Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The island of Hoy, ten days later

"Hedda, wake up!" A hand grasped her shoulder, shaking her to consciousness.

The room was dark, but Hedda recognized the voice as that of Elin—getting herself in a commotion about something as usual. Hedda pulled the bed-furs higher. She was far too comfortable to stir and in no mood to pander to Elin's summons.

However, Elin shoved her again.

"There's something on the beach you must see. Come now. There's no time."

Hedda kept her eyes closed. "Don't tell me you were collecting seaweed at this hour. Isn't the day long enough for you?"

"You know it's best gathered when the tide is not long turned." An exasperated sound escaped Elin's throat. "But forget that. There's a ship washed up on the cove and men in it!"

"What?" Hedda was suddenly very much awake. She threw off the furs and felt for her gunna , passing the simple garment over her head. "Is it them?"

"No, others. I don't know any of the faces. There are but six, as far as I can tell." Moving to the narrow slit just beneath the turfed roof, Elin hooked back the animal skin there. Dull moonlight entered.

Hedda swallowed back the bile that had risen to her throat. The day their menfolk had set sail from the island had been sorrowful for some but certainly not for her. They'd been gone two winters past, but Hedda still sometimes woke bathed in sweat, having dreamed her husband had reappeared with the rest of those sorry excuses for manhood.

"They're in a bad way, but breathing… or at least they were when I found them." Elin helped Hedda find her boot skins, lacing one side while Hedda tied the other.

"You did right to fetch me." Standing, Hedda buckled her belt and felt for the dagger she kept sheathed upon it. "If they're unresponsive, now is the best time to dispatch them." For good measure, she collected her short axe from where it hung on the wall.

"Dispatch?" Elin followed as Hedda pushed aside the skins that separated her sleeping area from the main hall of the longhouse. It had once been the domain of her husband, the jarl of all H?y. Hers now, though the women of the island gathered there often, and some of the former thralls bedded down at the other end behind a partition of their own.

"You can't mean…" Elin did her best to keep up as Hedda strode toward the dunes above the beach.

The first glimmer of sun was rising across the water, while the moon was fast disappearing from the opposite portion of the sky. Indistinct, hulking shapes rose from the expanse of sand. The whole bay was treacherously littered with rocks, jagged beneath the surface. If a boat had made it through with nothing but a waning moon to guide them, it was extremely good fortune. That luck was about to run out.

"They're helpless." Elin skittered to a stop in front of Hedda, placing her palms on her chest. "I've already told you."

"And how long will that last?" Hedda couldn't help her impatience. Such na?veté irritated her. Just because Elin's husband had been a decent man, she liked to believe all men were cut from similar cloth. Hedda knew better.

However, for the moment, she needed Elin to show her where the boat had come ashore. Once the sun had risen higher, she'd be able to locate the vessel herself, but she didn't want to waste time searching the beach.

"Alright." Hedda held up her hands. "I'll reserve judgment. If these poor curs have been shipwrecked, as you say, they may well need our help."

Elin nodded, though Hedda could tell she didn't altogether believe Hedda's change of heart.

"Leave the axe here. There's no need to wield that in front of injured men."

"As you say." Hedda laid it down.

Elin hadn't said anything about leaving behind her other blade, and Hedda kept her knife sharp. If any dispatching was to be done, her trusty blade, Throat-Piercer, was up to the task.

She let Elin take the lead, sliding down the grass-tufted bank onto the upper section of the beach, then through swathes of glistening seaweed. From there, the going was easier. Elin hastened her pace, making for the western end of the bay. Golden light slanted across the crescent-shaped cove, sending their shadows tall before them.

As they rounded the last of the larger rocks, Hedda spotted the upturned hull, full on its side. Where the mast should have been, there was naught but splintered wood. She ran forward, drawing her blade as she did so. Even an injured man could be dangerous—more so, in fact. She discerned their shapes tossed upon the sand, some lying half within the boat.

The longship was shorter than the ones their own shipbuilders used to make, with locks for barely eight oars on either side, though nothing remained of those—presumably lost to whatever wild sea had cast these men upon the shore. Did that mean their number had been sixteen, or more, upon setting out?

A small pang penetrated Hedda's hardened heart. Ten lost to the cruel waves? It was a death she'd always feared for herself. The sea surrounded them, but she'd never dared venture upon it.

She steeled her resolve. Who knew what intent these men had nurtured on making their journey or whether their brothers were indeed all lost? She glanced about the surrounding rocks. Could one or more be hiding and watching her, even at that moment?

