Over the past seven nights and days, the landscape has changed from flat grasslands to hills to more meadows and now to low rolling hills. We have sailed under full wind. If any among us has misgivings, we don’t voice them. Maybe we’re simply too busy for misgivings—learning the new tasks of sailing, staying alert to both land and sea, surviving.
We turned out to be only nine in the end: Ragnhild and Thyra, Unn, Ingun, Grima, Jofrid, Matilda, Osk, and me. All of them were part of the king and queen’s household except Jofrid. The four women who said nothing at our meeting never appeared at the fjord bank. None was part of the royal household, so there’s no reason for anyone to suspect they might have information about us. If they simply continued to say nothing, no one in Heiðabý would know anything about us beyond the fact that a boat went missing.
But even if those women did talk, it’s clear the kings’ men must have gone looking in the wrong places. Perhaps they followed the coast to the north, or went to nearby islands, or crossed the sea to Skáney. We, instead, went south and then east—east and east and east. That’s the direction the Russians come from, after all. We hug the shoreline, attentive to small settlements. They hold nothing for us—no one in a small settlement could afford a slave, at least not a beautiful, full-grown slave woman as Mel was seven years ago. But once we get to a big town, we’ll stop and look around. I’ll knock on every door and look in the face of every slave woman if I have to. I’ll find my sister.
We anchor only in isolated bays with no signs of people. We swim there, which turns out to be decent bathing, since the water of this sea is barely salty. If there’s a creek that empties into the bay, we fill up on fresh water. We always fish when we stop. And for the past two days we have relaxed enough for me to go off hunting with Grima, who is new to bow and arrow. We brought back hares to roast on sticks over open fires.
We never anchor for long. The wind is our friend, but I know what a fickle friend she can be. So we make use of her day and night. There has been a growing moon, and that helps us steer safely at night—or as safely as anyone can at night.
Four ships have passed us, all in daylight. But all were going the opposite direction, and all traveled farther from shore than we did. Still, each time we passed one, we then headed straight north—out to sea—and once we were far out there, we took down our sails and drifted for a while, hoping to be less than a speck on the horizon should the ship have decided to come back and take a second look at a boat full of women.
At night, though, no one passes us. The wisdom is that it’s foolhardy to sail close to shore at night unless you know every outcropping of boulders, every underwater reef. But we have to be foolhardy—it’s that or increase the risk of being caught.
Ingun is at the helm tonight. The others lie on the open deck. An overlapping spread of cloaks covers them. They sleep hard and deep, the sleep of the exhausted.
I stand at the prow and look ahead. The wet air laps my face. The wood of the gunwale eases against me. Even the floor of the ship presses up at me. That’s how I feel these days, as though the world touches me instead of me touching it. That’s how I have felt since Alf slid into the tower room. He thunked on the floor. Every day that thunk assails my ears. The smell of his sweat invades my nostrils. The bulk of him clouds my eyes.
I rub my eyes now, to rid it of that bulk. No use: There is still something big ahead—bigger than a rock, given the distance it’s at. I strain forward. It’s a dwelling. And then another. There are many along the coast ahead. Many! Finally.
“Osk! Unn!” I wake them with a hand on their shoulders. “Lower the sail.”
Ingun has already pulled up the rudder and is waking the others.
We peer through the dark. “There’s a city ahead,” I say. “It has to be Trusø, no?”
“It couldn’t be anything else.” Osk cups her neck with both hands and rubs. “I knew we were close. It’s the biggest city along this shore. The huge river Vistula runs through Vendland and empties into a large lake called Estmere. From the east comes the river Elbing; it flows into Estmere too. The city is on the bank. Traders bring amber from the Baltic Sea and travel the Vistula to the south.”
“Traders bring slaves, too,” I say. “Right?” But I know it’s right. I’ve listened carefully in the Heiðabý slave market. I know it. Still, she has to confirm it. “Right?”
“Yes.” Osk hugs herself now. “I was captured somewhere along the Vistula. I was brought north. We passed a few days in Trusø. I was ten years old.”
Ten. That’s two years older than I was when the slave dealers stole me. I touch Osk’s shoulder and speak firmly. “We passed a small creek a little while ago. Let’s turn back and anchor there. Out of sight from the sea. We can sleep the rest of the night, and then tomorrow we can go into town by foot.”
Thyra squeezes my forearm. “If anyone’s still following us, that will give them a chance to catch up.”
“They’re not following us,” I say with conviction.
“How do you know?”
