My mind raced through the options before me, yet each option came back to the simple fact that I owed my sword to Olaf and Olaf had to leave. Which meant I, too, had to leave. I sighed, knowing Turid would be as crushed as I was.

  I nodded curtly. "Your offer is a kindness I will be hard-pressed to repay, lord," I said, trying hard to quell my aggravation.

  Sigurd's left brow arched over his eye. "What say you, Olaf?"

  Olaf grinned his mischievous grin at me, and I nearly changed my mind. "I stand with Torgil in my thanks to you, Uncle. It is a rare kindness indeed."

  "Then we are agreed." Sigurd hoisted his cup. "May your new adventures bring you fame and fortune, Olaf. And may you, Torgil, find as much success on the seas as you've found in my service. Sköl!”

  "Sköl!” we echoed, though my response sounded flat in my ear.

  "Now," Sigurd continued after sleeving the beer from his mustache. "We have one more matter to discuss." His eyes turned to me, and he smiled. "When shall we celebrate your betrothal to Turid?"

  The question surprised me, and I grinned stupidly to give myself time to respond. "I…uh...was not planning to celebrate."

  Sigurd skewered me with his gaze. "And why not? Is your betrothal to Turid not worthy of celebration?"

  "That is not what I meant. I just – we did not think to have a celebration." I did not want to admit that neither of us wanted that much attention on us. Nor did we have the place or the coin to throw a large feast.

  "Nonsense. I will speak with Gerd, and we will have a banquet to remember. It has been many springs since we have hosted a wedding." He stood and ran his hand over his tunic. "Now then. Let us return to the hall before the others wonder what has become of us."

  I followed him and Olaf out into the spirited hall, my mind suddenly overwhelmed by all that had just transpired and just how I would share it with Turid. I did not have long to consider, for just as I reclaimed my seat, she leaned into me and asked: "What was that about?"

  I had never been good at hiding the truth, and so I did not try. "That was about Olaf," I said as I jabbed a chunk of boiled pork from the trencher lying before me and bit into it.

  "That is all?"

  I shook my head. "Not here, Turid. I will say more when we are alone."

  I glanced over at Olaf, who laughed at some jest as if he had no cares in the world. I envied him that, for I did have a care, and she studied my profile now. I sensed that she was pulling the results of my meeting from my stiff features.

  "It affects you, too, does it not?" Turid asked.

  I held up my hand to quell her unease. "Peace. I will tell you all on the morrow."

  Her face sank into a worried frown, pulling her myriad freckles down with it. "Is all well?"

  I patted her hand. "All is well. Fear not."

  She snorted. "You are a poor liar, Torgil."

  I glanced at her, wanting to ease her worry with more information, but I knew that anything I said would only make matters worse, so I held my tongue and chewed my food.

  The following day, I took Turid to our favorite secluded spot: a small beach that lay on a tributary just north of Sigurd's estate. It was our refuge from the daily troubles of life, and our place to find some quiet when we needed to speak of more private matters.

  It was a rare cloudless day, and I turned my face to the sky's warmth. I then grasped Turid's hand and told her of the developments with Sigurd and Olaf and the plans we had discussed the previous night. The words came haltingly, and as I spoke, her freckled face shifted from interest to disquiet to shock.

  "I like it not one bit," she said when I finished my tale.

  I was not surprised. I did not like it either. "I know. It worries me also, but I know not how to reconcile my oath to Trygvi and my father with my protection of you and the child. There is no perfect solution."

  "Olaf is reckless," she countered, her fair skin now red with ire. "Your oath should be to us. To me and your child."

  "It should be, but it is not," I tried to explain as calmly as I could. "It is an oath I made to his father, and to my father, and to his mother as well." Turid knew as well as I that a man is nothing without his word, and so I did not bother explaining further.

  "But who knows how long you might be gone. What if Olaf wants to sail off to Engla-lond or Irland? It could be summers before we see you again. What then?"

  "I will return to you before that, Turid. I promise."

  "Do not make promises you cannot keep, Torgil. Who knows where Olaf's whims will take you and the rest of his crew."

