Not Every Cloud That Darkens

Words by Anne Line Kraemmer

Art by Yaleeza Patchett

No matter how hard she tried, Ragnfrid could not keep her eyes off Thyra’s lips. Plump and rosy, they seemed to dance in Thyra’s pale, oval face as she leaned in, touched her new husband’s arm, and laughed at something he said. Ragnfrid felt the heat rise in her cheeks. If out of humiliation or jealousy, she was not sure.

Ragnfrid was standing too far down the hall to hear what Thyra said to King Gorm, but she knew her old friend well enough to guess that it was something witty. She shifted her eyes to where Thyra had casually left her hand on Gorm’s, and she felt a longing so strong for Thyra’s touch that she had to blink back tears. Luckily the great hall of old King Hardeknud was dim.

“You are Thyra’s lady, from Northmannia?” a man asked as Ragnfrid filled his cup. He turned his bulky chest towards her and she saw that he was wearing several silver arm rings. He was clearly a prosperous man.

“I am. We grew up together in Jorvik.”

“And you are a Dane?”

“My father was a Dane. My mother was of an old Angle family, who’ve lived in Northumbria for centuries.” Ragnfrid almost said “ruled” instead of “lived”. Until the Danes had come, her mother’s family had been a powerful clan of earls and thanes. But Ragnfrid had found that here in the homeland of the Danes, being a descendent of an old Angle dynasty counted for less than nothing. Nortmannia was what the Danes had dubbed the kingdom that they had founded in the northern part of what the Angles called England.

The man gestured for her to sit on the bench next to him. She hesitated for a moment, but then she put the jug on the table and sat down.

“And is your father still in Northmannia?” the man asked, “Or did he return with our old king?” Gorm’s father Hardeknud had returned to Denmark some years ago and conquered it from Sigtrygg the Swede. When he had died last year, Gorm had become king of the Danes.

“He and my brothers live on our English lands still.” Ragnfrid tried a polite smile at the man—she was Thyra’s lady now and she wanted her friend to make a good impression on the Danes—but her face felt more contorted than cheerful. The man did not seem to notice.

“That’s good,” he said with an appreciative nod. “It’s important to have good men to keep those English bastards in their place. I’m Ivar Eskilson, by the way.”

Ragnfrid smiled even wider and nodded. She could have kicked herself for not asking his name, which would have been proper. She felt a fool, trying to please this man, but this was her life now and she would have to get used to it if she wished to stay with Thyra.

“Where do you come from, Ivar?”

“My uncle is Jarl Sigurd of Aros,” Ivar nodded towards an older man sitting further up the hall. “He was one of Hardeknud’s most trusted commanders.”

Ragnfrid nodded. “I see.” Ivar’s eyes returned from his uncle to Ragnfrid, and his heavy gaze rested on her face and then drifted further down. Ragnfrid could feel herself blush. It was this cursed dress she had to wear. It was so tight around her chest that there was no hiding the shape of her breasts. She preferred the loser tunic of a man. She had grown into a woman years ago but she still resented the impractical dresses and long cloaks that she was expected to wear.

Hastily she searched her mind to think of a question to distract him. “Have you been to England?”

“No,” Ivar said with a shake of his head, “not yet.” To Ragnfrid’s relief he lifted his eyes to her face. “I will go some time, but my uncle needs me. I’m going to Hedeby to buy him thralls later this month.”

Ragnfrid almost regretted her question as Ivar droned on about his own importance and his forthcoming trip to the south. She supposed he was rather handsome, although she had never been good at judging the looks of a man. They never caught her eye for long enough.

She wished he would leave her alone so she could again watch Thyra’s every move. She longed for her friend to look her way. To be the recipient of one of Thyra’s brilliant smiles would make this whole feast bearable. Even just a glance would have made it worth it, Ragnfrid thought. But of course Thyra had to entertain her new husband and his powerful jarls. Thyra was a queen now.

The feast seemed to drag on for hours and through the smoke holes in the roof and the occasionally opened door Ragnfrid could tell that dark had fallen. She left Ivar and resumed her duty of serving the guests. The heaviness in her chest grew with every passing hour.