A sudden movement caught her eye as a figure appeared from behind the boat's hull.

"Stand!" Hedda brandished her dagger.

To her chagrin, as much as relief, her sister, Frida, came into view.

"I've searched as far as the headland. There are no other survivors that I can tell." Frida looked forlorn. "All have gashes to the head and bruising about the face. At least one has broken a bone. Like them all, he was unconscious but moaned pitifully when I moved his arm. Another's fingers are mangled. There are likely more injuries I can't see."

Elin had caught up. "If they're bleeding beneath the skin, there's not much we can do, but we might cut their clothing. It would give us an idea before we attempt to move them."

"We won't be cutting anything unless it's their throats." Hedda spun to face Elin. It rankled that she'd gone to wake Frida before herself.

Elin moved to stand between the boat and Hedda. "You swore you wouldn't harm them."

Hedda made a dismissive sound. "I swore nothing. I said only that I would consider the situation. Now, I have."

"You cannot slaughter innocent men." Frida came to stand beside Elin.

"What makes you think they're innocent?" Hedda scoffed. The two were weak as watered milk, and they thought to defy her! "All men are ruled by heated tempers. You want to bring their violence upon us?"

"You are the one ruled by ire, Hedda." Elin folded her arms. "You deride our jarl, who is gone, saying we're better off without him, but you're just as bad if you act without consideration for what the rest of us think is right."

Hedda's jaw tightened. Of anything Elin might have said, that stung. It was true she tended toward strong convictions and was unafraid to act upon them, but she did so in the best interests of everyone. She was not like her worm of a husband.

"There is something strange, sister. I feel, here,"—Frida brought one fist firmly to her chest—"that the gods have some hand in it."

Hedda pursed her lips. "You and the gods! You invoke them as if you know everything."

"‘Tis not true!" Frida spoke with more fervor than was usual. "If only I did understand more, I would know…" She shook her head. "I've been seeing signs… in the flames, in the flight of birds, in the entrails of fish even. I know not how to interpret them, for they speak of good and ill, but I believe these men are here for a reason—that the gods have sent them to us."

"There may be something in it," Elin spoke again. "For how did this longship come to be wrecked here? I lay awake a large portion of the night, and while the moon was yet high, I came to sit under the stars. I heard no wind nor saw any sign of storm. Perhaps our watchful goddess Freyja beseeched her father Nj?rer on our behalf to search his ocean realm for a ship of valiant men, and he dragged them here."

"I also endured a troubled night." Frida's eyes were wide. "When I did slumber, strange dreams came, and I woke with the feeling that I had to come to the shore."

Hedda gave no reply. Though she derided her sister's gift, her predictions were sometimes proven right, and there was something uncanny in the circumstance of the wreck. She too had long lain awake and recalled no wildness in the wind.

"In any case, the decision is too important for you to make alone. We must consult the others." Elin spoke again. "I shall run back and bring them here."

With that, she set off, leaving Hedda alone with Frida.

Under Frida's watchful glances, Hedda made her own assessment of the men. All had a fair age upon them—closer to thirty winters than twenty. One looked older still, a hulking specimen with coppered hair and beard, whose face was marred by livid scarring. She gave his foot a kick, but he did not stir. Still, she kept close by, ready to take action if any should open their eyes.

Before long, other women appeared over the dunes, making their way across the sands. Their community numbered barely thirty, and a portion had been thralls until recently. Some still lived with their former mistresses, while others had come to reside in the longhouse, where there was plenty of room as well as work to be done.

Only when a good number of the women had clustered round, peering down at the prone men, did Hedda make her case.

"You must see the danger," she concluded. "Or do you wish to be murdered in your beds?"

Murmurs and exclamations passed through the assembly.

Elin was prompt to respond. "Hedda, even you must concede that not all men are brutes. Besides which, it hardly seems likely that these sorry souls will jump up and harm us. Look at the state of them!"

"And how long will they remain like this?" Hedda attempted to meet the eyes of as many women as possible. "Men are not to be trusted."

One of the older women, Ulva, spoke next. "I agree they pose a risk. Men are unpredictable. Even my son Sven, for all that I loved him, was too much like his father."

She didn't need to elaborate. All knew her husband, Knud, had been a foul piece of work. By his own vicious hand, he'd rendered their daughter Signy deaf in one ear—and all because she'd refused their jarl's proposition. To Hedda's disgust, her worthless spouse had been making advances on the girl. She could only pity timid Signy, whose mother was almost as domineering as Knud had been.