“Tonight, as you slept, Ingun was at the helm. The king would be astonished to see that. Osk and Unn just lowered the sail, fast and efficient as men. The king would never recognize them doing that. All of you can take to the oars and row like mad. No one back in Heiðabý would believe we could do that. No one knows any of us have knowledge of sailing. They probably figure we have foundered and rest on the bottom of the sea by now.” I touch her hand. “I don’t think they’re following us.”
Grima pokes her face in mine. “But if they are?”
“Does anyone have a better idea?”
“I do.” Ingun leans forward. “Let’s sail past the harbor to the next creek on the east side of the city. If anyone’s following our ship—anyone from Heiðabý—they will surely stop at Trusø. This way there’s no chance they’ll see our boat. And if we go carefully, very, very carefully, tomorrow, when we approach the city, we’ll see them before they see us.”
We don’t even discuss it. We simply raise the sail, and soon we are past the town and sliding into a small bay surrounded by forest. It’s ideal. No one could see us from the water unless they fully entered the bay. We anchor near a stretch of beach in water shallow enough that we’ll be able to jump overboard when we want and wade to shore easily. Everyone settles down to sleep again.
“Leave the guarding to me tonight, Alfhild,” says Matilda. She stands and goes to her personal chest to sit. From there she can swivel to get a view in every direction. “I don’t want to go into town tomorrow anyway. I’m afraid of these Slavs. In the morning, I’ll go on land and crawl under a bush and sleep the day away.”
I hesitate. Then, “Thank you.” And I’m dead asleep in an instant.
In the morning Matilda finds a thick bush, and Ingun stays with her. After all, someone needs to guard her as she sleeps. They are Norse—servants, not slaves—perhaps this has made a special bond, for they are close friends. Nevertheless, it makes me nervous to leave Ingun behind. Ingun is smart. We’d be safer if she came with us.
We walk in two groups. The lead group has four—Ragnhild, Unn, Jofrid, and me. The other group—Thyra, Osk, and Grima—follows close enough to come at a call for help but far enough to escape if something horrible happens to the first group. Since Ragnhild and Thyra are clearly Norse, if need be they can behave as though the others in their group are their slaves. We have only two axes, one per group: Osk and Unn carry them. We have two bows, one per group: Grima and I carry them. All have dirks we can pull out quickly.
It feels strange to walk as groups on land after all those days at sea. Slow and clumsy. As though we’re sick. We head inland, with the plan of turning west and following the river into town, so that no one will know we came by boat. It just seems sensible. Or it did when we first decided it. Now, as we walk, it seems stupid. If we didn’t come by boat, how else could we have come?
I wish Ingun was with us.
We step around broken branches on the ground and I think of Hakon, obliterating that bush with his wooden sword. I imagine him gripping a stick tight and marching with us. Búri, too. For an instant I can smile. My little brothers are with me in spirit. I pick up a stick and hand it to Ragnhild. I hand another to Jofrid.
After a long while, my group comes out of the forest onto a dirt road. We turn west along the road.
We come to a pile of clothes, men’s clothes, in the center of the road. How odd.
“Let’s take them,” says Ragnhild.
We look around. The second group emerges from the woods way back along the road. We wave to them to retreat into the woods again. Then we snatch the heap of clothes and run back among the trees. We race, hidden by foliage, until we find the other group.
“What are you doing?” says Thyra. “We’re supposed to stay separate.”
“Look what we found.” Ragnhild dumps her load on the ground. We all do. “Men’s clothes. We can put them on and pretend we’re men.”
I think of my Ástríd—how she wore men’s clothes and pretended to be Randolf and it worked—it actually worked with people she was living with day after day. I think of Mel and me, dressed as peasant boys on the Russian slave ship.
“What do you mean, found them?” asks Grima. “We’re not thieves.”
“They were sitting in a pile in the road.”
Grima’s eyes are troubled. “That doesn’t sound right. Why would anyone leave clothes in the road?”
“You’re right.” Jofrid looks at Ragnhild and Unn and me. “We have to return them.”
Osk hits her forehead with her palm. “Hide!” She lies flat in the undergrowth. “Fast. I don’t know how much time we have. Lie down. Keep your eyes on the road.”
We hide and wait. The rumble of horses’ hooves comes from the east. I have the urge to run. What have I done to these women? We could all get killed. But none of us bolts.
Men go galloping by.
When the last horse has passed and we hear no more hoofbeats, Osk rolls onto her back. “Those clothes belong to a dead man. He will be burned today. So this morning they put his belongings in five heaps along the road into town. The men on horses were waiting outside town, and at a signal, they raced for the heaps. The biggest heap, with the most valuable stuff, is the farthest away from town, so the man on the fastest horse will reach it first and gets to keep it. Then each heap is less valuable, as you get closer to town.”