When the time finally came, the clamor of the loud cheering almost made Ragnfrid jump. It started with the men next to Gorm and Thyra in their high seats and spread down along the benches. Somewhere across the hall a man started to sing a vulgar song and soon the entire hall had joined in. Ragnfrid had been to wedding feasts before, and she knew this raucous bedding ritual, but this time, with this bride, it seemed not like a celebration. It was not the joyous beginning of something new. For Ragnfrid this moment burned her like a funeral pyre.

Gorm stood and picked up Thyra. Ragnfrid could see the muscles of his arms bulge under his silk tunic. Thyra shrieked and wriggled, but only a little. Ragnfrid could tell that her friend only pretended to be embarrassed. Her light, freckled skin did not blush and Ragnfrid knew that Thyra only averted her gaze because it was expected. Thyra was not innocent when it came to the pleasures of the body.

Shifting the heavy jug in her hand Ragnfrid stared hard at Thyra, willing her to turn her head and look across the hall at her. Just for a moment. Just so that maybe Ragnfrid could get through this night. But she did not.

The cheers and lewd comments grew louder still as Gorm carried his bride into the little enclosure at the end of the hall where the king—and from now on his queen—slept.

Ragnfrid sat down again next to a man who had fallen asleep with his head on the table. She beckoned over a thrall with a jug of wine and held out a cup. The thrall filled it to the brim and Ragnfrid emptied it as the festivities started to die down. The guests lay down on the benches along the wall to sleep and soon loud, drunken snores filled the hall as much as the chatter of the remaining revelers. Ragnfrid rose and went to the other end of the hall where the women slept. She lay down next to one of Thyra’s other ladies—a dull girl by the name of Hild—who was already asleep, spit glistening at the corner of her half open mouth. Ragnfrid wrapped herself in her cloak and closed her eyes, but they sprang open again and wandered pointlessly towards the other end of the hall. It was unlikely that Thyra would come out until the morning, and besides, the hall was too dim to even make out the costly tapestry that covered the door.

Ragnfrid turned and stared up at the smoke blackened rafters until her eyes stung and she finally drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Ragnfrid tightened the grip on the reins as her horse leapt across a small creek. Her heart leapt too as behind her she heard the splash of Thyra’s horse traversing the small band of gurgling water that ran through the forest north of Jelling.

She slowed down her horse, and when Thyra rode up by her side, Ragnfrid shot her a brilliant smile. This was the best day since they had come to the homeland of the Danes. Thyra had finally, after Ragnfrid had suggested it almost daily, agreed to go riding. When they had lived in England they had gone riding often. They had raced across the fields and through the woods, and when the horses could run no longer they had found a place for them to graze. Then they had lain together in the grass, limbs intertwined in a way that always reminded Ragnfrid of the pattern of interwoven bands that adorned the pendant replica of Mjølner, Thor’s hammer, that she wore around her neck.

Although they were not racing now—they did not know this place well enough for that—to Ragnfrid this still felt like one of the old days when she had often had Thyra to herself.

“It’s a lot like Northmannia, don’t you think?” Thyra said and looked around at the trees and brush of the woods.

“I suppose so,” Ragnfrid said with a shrug. She felt a stab of annoyance, which threatened to ruin this moment that she had so longed for. Thyra had been taken with their new land—or Ragnfrid supposed that maybe it was their old land—and she had nothing but praise for the Danes and their ways. But Ragnfrid was far from convinced of its virtues, and Thyra knew it. Ragnfrid missed Jorvik and her family. She missed the city with its market and churches. Her mother had been a Christian and before she had died she had taught Ragnfrid about her faith. Ragnfrid was not sure what she believed, but she liked the bustle of people as they hurried to mass. Jelling was a strange place. It had been founded by Hardaknud and there was hardly anything here but the king’s great hall. There was a small market sometimes, but it was nothing compared to the cities of England.

When they came to a little clearing they reined in the horses and dismounted. Ragnfrid felt the flutters of anticipation in her stomach. Finally everything would be like before, if only for an afternoon. She walked through the high grass, savoring the feeling of being free. Before they had left she had exchanged her dress with a tunic and trousers for riding, and the more practical cut of the garments made her feel light. She sat down in the grass next to a hawthorn and watched Thyra. Her friend took her time tethering her horse to a small birch tree. There was no urgency in her movements and when she finally sat down next to Ragnfrid, she chose a spot more than an arm’s length away.