"I stand with my aunt." Grethe stepped forward. "When my father and brother died, I looked to my uncle to take me in, but he would have none of it. He even broke off my betrothal to Sven, saying I'd failed in nursing my closest kin through illness." Her eyes glistened. "A man's word means nothing. Look at how they abandoned us."

"We've all endured difficult times." Frida looked at the women beseechingly. "None understand what caused the curse of the island that took the lives of so many of our men and drove the others to seek refuge, where we do not know. But Freyja has given us her strength, and we've survived. I believe these men are her gift."

Hedda's irritation flared. "There you go again, making up whatever you'd like to believe, while telling us it's the will of the gods. Has one of these half-dead men winked at you? You think Freyja has sent you a husband at last?"

"Hedda, that's uncalled for!" Elin spoke sharply. "Any man would be lucky to have Frida as his wife. If one of these poor souls recovers, and Frida wishes it, why shouldn't she take him to husband? Why shouldn't any of us? Not all of us hated our menfolk as you did."

"Ha! Take a stranger to husband! You're running as mad as my sister. Why was it that none showed interest in her before? Because her head is in the clouds, always thinking the gods are sending her messages!" Hedda knew it was a low jibe, but Frida needed to stop her nonsense. "She thinks she sees what the future holds, but where was her warning of this?"

"Your tongue is sour because you know Einar wanted to cast you off and marry Signy." It was not the sort of comment Frida would usually make.

"Enough!" The declaration came from Bothild.

The crowd parted to let her through. Hedda hadn't realized her grandmother was present. Advanced in years, she rarely wandered far from her own hut. One of the other women must have helped her down the dunes.

"We aren't here to listen to your squabbles. Your strength is admirable, but you're blinded by your past, Hedda." Bothild's brow furrowed. "Frida deserves your love rather than your ridicule. You view the world differently, but both approaches have their merits."

Hedda's hands balled into fists as she bit back all she wished to reply on that topic.

Frida bowed her head to Bothild. "I don't pretend to understand Freyja's will, but perhaps she has sent men who are worthy of us, who may offer protection and love and give us children again. If we nurture them to health, they shall be grateful, surely, rather than wishing to betray us. They're too small in number to leave the island, even if they repair their boat, so they must make a home here."

Bothild nodded before looking about her. Her gaze settled on one who stood quietly to the side. "Astrid, what think you? Would you wish these strangers to live among us? Wish, even, for one of them to become husband to you?"

The shy young woman raised her eyes. "I'm happy as I am, though I miss my father. I never did think to marry, only to look after him."

Hedda was losing patience. Astrid spent more time in her little fishing boat—casting nets and laying creels—than she did on land. One might go a whole cycle of the moon and barely see her. Hedda turned again to the women.

"I say we end this. Do you not value your independence? Let these men make themselves comfortable and they'll have you at their beck and call."

"Well said," shouted one of the women at the back. "We can tend our own livestock, and the island is bountiful in food."

"And what of the future?" countered another. "In ten years or twenty? Without more children, what shall become of us?"

It was a problem, Hedda knew, but she'd long reconciled herself to the notion that, eventually, the island would become uninhabited, as it had been when their ancestors first discovered it. A handful of youngsters remained, but the only boy among them was little more than a babe in arms.

A multitude of voices rose, several women speaking at once.

"Calm yourselves, friends." Bothild's voice rose above the hubbub. "This is too important a decision for one person to make, too important even to leave to our council of five. There's only one way to fairly choose if we are to let these men live."

With the stick she carried, she scored a wide circle in the sand, then drew a smaller circle inside.

"Each of you, find a shell. A placement within the inner circle is a voice for letting these men remain among us, at least for the time being. A shell in the outer ring speaks for quickly ending their suffering. Then we shall forget these poor creatures were ever cast ashore."

There were more murmurs, this time of approval.

Hedda did not delay in picking up her shell and depositing it in the outer ring. She hoped enough of the others would follow her example. However, the shells within the center soon outnumbered those placed beside her own, the margin enough to make the decision clear.

Hedda turned away in disgust. She supposed they'd be asking her next to help carry the brutes and to secure them in the great hall of the longhouse. If so, it would serve them right for her to follow her instinct and murder them while they slept.

However, it seemed her grandmother had other plans.