  She pushed herself up from the log with a grunt and marched down to the waterline. I bit my lip. I had never been good with my words and could think of nothing to say to expel her worry. Partly, because I was worried, too.

  "That damn Olaf," she cursed at the water, then gasped and rubbed her stomach. "Always thinking of himself. Never thinking of how others might be harmed by his actions." She exhaled and grabbed her rounded belly. I had seen that look before and knew she might wretch, so I rose from my perch to help her. She held up her hand to hold me back.

  "Sigurd has agreed to betroth us before I leave," I offered to her back in a half-whisper, hoping to turn her mind to something more positive. "He wants to throw a grand feast."

  She snorted. "I did not want a feast."

  "Nor did I, but our lord insists on it."

  She shook her head, and her red braid wagged between her shoulder blades. "This is not what I imagined, Torgil. None of it."

  I sighed. "I know. But I will find a way to make it better. I promise."

  She turned to me then, and there were tears in her eyes. Instead of feeling love or relief, I felt only guilt, as if the snarled web of our circumstances was all my fault. It did not bode well for our betrothal.

  3

  We held the wedding ceremony eight days later at our favorite spot on the banks of the tributary. Lord Sigurd officiated, his tall frame standing in the shadow of Odin, Thor, and Perun – wooden statues standing at the waterline and soaked in the blood of the rabbits that had been used for the sacrifice. Behind the carvings, the waterway twinkled in the sunlight, its easy current forming tiny waves that lapped on the shore. I shifted restlessly, aware of the beads of sweat trickling down my spine and the gaze of Sigurd's household, which murmured behind us as Sigurd entreated the gods for our health, happiness, fortune, and the safe birth of our child.

  My eyes traveled west across the Volkhov River, where the sunlight threw into relief Nygard's clutter of structures and walkways on the low horizon. A tug at my hand brought my eyes back to Turid, who stood in a stunning dress of white wool bordered with a red trim that matched the braids of her flame-colored hair. She smiled at me softly with a face scrubbed clean of dirt and radiant in her pregnancy. I blushed, for though I was in my early twenties and already an accomplished warrior, I was awkward in the presence of women, especially with so many eyes upon me. Still, of all women, Turid had a special way of quieting me, and so I stared into her eyes and did my best to forget about my awkwardness.

  "Your hands," Sigurd instructed.

  Hand in hand, we lifted our arms toward our lord, who fastened our wrists with a strip of soft pelt and had us speak the vows of betrothal. Then he turned us to the happy, expectant faces of his household and pronounced us husband and wife –– a pronouncement that buried nature's gentle sounds under an avalanche of hoots and cheers.

  We retired to Sigurd's hall, which Gerd and her servants had decorated in boughs of pine. They hung from the high rafters and lay upon the long tables, their fresh smell defeated only by the aroma of lamb and onion emanating from the cauldron that hung over the hearth fire. I marveled at the hall's transformation as Sigurd escorted us to two seats of honor that he had placed at the head of his hall. He then took his own seat on a bench at the table nearest us. It was a rare honor to be seated so, and one I accepted with a blush and a nod of thanks.

  I would like to say that the ensuing feast was a docile affair, but that would be a lie, and I am no liar. From our seats of honor, we watched our friends and comrades celebrate us in song and drink, in jests and praises. Sigurd toasted our wedding and our long life together. Olaf then launched into a true, yet embarrassing account of how long I had had my eyes on Turid, before eloquently speaking of our coming child and the natural gifts with which it would be endowed. He kept it clean, but Ulrik was more than glad to provide the raunchy details that were on everyone's mind.

  Turid and I joined in their fun, though her stomach roiled from her pregnancy, and I mostly abstained. My father had been a drinker, and when he drank, his anger took hold of him. As the object of too many of his angry nights, I swore as a young man to keep my wits about me. I slipped on occasion, of course, but not that night. That night I yearned to be with Turid, who looked luminous in her wedding dress, and so I sipped to each toast, and ate and joked and laughed, and watched in amusement as the men slid further into their cups.

