Northern Fiction - The Saga of Freydis Eiriksdattir
Chapter 4
Some men gave her eye contact and others hid in their drinking horns, but none offered additional comment. Then, Hrolf stood and faced the Landtaker in the high-seat. “Lady Freydis, perhaps you could tell us about some curious events at your hall on the night of Thorir’s feast. The night just before the raid.” Freydis stared at the priest with unalloyed malevolence. He thought to himself: “That is the way she looks when she contemplates murdering someone;” however, he said: “I came upon some information, purely by chance, you see. I learned that your huntsman, by the name of Vali, was ganging about the town with one of your dwarfs last night. Only hours later the raiders struck. Did Vali’s little adventure have any connection with the raiders?” He looked about at the company: The men were all sitting bolt upright in rapt attention. “Did they seem startled at the revelation, or were they simply waiting to see if Freydis turned him to stone with her look of fury?”
“Clearly, some little bird has come peeping in your ear. Could you let us know were you came upon this story?” she asked, softly.
“It is common knowledge,” he lied. Then he recalled the little poem that said:
But you depend upon his good will,
Be fair in speech, be false in thought.
And trade him lie for lie.
“The talk in the city is that the guards let Vali pass through the gates with a pack of your hounds at full cry. I will further venture that Vali and your hounds were not hallooing through the streets at dawn without good cause on some wild goose chase; though they may have been at a real game of hounds and hares. I also know that a servant of yours, one Alvis, a dwarf who works at your smithy, was with Vali. Dwarfs are not noted for speed nor hunting skills, so I suggest that this was not a mere sporting party seeking a rabbit for the table. It is said that an unknown archer had hot-footed it past the guards a short time earlier. Was that archer out target shooting at the butts in the wee hours of the night? Doubtful. I will make a guess: The archer had done some business with his bow. Was Vali seeking the archer? If so, why send a dwarf on a manhunt? Perhaps he was, well . . maybe a witness to something? Perhaps he could identify the archer? It had to be something terrible enough that you personally dispatched him with Vali. How else would the dwarf dare to venture out in so bold a fashion from his secret lair, the hour so close to dawn? Then, I learned that this same archer your man was seeking was found at the beach dangling from a tree. His body pierced with a spear, as if he were an offering to Odin. Would you care to tell us what connection, if any, these events might have in common?”
Choking with rage Freydis stared with serpents-eyes at the young priest. “Had Aran or Thjodrerir risked her wrath? Was Hrolf smarter than she would ever have believed?” Knowing the folly of underestimating a potential enemy, she decided to play it by ear, conceding what was out and omitting what was as yet unstated. “Father, you are indeed correct,” she hissed. One of my servants was attacked last night by an archer, as you have somehow learned. I did send my huntsman in pursuit. The attacker was found on a tree at the beach, hanged and speared through, as you have stated. I know of no reason for the assault. It must be conceded that the two events follow closely on each other’s heels. I am unaware of any connection between the two events. Strange, I agree.”
“Well, I am not a toad yet,” Hrolf thought, sighing in relief, “but, I dare push no more. Freydis would be baited only so far. At least I’ve confirmed the story told by Aran and Thjodrerir.” He believed they were safe from her vengeance, unless she wished to force the truth from them, and force a further confrontation with him.
They sat face to face across the fire-trench, smiling falsely at one another. Each had their own goals beyond the affairs of the night. The priest sought to unlock the mystery of Freydis’ curse and achieve the salvation of her soul. The Landtaker sought to delay the coming of Ragnarok and protect her settlement from harm. Although they were dealing at cross purposes both realized that cooperation was a benefit to all concerned. Some dark power had come that placed Norumbega, perhaps all of Vineland itself, at risk. Allied, they might have a better chance of success than if they were at each other's throats like wolves over a fallen deer. Strange bedfellows indeed.
