We are dressed as men. All of us. Some have cut their hair off—like Ástríd did when she was playing Randolf—but some have simply tucked it under a hat. That’s what I’ve done, braiding it first. I remember Alf calling me the princess of the curly hair. My curls stay, though tamed by the braid, for I am still that girl, though I am many other things as well.
We are only eight now. Osk helped us until the very last minute, but then she jumped off the ship. The idea of leaving again when she was so close to home was too much for her to bear. She will follow the Vistula River on foot till she finds the village where she was born. There may yet be people there who remember her. She had two brothers, three sisters, once upon a time. I couldn’t blame her, of course. I have a brother, I have a sister.
But no. In a way, I have three brothers—Nuada and Búri and Hakon—and three sisters—Mel and Ástríd and Alof. No, I could not blame Osk one bit.
When I tried to pay her, she said being carried home was payment enough. But she took an ax. I’ve lived with the Norse so long, I feel helpless without an ax. So only one ax for the remaining eight of us appalled me. But I didn’t let on; Osk has her rights.
This morning I am scanning the sea. Osk told what she learned from the woman we helped to gather wood. Some women and children stolen from the giant islands to the west of Jutland—one of which is my Eire land—are sold as slaves in Heiðabý, yes, and many others are sold in Birka, across the Baltic Sea on the east coast of the Swedes’ land. Most, though, are taken by boat down the Vistula River. Then the boat is portaged across land and around waterfalls—how many, the woman didn’t know—to another river that empties into the great sea in the south. That’s where the enormous city of Miklagard lies; that’s where the largest slave market in the world is. Girls sold there can wind up in Africa, Asia, anywhere.
According to the woman, Miklagard is the most dangerous city in the world. She says that’s partly because it’s the center of Christianity, what she called a warring religion that wants to conquer the world. I’m glad I couldn’t understand her language, or I might have been tempted to argue with her and ruin everything for all of us. I may not pray to Jesus anymore, but I still remember the preachings of the Christians.
I had heard of Miklagard before. The slave dealers in Heiðabý talked about going there via rivers. I just didn’t know that the rivers were discontinuous. As Osk said all this, my throat thickened with disappointment. We could never portage our boat. We could never get to Miklagard. We are but eight women, strong and smart, but weaker than men.
So I hatch a plan. We will haunt the Baltic Sea. We will visit the Birka slave market often. We will stop every ship we pass and find out if they have anything of value to tell us. We will do this all summer. And if nothing comes of it, when the weather turns cold, I will pay all these women and say farewell, and I will travel alone, however I can, to Miklagard.
Have I taken leave of my senses? It would seem so. An Irish girl stolen seven years ago—who on earth would remember her? But they might. They might remember a mute beauty, with skin like alabaster and brown hair that catches the light in so many ways that it’s sometimes night dark and sometimes day light and sometimes a mix—and, oh! I realize now why I love Queen Tove’s hawk-plumage cloak so much: Its colors mimic Mel’s hair.
So someone will remember. Someone has to. Mel was unique. Mel is unique.
But even if someone did, could I track her down? Could I really make it to the ends of the earth? The only answer is: I have to try. I have money to buy her freedom. I will try.
And I have to make sure I don’t get robbed blind along the way.
And there! I see it, the first ship we have passed since we made our new pact. “Get alert,” I call. “Starboard!”
But Grima, at the helm for her first time, has already spotted the ship and steers straight for it. The wind is against us. The other women have taken their places on the wooden chests and pushed their oars through the holes and row with all their might. Everyone knows what to do, as though we’re practiced at it, which we are not. Gratitude makes me falter for a moment. But then I run to the prow and hold my bow ready.
The ship clearly sees us, and I fear they will take flight. After all, ships don’t approach each other on the high seas. They won’t know all we seek is information.
But the ship turns and sails toward us. Good.
Except it comes fast. We are on a collision course! Are they insane?
I know nothing about flagging down another ship. And less about a ship that’s aimed for us. “Pull in your oars!”
The other ship arrives at our side and throws two huge ropes across. “Grab hold,” shouts a man. “Grab hold because we’re coming aboard. It’s that or we sink you.”
What on earth? But Thyra already has one of the ropes. Ingun takes the other. The men pull hand over hand on their end of the ropes until our ships are side by side. They take the ends from Thyra and Ingun and loop them through oar holes on our ship and bind the two ships together at stern and bow, so we form one big floating platform.
I’m counting the men. Four. All I see is four men on this boat, and it’s bigger than ours. I can’t make sense of this.
The shouter climbs into our boat, brandishing a sword. “Who’s in charge?”
I feel eyes on me. But Ingun says, “Who’s in charge on your boat?” Her voice is bold as anything, and it sounds manly.
“Me.”
“That’s not true!” A second man climbs into our boat. He has a sword as well, but at least he keeps his in the scabbard.
I turn to the second man, pointedly ignoring the shouter. “Are you the captain?”