  Eventually, the candles sputtered, and men fell asleep. Sigurd slept at his place, his cheek on his folded arm as he snored. Olaf held court at a table off to my right, challenging Ulrik to yet another drinking match. I grabbed Turid's hand and nodded, and together we slipped from our seats, but we did not escape the hall unnoticed or unscathed. The ribbing and calls that chased us into the night were enough to make a dead man flush. We giggled at the crudeness of our drunken friends and ran hand in hand for the barracks, which, like the hall, Gerd had decorated in soft furs and pine boughs and candlelight for our wedding night.

  Our lovemaking was awkward at first, starting slowly, like two strangers reacquainting themselves to something they once knew. Given the strict rules of Sigurd's household, we had not found an opportunity to lie with each other since returning from our recent campaign. Nor had I ever made love to a pregnant woman, and I found it hard to navigate at first. But with Olaf's impending departure, we understood that we might not have this opportunity again. And so our clumsiness soon gave way to an urgency I had not felt in moons, and the sounds of distant celebration –– those that had so embarrassed us moments before –– blended with the echoes of our own passion until we finally collapsed, exhausted, as one body in the eyes of the gods.

  "What shall we name the child?" Turid asked when our breathing finally calmed. She was lying at my side, her fingers running softly through the dark hair on my chest.

  I toyed with a strand of her red hair as I thought about the question. "If it is a boy, I would like to name him after my father, Torolv."

  "It is a good name," she murmured. "Strong and meaningful."

  Her response turned my thoughts to the man many called “Loose-beard" on account of his temper. He had taught me much about loyalty, dedication, and the skills I needed to survive as a warrior. And he had died to protect Olaf, Turid, and me. For that, I would honor him. Yet there was part of me that hated him, too. I would never forget the many nights I cowered before him or the countless bruises that wounded my young body as a result of his drink-induced wrath. He, of course, would rarely remember his drunken stupors, but I would never forget. They were seared in my memory. And worse, they had given rise to my own dark ire – fits of anger that boiled over in me more often than I wanted.

  I forced my thoughts from the memory. "And if it is a girl?" I asked. I did not want that, of course, but I had to concede it was a possibility.

  "What about your mother's name?" Turid asked.

  I thought of the Irish woman who had birthed me and who had given me her black hair and green eyes. Sadly, she had died when I was young. I barely remembered her, and I said as much to Turid. "What about your mother's name?"

  "Sigrunn?" she whispered.

  "Is there another?" I joked.

  Turid smacked my chest. "You know there is no other, Torgil."

  "Then that is who I mean," I replied with a smile.

  "Aye," Turid conceded after a moment. "That would be nice."

  "So be it then. Torolv or Sigrunn. I will give the names to Sigurd and Gerd before I leave so they do not try to change the child's name when it is born."

  "They would never," said Turid with alarm.

  "Peace, Turid," I said as I rubbed her shoulder. "I only jest."

  We lay in each other's arms for a long moment, our fingers mindlessly caressing each other's skin. I know not what was racing through Turid's thoughts, but in my own mind's eye, I was envisioning our child being born without me there to greet it, and the thought saddened me.

  "I have an idea." Turid's voice shook me from my melancholy, and I turned my eyes to hers.

  "I am listening."

  "Let us think no more on children or the future. It will be here soon enough. Let us turn our thoughts back to the present, eh?" She grinned as her hand slid down from my chest toward my groin.

  I felt a rousing tingle there and smiled. "I like that idea," I responded, then kissed her lips.

  As we suspected, the days that followed our wedding were nothing but reminders of how little time together we had left.

  No sooner had we emerged from the barracks than Sigurd had opened the doors to his boathouse and set his men to work. I could hear them toiling, and so I said my goodbyes to Turid and went to join them.

  "Ah, the lover has awoken," called Olaf, who stood with his arm wrapped around the sweeping prow of one of Sigurd's warships. "Or did you ever sleep, eh?"