Dawn witnessed the church-boys and priests gathered in the residence hall at St. Olaf’s, a bondsman brought a bowl and a ewer of water and each took a turn washing as was the morning custom. The fresh filled bowl was presented first to Hrolf, then the bowl was emptied into a slops bucket, rinsed, and refilled it passed to Jon, was cleaned once more before passing to Toke. The one bowl was slopped, rinsed clean between each use, until every member of the community had washed his face and hands, rinsed and combed his hair, and finally blew his nose and spit into the bowl, then the bondsman took the washing equipment way. Other bondsmen then brought out the morning meal, a hearty break fast with oatmeal porridge, coarse barley bread, a mess of bacon, pickled herring, a pitcher of skyr the salted sour milk that was a popular Norse staple, a bowl of whey, roasted apples, a plate of dripping honey combs, and pitchers of hard cider and ale. Enough to keep the community hard at wotk until the main meal of the day.
Just as they began to eat several Skraelings burst in upon them. The men were carrying Father Sven Utstein, the priest who ran the inland mission, in an improvised litter of cloth and branches. The sight of his condition put everyone off their feed, for he was in a desperate condition. Sven tried to tell Hrolf what had happened, but fell back whispering: “The spirit truly is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Both his hands and face were bloody through the dressings that had been put on him at the mission, and the smell of infection and decaying flesh wafted through the hall filling the air with a pungent odor of rotting flesh. Father Sven was carried to the sauna were Hrolf personally helped bathe and redress his injuries. The priests gave the good father broth and settled him as best they could to rest, but when Aran urged that they call Freydis Hrolf would hear none of that.
The loyal Praying-Skraelings who had brought Sven down river told Hrolf that Father Sven had been capture by a distant tribe of Abernakis. They had carried him off far to the north and west. Afraid to bring word to Norumbega, the Samaritans went in search of the missionary themselves, and finding him at a distant village they paid a ransom for his release. His captors had demanded in exchange a dozen iron tipped arrows, five ells of red cloth, and half a pound of green glass beads. The rescuers requested and received reimbursement and in addition were given a small reward to keep them eager to help in the future.
After several hours rest the priest called for Hrolf and then in a weak voice he related the following: “I was on the trail bringing God’s message to new tribes when our party was ambushed. After a brief fight we were overwhelmed and my people were killed ruthlessly by the savages. My white skin, blond-beard, and black robe marked me as a curiosity; they decided to take me as a prize to show at their village. Before we set out, I was stripped naked and beaten with clubs until I was nearly unconscious. When I had revived somewhat, my fingernails were torn out at the roots, the ends of my fingers gnawed until the bones were in splinters, and I was thrashed with rods until I bled from head to foot. Only then did we set out on our terrible journey.”
“After we had traveled north for two days we joined up with several of their fellows from another raiding party. I was stripped naked again and forced to run the gauntlet. I fell insensible from the experience and do not know how long it was before I revived from the cruel beating. After ten days travel, we reached a great lake and a fording place, where I was loaded down with a heavy pack of looted furs. Then we took a trail that headed north once more and I was beaten whenever I could not keep up the pace. I staggered on, weakened by starvation and suffering, only my faith in the sweet mercy of Our Lord Jesus Christ kept me alive.”
“Finally we reached a large town. At the entrance to the town, my two remaining fingernails were torn out. The procession into the town forced me between two rows of furious women. They were even crueler that the men and they tore the clothes from my body and whipped me with rods and beat me with clubs and switches. In the center of the town was a high platform. I was led to the top and tied to a post. Several youths jumped up and slapped me and abused me in terrible ways before the people. Then, one youth cut off my thumb with a scallop shell. I was ‘caressed’ with the shell over several parts of my body over the next three days, reviled, and jeered by a happy audience of wild men. At night I was taken into a hut and pinioned down to the earth, with arms and legs outstretched. Then I became the toy for the children who entertained the adult audience and made merry amongst themselves by scattering sparks and live coals over my naked body. Everyone thought it great sport to watch me squirm and writhe.”