Ragnfrid felt a lump in her throat forming and she struggled to find something to say. She watched as a blackbird jumped from branch to branch in a birch tree in the center of the clearing. Then she decided she might as well speak frankly. This could be her only chance alone with Thyra in who knew how long.

“You don’t love me anymore, do you?” she asked. A hint of a wince ran over Thyra’s beautiful face at the bluntness of the question and she looked down at her hands. She tore a straw of grass out of the earth and Ragnfrid watched as she pulled off the seeds one by one.

“I still love you,” she said, meeting Ragnfrid’s gaze. “But things are different here than in Jorvik. I’m a queen here, and I have to devote all of me to my husband and our kingdom. There are many people watching my every move.”

Ragnfrid nodded. There was sense in Thyra’s words. Even Ragnfrid, guileless as she was, could see that. But with a sudden clarity she also knew that the words were not true. Clever by birth and from an important family, Thyra had always considered herself to be destined for greatness. When her father had betrothed her to Gorm, she had told Ragnfrid that she was determined to use her wits and graces to insert her influence wherever she could. She would be the greatest queen the Danes had ever had. But Thyra was also of a headstrong nature. If she desired something, she did all in her power to claim it. If she had still loved Ragnfrid, Thyra would have found a way.

No, the truth was that Thyra had changed and so had her affection for Ragnfrid. Maybe she had simply grown up, Ragnfrid thought, although she could not imagine herself ever being too old to love Thyra. In fact, she could not remember a time when she had not loved Thyra, and although Thyra had loved others as well, she had always let Ragnfrid possess a part of her heart. But Gorm was different from Thyra’s other lovers. Ragnfrid saw that now. Her fate had been sealed the moment Thyra had first seen her handsome and powerful husband waiting on the wide, windswept beach as they disembarked in the old land of their fathers.

“I see,” Ragnfrid said, and she meant it. She saw how Thyra’s love had died, and how alone she now was in this strange land that was supposedly her own. Ragnfrid got up and Thyra followed. They rode back to Jelling in silence.

* * *

It took Ragnfrid most of the morning to delegate the day's work to the other women and the household thralls. When she was finally done she picked up two pails, left the hall, and followed the narrow path to the creek. It was a bit of a walk, and she could have sent someone else, but Ragnfrid liked these few solitary moments and the physical work of carrying back the pails after she filled them.

Thyra had made her head of the household, although Ragnfrid could not understand why. As if giving Ragnfrid more work in the smoky, dark hall somehow made Thyra’s rejection less painful. It was a prestigious position, second in command only to the queen when it came to household decisions, but Ragnfrid cared not a bit for prestige. She had thought that Thyra knew her well enough to realize that, but she had also thought that Thyra’s love was forever.

They had left England half a year ago and now the leaves on the trees were turning shades of yellow, brown and red. The foliage fell to the ground and landed on the path where they cushioned Ragnfrid’s shoes as she stepped on them. Many times she had resolved to return to Jorvik and her father and brothers. But what was there in Jorvik for her now, without Thyra? A marriage to some boorish nobleman, no doubt.

At the creek she kneeled down and filled first one pail and then the other. The water was very cold. This morning the ground had been covered in a thin layer of white, crunchy frost—the first of the season. When she stood some of the water sloshed from the bucket and onto the skirt of her dress. Ragnfrid swore loudly as she felt the cold water seep through the wool.

“Can I help you, my lady?” someone asked behind her. Ragnfrid spun around, the water in the pails sloshing over the rims. She had not heard footsteps approaching.

On the path stood a young woman, a pail dangling from her slim hand. Ragnfrid had never seen her before. Her shorn hair marked her as a thrall. She had on a simple, gray dress which had seen better days and she wore no cloak against the autumn cold. Nothing else about her was plain. Her bearing was straight, almost regal. Her hair was a black as a yuletide midnight sky and her skin as white as the light from the stars upon it. Her eyes were a bright blue and she looked at Ragnfrid with an expression that seemed to be one mostly of apprehension.

“No,” Ragnfrid said with a shake of her head, “I’m quite alright. I just spilled a little.” With her eyes still on the woman she stepped aside to let her access the stream. The woman walked to the edge of the water and bent down with a movement more graceful than any Ragnfrid had ever seen. Ragnfrid tore away her eyes, closed her mouth and walked back up the path even though both pails were only half full.