  The others with him laughed, and I thanked the gods for the shadowy space and how it concealed the red rising in my cheeks. "I am surprised to see you all here so early," I countered, hoping to jab back at them. "Most of you were so deep in your cups last night, I expected you to sleep until Ragnarok."

  "Some of us can hold our drink better than others," responded Olaf with a smile, and I knew the quick-witted bastard was referring to me. I cursed under my breath, thinking to myself that I liked Olaf better in the company of the princess than here among Sigurd's men. "Besides, it is midday. We have all slept enough, I think. It is time to work."

  Olaf patted the ship's sloping prow. It was a good-sized ship with fifteen benches on either side, but it was also a ship Sigurd had not sailed since taking it from the slave trader Klerkon five summers before. "How bad is she?" I asked.

  "She'll need some work," Olaf admitted. "But by the start of summer, she will be as good as new."

  I looked at Sveinn, my lanky blond friend who was also a master with wood, and questioned him with my gaze.

  He shrugged, which told me he was dubious of Olaf's claim.

  "What of the sail?" I asked.

  Olaf shrugged. "I have not yet seen it, but knowing Sigurd, it will be in good shape."

  I grunted and climbed up onto the deck. I had not ventured onto her since our sea battle with Klerkon. Then, the deck had been littered with corpses, including that of the slave trader and some of our friends. I turned my thoughts from the sour memory and scanned the ship's sleek lines. "It is a grand ship, Olaf. How do you plan to man it?"

  Prince Vladimir, Princess Olava, and Lord Sigurd had all forbidden Olaf from taking men from their hirds, and as a member of his crew, I had the right to know.

  "There are always men hungry for adventure, Torgil. I will have her manned in no time."

  I rolled my eyes.

  "You doubt me," he said.

  He was right, but it was not the time nor place to quarrel, so I switched the subject. "What will you name her?"

  "Saeulfr," he responded without hesitation.

  "Sea Wolf," I echoed. "It is a fitting name. You will need a new prow beast, I think." I nodded to the carved serpentine head laying on the deck. It had been removed from the prow so as not to anger the land spirits.

  He grinned and nodded to Sveinn. "Sveinn is already working on it."

  In the days that followed, we hauled Sea Wolf from her shelter and moved her up onto the beach near Sigurd's hall where there was more space to work. Just getting her onto land required every able-bodied man on Sigurd's estate, and still, it took an entire day of sweating and grunting and hauling. Once there, Sigurd called for the local shipwright to inspect every ell of the ship and to determine what exactly needed repairing. Under his skillful eye, we pried loose rotten planking and rusting iron, scraped dead debris from the hull, and dug old caulking from the cracks where it had been packed. We laid ropes and rigging out onto the ground for him to appraise. We stretched the sail across Sigurd's courtyard and let the man inspect every stitch and seam. If something didn't meet his satisfaction, it was hauled away to be repaired or replaced. When he finally finished his business, Sea Wolf reminded me of a mangy dog whose fur was coming off in clumps.

  We then set to work repairing or replacing the damaged parts. For days, the call of toiling men and the dull thud of hammers, axes, and adzes echoed off the nearby trees and drowned the cluck of chickens and bleat of goats in Sigurd's yard. Most of the men toiled with shirts off and ignored the spring showers and stubborn chill in the air. Offshore, the Volkhov slipped northward, taking the first of the season's trading vessels with her. By the next full moon, the traffic would be twice as thick, and we would be among it.

  I wiped a drop of rain from the tip of my nose and reached into a bucket of wooden pegs. Adjusting the peg carefully to find the proper angle, I then hammered it into the hole and tested the plank for stability. Satisfied that it was tight, I grabbed the bucket and moved two steps to the next hole. As I worked, my mind turned to the impending journey, which I awaited with as much eagerness as I might await the extraction of a dead tooth. I knew I would miss Turid and regret being absent from my child's birth. I knew, too, that I would miss Sigurd and his men, who had been my only family these past few years. My only solace, which Turid had suggested to me, was the promise of silver. I could not deny it held some allure, for only through it could I hope to carve out some land for me and my growing family in the North when we reunited. And so I put my head down and hammered.

 

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