Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Warm tendrils of the humid night met Frida as she ventured out, heading for the solitude of the sand and the ocean's solace. Her blood simmered with desire for the man she'd left dozing—though how he could sleep, she'd no idea.

What had possessed her?

Some yearning had taken hold, first to kiss him, then to touch, to explore every part, not just his lips.

When Freyja had washed him to their shore, the signs had seemed straightforward. The goddess had sent a man whose seed would spark life in her belly. Though understanding little of carnal relations, Frida had trusted that, when the time was right, some instinct would guide her.

But spending time with Gunnar, learning of his life and what he held dear, had altered the way in which Frida viewed him. He was more than a divine gift bestowed to create new life. He was a man, with his own needs and will, to be admired and respected.

She loved the way he spoke of his horses and of his jarl, showing his care for others beyond himself.

And she could not cease from thinking of him.

The more time she spent with Gunnar, the more she longed for him. She'd anticipated a man to impregnate her— a perfunctory and fleeting role, as far as she knew. She hadn't counted on this rush of feeling or her ever-growing need. She had so many questions, for Gunnar affected her in ways that were perplexing.

Her thoughts returned to how she'd allowed her passion to spill over.

Under the pretense of bathing him, she'd indulged herself, pressing her lips to his mouth and reveling in his reactions. He'd enjoyed it, too, hadn't he, encouraging her and uttering that primal moan? Her pulse quickened to recall how good it had felt to breathe him in and share the caress.

Was it right to want him that way? To want anything from him beyond his seed? Surely, procreation was all Freyja had sent him for.

Yet her breath caught as she recollected the thick shaft at his groin. She'd felt no disgust, only intrigue and excitement, happy to soothe it in her palm, to stretch and fondle until it had erupted between her fingers.

Who'd have thought such a thing?

Was it shameful of her to have touched him so? Or was this only what men and women did as they came to know one another? All men's bodies must be the same, and Gunnar had wanted her attention.

The cream he'd spurted was unexpected, but it occurred to her that it was part of the mystery regarding making a child. Was that all that was necessary to plant a baby in her womb? She'd rubbed it away, but some had stayed on her skin. Could that be enough, perhaps, to start her belly growing?

Don't be a fool. She scolded herself. The seed must be inside of me for the baby to grow!

"And what now?" Casting her gaze to the sky, she beseeched an answer, then looked hurriedly about, fearful someone might be near. The women were wary enough without them discovering her talking to herself.

To her relief, she saw no one. Though the shadows clung thick by the huts, she discerned no movement. Meanwhile, the rising moon lit the hillside as if to guide her there. She oft retreated to the cliffs when she sought Freyja's wisdom, a perfect place for reflection. From there, she might observe the swell of the sea. By moonlight, it was even more magnificent.

Having made her climb, she fell to her knees, skimming her fingers through the grass.

What does this mean, Freyja? Is this the passion other women speak of? Am I falling in love? I don't understand. You bring him to me, then send me these feelings, though he's a stranger who'll surely return to his homeland once he's healed.

That thought left her with an unhappy emptiness.

Looking to the sky, Frida noticed a stream of bright stars cascading overhead. Holding her breath, she followed their journey to the sea, watching as their tail disappeared over the horizon.

A sign!

Frida looked about for further evidence of the gods' will. The night was still, but her instincts told her there was more to be revealed. She'd asked Freyja for answers, and the goddess had sent her response in the stars. Further omens would come, she felt certain.

The impulse came again to go to the beach, for its sand sometimes revealed mysteries, and it was there Gunnar had been delivered to her. Making haste, she skittered down the hillside until she reached the grassy dunes, heading for what remained of the wreck.

She was out of breath by the time she reached the broken mast, her gaze searching for any sign of divine intervention, but running her finger over the seaweed-laden ship, she found nothing. No formation of pebbles in the wet sand, no fish entrails—nothing she could use for divine meaning.

She'd been so sure the sand would speak to her, but standing there, the wind was colder, and the world seemed less certain.

I should have brought the runes.

It was an unexpected frustration. To fetch them would involve returning to the hut, and she'd no inclination to face Gunnar. Kicking at the sand, she set off toward the incoming tide.

What message did the tumbling stars send? She needed to understand. Perhaps the waves would show her something more.

Her thoughts were splintered by the screech of approaching seabirds, a number of them close by. ‘Twas strange, for gulls usually rested by night. Spinning, she searched for them above, only to have one swoop low, near colliding with her head.

Oh gods!

She cowered from beating wings, dropping to her knees as the skuas dove upon her.

"Be gone!" Protecting her face with one arm, she tried to frighten them away. The squawking was relentless, the flock taking up a panicked shrieking.

What is this? Freyja, are these birds your messengers?

The next moment, a gull dropped from the air, landing with a dull thud beside her. Frida shrieked, peering through splayed fingers, only to see a second fall, then another. With a tortured cry, each tumbled to the sand.

Some moments passed before she trusted herself to look.

All were dead. A prod with her foot confirmed it. The birds were unmoving, their feathers tousled by the wind.

What's happening, Freyja? Have I displeased you?

In dismay, Frida surveyed the forlorn corpses.

Was the goddess displeased with the intimacy she'd found with Gunnar? If so, there were other ways to show her.

No . This is an omen of another kind.

Fear gripped her. The birds were portentous, warning of great woe. Some dark fate loomed, as yet unknown.

Had the strangers brought peril with them, as Hedda insisted? Frida didn't want to believe it, but what other interpretation could there be? Freyja must be warning her to be careful. That, however tempted she might be to surrender to tender feelings, Frida needed to keep her head.

Gunnar had been sent to give her a child—nothing more. She would urge him to do what was necessary, then give him over to someone else, as was her duty.

Give him to another?

The way her heart lurched told her all she needed to know. Hedda had been right to urge caution. Frida could not afford to be blinded by ridiculous sentiments.

Whatever danger lay in wait, she would be ready.