelings, Freydis shrieking like a storm up on the mountain, and Hekja too.

Snarf ran as well. Where Hekja went, he went, even to the jaws of death.

The Skraelings stopped. Perhaps, thought Hekja, they think we are enchanted and arrows can’t pierce us. They are thinking there’s no other way a pregnant woman and a girl could run at a band of warriors and show no fear. Surely it must be magic!

But mostly she just ran. Was this what Snorri meant, she thought exultantly. Is this what heroes feel, the final exhilaration of battle before we die?

Suddenly there was a noise behind her. The Norsemen were running too. But now they ran towards the enemy, not away. The Skraelings picked up new arrows and began to fire. But now the arrows fell on shields, not flesh.

The men were overtaking Freydis and Hekja now. Thorvard flung himself in front of them, so his shield protected Freydis too. His was the first sword that crashed into the enemy, but there were others with him. Axes chopped through flesh. The flow of arrows stopped. Arrows don’t work when the enemy is on you. Wooden clubs are no match for swords and axes.

Hekja faltered, lost in the tumult of men and blood and weapons, too short to see what was happening. She was only conscious of Freydis panting at her side, still sheltered by Thorvard’s shield, of blood and noise and pain.

Suddenly the Skraelings were running, back to the canoes, dragging their dead and wounded with them. There were just enough alive to speed the canoes back up the river, as silently as they had come.

Freydis let the sword fall from her hand, as though she had forgotten it, as Thorvard ran with the other men, after the fleeing Skraelings. Hekja stared at them, unable to believe that she was still alive. Then she ran back to where Snorri lay upon the ground.

He was still breathing. He must have pulled the arrow out himself when Hekja ran on with Freydis. Now he lay unconscious, his blood in a dark pool on the soil. Hekja pulled her apron off then knelt by his side and began to press the apron against him to try to staunch the flow.

Freydis had lost the fire that drove her towards the Skraelings. She almost staggered now, back towards the houses. Suddenly she leant against the long-house wall. Her face was white, and even in those minutes dark shadows had grown beneath her eyes. One of the women ran to her, as though to help her walk, but Freydis shook her head and forced herself back up, fastening her dress again with hands that shook.

‘Bring the wounded inside,’ she ordered, resting her hands for a moment on her belly. Her voice was hoarse but steady.

‘What if they return?’ called someone.

‘They won’t for now. I want the rest of you to bring the logs we cut for timber. I want a fence around the houses by nightfall, as high as three men and pointed at the top, so no Skraeling can climb over it. Drive each log deep into the ground and leave a gate that can be barred.’ She caught her breath, as though in pain, then added, ‘A lookout. Build a lookout too. We will not be taken by surprise again.’ She walked awkwardly over to Hekja and peered down. ‘What are you doing, girl? Smelling him?’

Hekja looked up and nodded. ‘A wise woman told me that is how you can tell how deep a wound is. If it smells bad the gut is pierced. If not,’ she bit her lip, ‘then he may live.’

‘Well?’ asked Freydis more gently.

‘Maybe he will live,’ whispered Hekja. ‘Perhaps the arrow was almost spent and didn’t go too deep.’

‘I hope so,’ said Freydis coolly. ‘His family is important in Norway. They will be useful when we need to trade.’ She beckoned to two of the men to help Hekja carry Snorri indoors and did not object when Hekja commandeered almost every sheepskin in the house to make him comfortable by the fire.

People looked at Hekja differently now. Before they had listened when she passed on Freydis’ commands. But now they obeyed Hekja’s wishes too. Hekja was still a thrall, but none of the people there that day would ever think of her as such again. Hekja had run side by side with Freydis as they led the fight against the Skraelings. Now they did her bidding and, almost without realising it, Hekja expected them to do so.

Hekja cut Snorri’s shirt away as gently as she could. She bound the wound again properly with clean linen, as Tikka had once shown her how to do, so long ago. The best that she could do was stop the bleeding, Hekja thought. There were no healing herbs here, like the ones the witch used back on her mountain. Perhaps the Skraelings knew of some, but she did not.

Hekja still sat with Snorri while outside men yelled and carried poles for the new stockade, and Freydis walked white-faced from group to group, checking that all was done according to her orders. Snarf followed Freydis for a while, but as the day grew hotter he trotted back inside again, and lay by Hekja. Her eyes were on Snorri, his face almost as white as the sheepskins.

At midday one of the women, Helga, knelt beside her, and handed her a horn of buttermilk. Hekja shook her head. ‘He can’t drink it,’ she whispered.

‘For you, not him,’ said the woman gently. ‘It has an egg in it. You need to keep your strength.’

Hekja sipped without tasting, then realised the woman still sat beside her. ‘Hikki?’ she asked.

The woman shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Hekja. He is dead.’

‘I see.’ Hekja thought she should feel something, some kind of sadness. But it was as though every emotion had been used up.

‘How many more are dead?’

‘Two. Thorhild Gunnarsdaughter and Njal Valgardsson. Three wounded—Ketil, son of Thorgeir and Thorkel Gilsson. And Snorri Skald.’

Hekja thought of Hikki, his face glowing as he talked about his farm. ‘Bury Hikki up on the hill above the
gully,’ she whispered. ‘It will be his land. Let no man take it for their farm.’

The woman stood up. ‘Yes, Hekja. I will tell them.’

Hekja finished the milk, then with some soft leather sponged away the blood that seeped from under Snorri’s bandage and stared at him, as though storing up the sight to last her all her life. Then Snorri opened his eyes. For a moment he did not seem to see her. And then his gaze steadied and he gave an almost smile.

‘Valkyrie,’ he whispered.

Hekja frowned and bent closer to hear what he had said. ‘What is that?’

‘The maidens who take dead warriors to paradise,’ whispered Snorri.

‘I would rather live with a warrior here than carry off a dead one,’ said Hekja firmly, but her eyes were gentler than her words.

Snorri tried to smile then grimaced instead. ‘Maybe you are a berserker then,’ he whispered. ‘How is it that you sit with me now, when you scorned me before?’

‘Because I saw you dead,’ said Hekja softly, ‘and knew my life was empty. Wherever home is, it is with you.’

Snorri nodded drowsily. Hekja wondered how much he had understood. But there was happiness in his smile now as well as pain. And when he slept this time somehow his hand was holding Hekja’s.

Hekja beckoned Helga with her other hand. She came at once, even though she was free born.

‘What’s a berserker?’ asked Hekja softly.

Helga smiled. She guessed what Snorri had whispered. ‘They are the greatest warriors of all. They
dress in animal skins and fight with such ferocity that no one can touch them, for they are protected by Odin.’
⁴²

Hekja shook her head. ‘Freydis and I were not dressed in animal skins,’ she said quietly.

Then Freydis screamed.