“After this I was marched to another village, two days journey, north. The skin was peeling from my burns, my cuts and bruises festering, turning sour, and running puss and ooze. Again I was paraded as a trophy of the hunt by my captors to amuse the new audience with the curious sight of a blond bearded prisoner. Here, to the utter joy of the villagers, I was scratched and stabbed with barbs and sticks in all my old wounds. Final, I was suspended by my wrists from a beam, my feet off the ground.”
“I began to sing hymns to encourage my spirit in the name of Our Lord and suddenly, miraculously the natives stopped their torments. I cannot believe it other than the intercession of Jesus himself! But, perhaps, the Skraelings were simply amazed at my survival. I believe that either reason is a confirmation of my faith in Jesus. He had been with me, testing me, as God had tested Job, and as the Holy Saints were tested in their Faith by the Romans.”
“Apparently, my captors did not know what to do with me at this point. The young warriors demanded my death. The sight of me signing the cross was looked upon as magical and dangerous. I was spared, but what good was I to them? Then word came that I was being sought by my mission Praying-Skraelings. I have no idea how word passed back and forth across hundreds of miles of forest but it did. After several weeks a trade was arranged. I was to be sold back for iron arrowheads, axes, knives, needles and pins, they especially wanted red woolen goods it seems, and mirrors and a collection of metal trinkets, falcon’s bells and such like, that appealed to both the natives vanity and their curiosity.”
“I was then led back along the route I had traveled west through a magnificent country. Limitless forests, oceans-like lakes, wide rivers, limitless game. There are countless birds and beasts of all kinds and without number. I saw pigeons that filled a forest covering every limb of the trees for miles. I saw herds of deer belly deep in meadows of lush grass. Fox, ermine, otters, beaver everywhere. It was Eden and it was in the possession of the Devil. Finally, I was returned to my rescuers at a village a few days journey from where I was captured. There I was exchanged for the trade goods promised.”
“My rescuers took me back to the mission. I rested. I found out that they had never told you I was missing and demanded to be brought to you at once. Surely, God has given us a great opportunity. I have been given a gift, I was able to penetrate deep inland and witness the beauty and the bounty of this great land. Surely, God, through the actions of these people who were my tormentors, has revealed to me that Vinland the Good is not just a coastal strip, it is a continent. It is a New World awaiting our discovery. Heaven praise these my Skraeling captors, I have been granted a miracle to see this New Eden. I had to personally come to tell you of my good fortune, as soon as I had strength enough to come.”
Hrolf held the nail-less fingers on the gnawed and mangled hand of the priest. He told the church-boys: “Surely this was a living example of Holy Christian Martyrdom. We are witnessing a miracle, how else do I explain this amazing and humbling zeal of Father Sven Utstein. I am stunned that the good Father was indifferent to his torments and suffering and only aware of the splendor of his experience. Truly, this was the Hand of God that had touched the good priest.” Hrolf recalled the writings on the ancient martyrs when the faith was young. In one letter describing the martyrdom of St. Pothinus in 177 AD it was written:
He endured nobly what the crowd heaped upon him. Taunts, blows, stone-throwings, beleaguerings, and all else that a furious multitude inflicts on enemies. Yet the sainted Pothinus told his tormentors that ‘I walk in all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord blamelessly.’ I am prepared to suffer for I am ‘Fervent in the spirit of the Lord.’ And, the martyr was ‘Hustled without mercy and suffered all hurts in the name of the Lord.’ Then, there took place a great dispensation of God, and there was manifested the immeasurable mercy of Christ’s devising. The saint was filled with the love of the Lord, and the Spirit of the Father, and he advanced from his torments full of joy, having a look that mingled majesty and great beauty, even exhaling the ‘sweet savor of Christ’ and his tormentors were downcast and dejected feeling shamed before the Glory of God. And, even in death did Pothinus triumph over his tormentors through his faith.
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