“So these clothes are no one’s anymore?” says Grima. “We can keep them?”
“Yes.” Osk sifts through the pile of clothes now. “But if we wear them into town, people might recognize them. Especially this shirt—see the nice stitching? And this hat. It’s a city, yes, but people know things about one another. I don’t think any of it is safe to wear here, really.”
“Unn,” I say, “you and Jofrid carry this stuff back to the boat. And take your ax with you, just in case.”
“I want to help,” says Jofrid.
“You’re still the best one with the boat,” I say. “You can have everything prepared for a quick getaway if need be. Really, Jofrid. These clothes are a treasure. Like Ragnhild said, we can dress as men. We won’t have to worry every time we pass a ship of men. They’ll pay us no attention.” I gather up the clothes as I talk. “We can’t just leave the clothes here to fetch later. People will realize that one of the heaps went missing, so they’ll come searching. Please.”
Jofrid nods.
I hand the clothes to Unn and face Jofrid. “First, let’s trade clothes, you and me. So I clearly look like a slave.”
We do that. Then Jofrid and Unn scoop up the clothes and disappear into the forest.
We have one ax now, and Osk carries it. And two bows. And the two sticks. We run through the trees toward town. Once we’re close enough to smell burning, we go out onto the road. Ragnhild and Thyra link arms and walk in front. Osk and Grima and I follow, as slaves should, our weapons showing.
The funeral pyre is in front of a house. The body is already consumed in flames, but I can see pieces of iron puncturing the flickers: swords. I bet the dead man’s ax was burned with him too. Probably all his weapons and tools. What a waste.
Beyond the pyre, people feast out in the open. The air is smoke and honey. People swill down mead as though it’s milk.
We continue along the road, holding ourselves tall out of respect for the funeral. A man notices us and follows. He runs a bit to catch up and says something to Ragnhild. Osk whispers in her ear. Ragnhild steps back, and Osk says something to the man in a nasty tone. He laughs, but his eyes dart around and he walks back to the crowd.
We walk a bit more when Osk says, “Look. There’s a woman alone over there. See her, gathering wood?” The woman is well off the road. “Let’s go talk to her. Find out what we can.”
So we go to the woman and Osk has a conversation with her, while we help gather sticks at the edge of the forest. The conversation is slow going. Osk speaks haltingly. The woman answers just as haltingly.
I keep staring at the woman’s feet. She wears no shoes. Most of her toes have rings on them. She has silver earrings with hanging balls, too—but that’s not special; everyone wears earrings. I’ve never seen toe rings before, though. They couldn’t possibly be comfortable. And what happens to her when she needs to run?
The man appears again. Mead stains his beard. He says something to Osk. She stares at him. Then she says something back. The man comes up to Ragnhild and Thyra. He speaks his language as he gestures—touching around his neck and up his arms enthusiastically.
“He has jewelry to sell you, my mistresses,” says Osk to Ragnhild and Thyra. Her eyes glitter. Something’s going on. She nods.
Thyra looks hard at Osk. Then she nods back.
Osk says something to the man.
The man walks down the road we came on, past the funeral pyre. He checks over his shoulder that we’re following. And we are; Osk is urging us on.
I don’t understand anything. But it’s just him against the five of us. We’ll be all right.
The man cuts off the road and leads us along a path to a house. We follow him inside. Then he lays bowls on the floor. Ordinary bowls. Osk shakes her head and points at a wooden chest. The man looks surprised, but he opens the chest and puts his clothes on the floor.
Osk nods. She steps beside him and opens a hand to Thyra and Ragnhild, as though offering them. As though they’re for sale. Prickles go up the back of my neck. The man steps toward Thyra, a stupid look of lust on his face. Osk conks him on the back of the head with the butt end of her ax.
The man falls unconscious.
“What just happened?” asks Ragnhild. She wrings her hands.
“He wanted to buy you two,” says Osk. “He figured we slaves would easily betray our owners, isolated from the men as he saw we were. So he decided to lure you here with the promise of jewelry. Look at the junk he offered. Clearly he figured the rest of us, being slaves, had no idea what a woman should cost. An opportunist.” She pushes him with her foot. “This should teach him a lesson. A man who buys women deserves to be robbed.” She looks at me. “I know what we want to know, Alfhild. The woman told me. So let’s take this man’s clothes and get out of here fast. Because I’m almost entirely sure friends of his will show up soon. It’s only because they’re all drunk that they haven’t staggered in here yet.”
We raid his larder and run.