Back in the hall Ragnfrid hardly noticed the guests. She brought the water to the cook fire where Hild was starting preparations for the midday meal.

“I got another piece of meat and some more flour for the supper out of the larder,” Hild said with a nod down the hall to where a handful of men were sitting with cups of ale. She was unusually quick and cheerful, Ragnfrid noticed. Most days the girl was slow and indifferent in performing her daily chores, and she always had a snappy comment for whoever dared to lambast her.

“Good.” Ragnfrid poured the water of one pail into the other and put the empty one away. “Who are they?” She was not really interested in who had decided to grace Gorm’s hall with a visit—they entertained guests almost daily—but she had to know if they were high born enough for her to have one of the thralls bring out a casket of the Frankish wine.

“I don’t recognize them all,” Hild said with a shrug of her meaty shoulders, “but one of them is Ivar Eskilson, the nephew of Jarl Sigurd.”

Ragnfrid looked more closely at the little group of men. Now she recognized the blond hair and reddish beard of Ivar. He had left right after Thyra’s wedding and they had not seen him since.

“I hear he’s thinking of marrying,” Hild said, and Ragnfrid saw the telltale spark in the girl’s eyes. Hild was thinking of marrying too, and marrying Ivar, Ragnfrid realized. And why not? Hild herself was the niece of a jarl from Fyn. They were well matched.

“Why don’t you serve them their supper?” Ragnfrid said with feigned casualty. “Perhaps you’ll learn more of his plans?”

“I will,” Hild shot Ragnfrid a smile that was cheerier than any she had yet to see on the girl’s otherwise broody face. If Hild married, Ragnfrid would be rid of her. That way both their lives would be happier.

Leaving Hild in charge of the cooking, Ragnfrid left the hall. She walked across to the stables. Thyra and Gorm were gone—they were visiting some little town or another to inspect its new defensive works—and Ragnfrid had promised Thyra to look after one of her horses which had a limp. Ragnfrid did not much feel like doing Thyra a personal favor, but she felt sorry for the little injured mare.

As Ragnfrid left the stables again a few moments later, she saw the woman from the creek enter the house where the thralls lived, which stood across from the great hall. She only caught a glimpse of her as she ducked through the door and into the darkness, but there was no mistaking that it was her. Surely she was not one of Gorm’s thralls? As Thyra’s head of the household Ragnfrid knew all the thralls well.

Esbjørn, the overseer of the thralls, was sitting in front of the house mending the wood handle of an axe and Ragnfrid waved him over to her.

“Have any new thralls for the household arrived?”

Esbjørn shook his head slowly. He himself was a thrall and his body and movements were marked by years of hard labor. “No my lady,” he said, “no newcomers, just a few guests.”

“Who?”

“Just a couple of thralls that ... ah ... ah ...” Esbjørn’s eyes darted from Ragnfrid’s face to the hall and back to Ragnfrid as he searched his mind for the name. “... that Ivar Eskilson brought with him. As far as I know he is bringing them back with him to Aros.”

“I see. Thank you, Esbjørn.” With a servile nod the man returned to his tasks while Ragnfrid stood and watched the dark door of the house where the woman now was. She felt a strange urge to see her again, and as head of Thyra’s household Ragnfrid had every right and reason to go in there. But Ragnfrid had never liked the thrall quarters. The thralls lived in worse conditions than the valuable horses and cattle, and the thought of seeing the woman from the creek in such a place stopped her. Instead she returned to the hall.

The rest of the day Ragnfrid happily did any chore that took her outside. A few times she glimpsed the woman. At supper time the woman came into the hall with another thrall. Timidly they stood inside the door until they spied Ivar. They went to him and exchanged a few words before they left again. Although she tried to move closer to listen to their conversation, the woman took no notice of Ragnfrid.

* * *

Hild let out a surprised yelp as Ragnfrid in her haste almost knocked her over. Ragnfrid mumbled an apology as she darted to the cooking area. Quickly she located the two pails and with long strides she left the hall. She steered straight for the path where she had seen the thrall woman a moment ago.

When Ragnfrid saw her kneeling by the creek she slowed down her pace and focused her eyes on the path under her feet, hoping that their encounter would seem one of chance. When the woman saw Ragnfrid approach she stood even though she had only filled one of her two pails.