He twists his mouth.
“I need information. About slave ships.”
“We don’t know anything about slave ships,” says a third man, standing in the other boat. “And we don’t have a captain. We lost him and nearly all of our crew off the coast of Borgundarholm two days ago.”
I feel light-headed. Storms wreak havoc with sailors. We women haven’t discussed that. What must be going through my crew’s minds? “Borgundarholm?” I ask weakly.
“You know. Off Skáney. It was one hell of a battle. Rivaled the legendary battle of Brávellir, I tell you.”
A battle. I grip the gunwale to steady myself. That is worse than if it was a storm.
“Look here.” Grima fits an arrow into her bow and stands like an archer, as though she’ll shoot that man through the heart. It’s not much of a distance; she might be able to, even with her poor aim. She looks fierce. I’m stunned. “What kind of battle?” she shouts.
“What kind do you think? We’re pirates.”
The two men onboard our ship look at us with disgust, as though we should have known. But there’s a falseness to their swagger. The other man on their ship simply looks defeated. And I’m starting to understand the situation now: Without their captain, they’re lost. They have no idea what to do next. Even boarding our ship wasn’t really their idea. We set out after them—they simply responded.
Thyra climbs on a wooden chest, places her feet wide apart, and puts her fists on her hips. She’s the tallest of us, as tall as most men. “You’ve met your match, and better,” she says. “A sword won’t do any good to you if an arrow pierces your heart. So put that sword away before you cause trouble.”
These women are bluffers. And good at it.
The shouter lifts his chin a moment. Then he sheathes his sword.
Good Lord. These women are great at bluffing. Magnificent.
I point at Grima. “Keep watch over the two here.” I point at Ingun. She’s the second tallest. “Grab your ax.” Ingun doesn’t have an ax. She doesn’t even blink, though. She picks up my ax. “We’re coming aboard,” I say to the two men in the pirate ship. “Stand at the middle, hands on the mast.”
The two men actually move to the mast. But I mustn’t get complacent—they could have knives at the ready. Ingun and I climb into the other boat. Two against two doesn’t feel good, though. I gesture to Jofrid. She practically leaps into the other boat with us.
Jofrid and I search through their belongings while Ingun stands with ax raised. I pick up an iron fork for roasting meat and thump it against my palm. I count six axes, and that’s just what I can see lying about the deck. Jofrid and I exchange glances. She nods.
“All right,” I say. “Here’s what’s going to happen.” Everyone looks at me—men and women alike. “For the moment, you all stay where you are. Stand still, while my crew comes into this boat.” I look at the women. “Gather your cloaks and anything else you want, and come across. And you”—I point at Ragnhild—“bring my cloak and the old skin satchel in my personal chest. You”—I point at Grima—“bring my bow and arrows.”
“I’ll bring your cloak,” calls Matilda to Ingun. “Anything else?”
Ingun shakes her head.
“And I’ll bring yours,” Unn calls to Jofrid.
The shouter grabs his sword handle and looks around, confused. But he doesn’t draw his sword. His face lights up. “Good thinking. We can be one big crew. Hurry up, men.”
But the women need no encouragement; they’re already climbing into the pirate ship.
“You two,” I say to the men at the mast. “Go into the other ship. Look around for what’s useful.”
The two men quickly climb into our boat.
I look at Jofrid and Ingun and nod. They untie us from the other boat.
“Hey!” shouts the sword man.
But I have my arrow in place. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot. And I’m accurate. We’re exchanging boats.”
“What! You can’t take our ship,” says the shouter.
“Use your brain, if you have one,” I say. “The four of you couldn’t manage this big boat in a storm. You’re better off with ours, and even that will be hard for you.”
“No! Joining forces is a better idea. You can be the captain. I have no taste for it, and you’re good at it. Eight of you, four of us, we can beat anyone.”
“You’d just be in our way.” I wipe at my nose with the back of my hand like I always saw Beorn do. It seems a manly gesture. “If you head due south, you’ll wind up in Trusø.”
“Trusø? Who the hell wants to go to Trusø? They don’t even speak Norse there.”
“You’re right.” I look around at the women. “Does anyone have a message they’d like these good men to carry back to Heiðabý?”
“Heiðabý’s far away!”
“Seven days, if the wind is with you.”
“Tell the queen that Grima drowned,” says Grima. “But that she said good things about her, even as she went under.”
“Matilda drowned too,” says Matilda. “She couldn’t even swim in the first place.”
“And tell Igor that Ragnhild loves him,” says Ragnhild.
I look around. “Is that all?”
“For now, it seems,” says Thyra.
The shouter stands glaring at us as the boats drift apart. “Why should we deliver any messages at all?”
“Because if you don’t, we’ll tell every ship that passes how you let a boat full of women outwit you.”
“Women!”
Matilda and Ingun already have the sail up. Grima is back at the helm. We are off and away.