"The decision is made. If these men recover from their wounds, it will be Freyja's will. Perhaps she means for them to stay with us always. Perhaps she wishes only to remind us what men can be—for good or ill. In any case, they must be cared for and guarded."

One of the older women gave a hoot. "As far as I recall, men are only good for one thing."

"I wouldn't mind taking one in," rejoined her neighbor, "for the sake of a good bounce on his staff. I might let you borrow him if I don't wear him out myself."

There were cackles at that.

"There's an idea. I'll take the red-haired one—or why not try them all? Keep them a week, then pass them on," cawed another of the women.

Hedda clenched her fists. They were fools, the lot of them.

Bothild smiled. "I'm glad to see such merry spirits, but we mustn't forget, these men are not beasts. They may have women waiting for them—mothers, sisters, wives even—somewhere far off. In honor of that alone, we should treat them with courtesy."

"If they're Freyja's gift, she'd want us to enjoy them!" came another shout.

Bothild raised her hand again for quiet.

"I propose six of us take responsibility to nurture them to health. Once they're strong enough, there's no harm in a little bedding. Perhaps, as Frida says, this is Freyja's gift, bringing these men to beget children upon us. Without them, we all know what shall happen."

"I agree, and Bothild should choose." Elin nodded. "I trust her judgment."

Again, the gathering uttered their support of the idea.

As unhappy as Hedda was with the situation, at least this plan would avoid her being lumbered with a house of barbarous men expecting her and the other women under her roof to tend to them.

Hedda wondered what Bothild had in mind. If she gave the men to the seasoned women of the group, they might do Hedda's work for her, enthusiastically swiving the men to their deaths, broken ribs and all!

Her grandmother spoke again. "I shall make a match for six of our women—all of childbearing age. You may have four cycles of the moon to claim a child from your man, if that is your wish. After that, the men shall be reallocated, and serve Freyja's purpose with another. Treat them with respect, but since we know not how their tempers may be, they should remain bound in some fashion… at least until we know them better. If they prove more trouble than they're worth, we shall take Hedda's advisement—a humane death."

"And if a bond is forged? Are we to pass along these men, mating with them like ewes, only to give them up?" Elin asked.

"As to whether they'll make suitable husbands, I shall leave that for you to decide and the men themselves," Bothild answered. "Hedda, what say you to this? You accept my resolution and agree to obey?"

Hedda could think of any number of reasons why the plan would fail, but she was willing to bide her time. They'd soon see she was right. She'd lay a wager on a meeting being called before the moon began waxing. These foolish women would soon be asking her advice on how best to resolve the catastrophe they'd set up for themselves.

Bothild proceeded to call forward the women allocated with the task. The first was Grethe, who looked taken aback, though the slight blush upon her cheek made Hedda think she secretly welcomed the chance. Losing Sven had been a disappointment to her, and she'd more than once bewailed the fact that she'd been robbed of her chance to have a family of her own. She'd likely hope for one of the men least injured, and soon be having her way with him.

The next was Signy, which was more puzzling, but the girl was young enough that she would do as she was instructed. Hedda could imagine her mother standing over her, egging her on to do her duty.

Bothild called Elin forward. This also did not surprise Hedda. Elin had enjoyed being married and was naturally subservient, from all Hedda knew of her. Whichever of the men ended up tucked under her bed-furs would likely never want to leave.

The naming of Astrid was far more unexpected. She shook her head, clearly bewildered, but congratulations rained upon her as she was pushed to join the others at the front.

Hedda watched with distaste as her grandmother named Frida. Like Grethe, she seemed not displeased. No doubt, it was what she'd hoped for all along. Hedda knew she ought to feel more benevolent toward her sister, but they always rubbed each other the wrong way.

With a sigh, she looked out to the receding waves. The tide had fallen back almost to its lowest point, leaving exposed the full expanse of the cove. The thin sheen on the wet sand shone brightly under the warmth of the rising sun. Despite the bitterness of her mood, Hedda could not remain unmoved by its beauty. Some thought her unfeeling—Frida for instance—but there were parts of her, deep inside, she preferred to keep buried.

"Hedda?" Elin's voice recalled her thoughts.

She was aware of the other women looking at her. A hush had fallen.

Bothild was smiling. "You are our sixth, Hedda. Make of it what you will, but know I've chosen you for a reason."

Hedda fought cold nausea. Her grandmother knew full well that she had no hankering for a man, but she had tricked her. Now, no matter how repulsive she found the prospect, she would have to comply.

Of course, it didn't mean she had to like it.

No man would be sharing her bed-furs.