Chapter 4
Tension rolls through me in waves. We’ve made camp for the night. My head is heavy. It’s late, but the northern sun still brightens the sky.
I pretend everything is normal, helping the women fetch wood and water.
Campfires burn, their orange blaze drowned by the white light of summer’s endless day.
Groups, divided by status, boil stew over the flames.
My father sits with his usual crew, the ones with no dyes in their clothes, the lonely, the thirsty.
Since Mother’s death, that’s been his spot. Not with me.
The sour stink of old ale and unwashed bodies drifts from their circle.
Emotions whirl through me as I hurry to my carriage.
I’m relieved that Groa forgives my fling with her son—even more that she will keep my theft to herself.
She chose to protect me, yet again. The group would banish me if they knew.
I would be alone, an outlaw, a bandit with no name.
No laws to protect me. Laws I’ve defiled.
The snap of a twig makes me turn to the woods. Nothing, just long shadows dancing among the trees. The air is too still… No time.
Groa’s never been this worried, this scared.
She ordered me to bury the blade—not tomorrow, tonight.
It has to be done now. I jump into the carriage I share with my father and search for our small wooden spade.
Of course it’s an absolute mess, reeking of spilled drink and sweat. I rummage through our chest.
I’ll use my hands, by Odin.
A shout rings through the air. Our guard’s warning. Could it be? This fast? I slip out of the carriage, hidden. Riders approach from the road. Our men run to their weapons, but a dozen bowmen already stand in the woods, encircling our camp. We are surrounded.
“Peace,” shouts one of the mounted men. “Blessed.”
A good sign—such a greeting means no thirst for blood. Hope glimmers. Maybe they just want to trade, or need food for their travels.
Our chieftain steps forward, broadening his shoulders under his blue cloak. He looks strong. Even as a landless band—our valley was taken before I was born—we still have strong men. Rich men. We haven’t settled yet, but we grow in power every year. I am proud of belonging.
“Peace? With arrows pointed at our backs?” he shouts at the intruders.
“We do not seek bloodshed,” replies the man on the horse. He is in full battle gear, chainmail and all. My heart sinks when he takes off his helmet. I know his face. “We come to retrieve what has been stolen,” he says.
I have to run. Hide the knife. By the gods. They will kill me. Kill us all. I need to sneak into the woods, disappear in the twilight. Bury the blade. I turn quickly and collide with the chest of an unknown man. He grabs my shoulder, smiling through his beard.
“You stay here,” he growls, pushing me into the light. Other women are manhandled toward the center of the carriages. Our men bristle, ready to die protecting our women. Even Narve looks enraged. Willing to die. Only my father and his drunken friends remain seated. Our chieftain raises his voice.
“Stolen?” he shouts. “There is no thief here! An excuse to abuse our women. Harass our people.”
“My seax has been stolen,” says the warrior—the one I had fantasized was a loving husband. “I will have it returned, and honor redressed.”
Our men gasp. A seax, a gift of honor, stolen. They know the price of such a gross offense. I had not known. I do now. Will he forgive me?
I doubt it.
“No one here would be stupid enough to steal your seax, my friend. Lower your weapons,” our chieftain commands.
“Hollow words,” says the warrior, a harrowing insult to our chieftain’s honor. “I know someone here has it. Are all your members present?”
A quick glance at the assembled folk tells me yes—we are all here. Distant relatives, distant friends. Even if alienated by my father’s dishonorable behavior, I am loyal to these people. My people.
“They are,” snarls our chief. I expect him to hold a grudge, to challenge the warrior to a duel.
The warrior dismounts. Absolute silence. Only the crackles from the fires fill the air. He walks slowly, powerful and confident. The man is immense, threatening. Such a contrast to the softness with his wife. He stops in front of Groa.
“Blessing, wise-woman,” says the warrior, “surely you know the culprit?”
She shakes her head. Gratitude washes over me like summer rain. Groa loves me. I don’t deserve her loyalty.
“No one here would defile your honor, young warrior,” she says.
“Horse shit,” he shouts. “Even your Volva lies. This band knows no honor.”
He turns to the rest of us.
“Let him who is guilty step forward now, or be stained by the blood of his kin in the afterlife.”
Silence. The air tightens like before a thunderstorm. I can feel it on my skin. Thor’s incoming wrath. No one steps forward. No one can give him the knife. How could they? It’s under my dress.
He draws his sword. Our men react but freeze, reminded of the arrows pointing at their women and themselves. The offended husband points his weapon at Groa.
“You will bleed first, witch,” he shouts, “for your tongue drips venom worse than Loki.”
Enough. I have to pay the price. Groa will never out me. She will die for me. I am the cause. My eyes connect with Narve’s. His expression softens, like he wants to comfort me. If only he knew why his mother’s life is being threatened. Narve is kind, too kind. He steps forward.
“It was me,” says Narve.
The warrior turns to him, surprised.
“Give it here, boy,” he growls and steps chest to chest with my secret lover. Narve isn’t small, but he is dwarfed by the towering warrior before him.
Narve looks up, defiant.
“I sold it,” he lies.
“Fool, no one in their right mind would buy a stolen seax,” the warrior says with trembling rage. “I grow tired of these games. What a shameful band.”
Narve’s courage is impressive. He’s risking it all to protect a thief, without even knowing who it is. His lies can only lead to one thing. Death. His courage, commendable as it is, is fool’s courage.
The warrior raises his sword.
“I will kill you where you stand. I will kill everyone unless—”
“It was me!” I shout, stepping forward.
Resounding silence. Even the warrior freezes, sword suspended midair.
It would be a comic scene if I weren’t in mortal danger.
Seconds pass. Understanding ripples through the camp.
Our women whisper—they finally understand where my coin is coming from.
I am a simple trickster. A burglar with no honor. A thief.
The warrior howls in laughter. His soldiers join in.
“You?” He sheathes his sword as he approaches me. “A little girl, stealing a warrior’s seax?” He leans over, arms on his knees. Like I’m a child. So condescending. Gone is the man who treats his wife like a velvet-clad southern queen.
“I stole it. Picked your bolt,” I say, lowering my eyes.
My father lurches to his feet, startling the warrior into drawing again. His soldiers tense, ready to strike.
“It was…” Father hiccups. “It was me,” he says, swaying. “Not my daughter.”
The warrior laughs, sheathing his sword. His men relax.
“That would be something.” He pushes my father backward.
Father crumbles under the shove, weak as old bark.
He looks broken. I run forward and lie over him.
Even if he is the shame of the group, he is still my father.
An image flashes in my mind—sunlight, splashing water, laughter.
When Father was healthy, before Mother died.
“No, this man lies like the rest,” says the warrior, pointing at me. “But you. It’s like I’ve seen you before, yes.” He looks into the air. “Yes, I saw you, around the house. Keeping a safe distance. My wife mentioned a girl loitering about.”
I stand, squaring my shoulders between him and my father. Damn it all, let Odin decide my fate. I made a choice. I made a mistake. I should have followed my gut. Now I will pay the price for my greed.
“I stole your seax,” I say.
“Give it to me then.”
I open my dress, pushing aside my undergarments.
All eyes are on me. My cheeks flush as the warrior’s men cheer, watching me reach into my clothes.
Some whistle. Dogs. How cocky had I been?
Thinking the night belonged to me. That I belonged to the night.
It all feels so distant now. A childish dream.
Reality settles in as I pull out the blade.
Freya protect me.