“Oh no, just take your time,” Ragnfrid said with a smile. The woman eyed her with a skeptical wrinkle of her brow, but she bent down and filled the other pail.

“What’s your name?” Ragnfrid asked.

“Moninna.” The thrall kept her eyes on the ground in front of her as she answered.

“Like the saint?”

“Yes, my lady.” Moninna met Ragnfrid’s gaze with a surprised expression.

“My mother was a Christian,” Ragnfrid said. “I grew up in England. Are you from Ireland?”

Moninna nodded. “I was, a long time ago.” Her expression had turned to one of confusion at Ragnfrid’s questions. Again she averted her eyes, as any thrall ought to when speaking to a free woman, but Ragnfrid felt a flash of disappointment at her servility. The woman was too beautiful, too elegant to bow to anyone, but of course a subservient attitude had been beaten into her when she had been sold into thralldom.

“You ... are traveling with Ivar Eskilson to Aros?” Ragnfrid had almost said belong to Ivar Eskilson.

“Yes, my lady. He ... met me in Hedeby.” Ragnfrid knew that she meant that Ivar had bought her in the southern city known for its thrall market, but that she somehow sensed that Ragnfrid did not wish to be confronted with Moninna’s unfree life. Although in pretending that she was someone she was not, Moninna was of course as much a thrall as when she acted suitably submissive. Ragnfrid was not so naïve that she did not see that.

Ragnfrid could not think of anything else to say and a silence arose between them. After an awkward moment Moninna picked up her pails and walked past Ragnfrid back towards the buildings.

The rest of the day Ragnfrid performed her chores as if in a haze. She thought of her conversation with Moninna, weighing the words they had spoken and analyzing her reactions. Ragnfrid found herself wishing she could slip away again and find her. She thought of all the questions she should have asked Moninna when they had been alone by the creek. They would likely never speak again, Ragnfrid thought with a creeping sense of desperation. Ivar was leaving for Aros in the morning, Hild had told her. The girl had been pouting all afternoon since apparently she had had little luck in charming him.

Ragnfrid looked down the hall and found Ivar sitting among the other men. They were playing dice while they waited for supper. And to Ragnfrid’s surprise Ivar was looking back at her. When their eyes met, he lifted his cup of ale and smiled at her. She smiled back, and for once she felt genuinely cheerful. Maybe there was a way that she could see Moninna again?

* * *

It surprised Ragnfrid how easy it had been to convince Ivar to marry her. After supper she had sat down next to him, smiled, and batted her eyelashes while she had pretended to be impressed by his boasts. Whenever she had had the chance she had hinted heavily at her desire to marry. Hild had sent Ragnfrid murderous looks as she served them, but Ragnfrid had not cared. By the end of the night Ivar had declared Ragnfrid his love and promised that he would make her his wife.

He had left for Aros the next day as planned, but he had soon returned and asked Gorm and Thyra for Ragnfrid’s hand in marriage. Although she had seemed surprised at Ragnfrid’s declared eagerness to marry Ivar, Thyra had readily given her permission, and of course then Gorm had as well.

After everything had been arranged and Ragnfrid and Ivar were wed, Thyra had seemed relieved. This morning, when they were preparing to leave for Aros, Thyra had come out to greet them farewell. She had been cheerful and there had not been a trace of sorrow in her words as she said goodbye to her oldest friend. Her indifference had made Ragnfrid feel small and unimportant. How could Thyra be happy to see her leave, after all they had shared? But as soon as they had left Jelling behind, Ragnfrid had resolved to think no more of Thyra, but instead of what lay ahead: seeing Moninna again.

As they rode north, Ragnfrid grew anxious. What if Ivar had sold Moninna? She had not dared to ask Ivar about her. Or perhaps she had died? The life of a thrall was hard and many succumbed to disease or injury. There was also the chance that Moninna had simply run away, as many thralls did, although most were returned eventually.

Ragnfrid stole a glance at Ivar, who was riding next to her. He was a decent rider, she had to admit. Tall and lean, he looked graceful on the back of his black mare. He was a good husband too, Ragnfrid thought. They had been married for two days and so far he had been kind and attentive. He had given her many valuable bride gifts: a gold arm ring formed by intertwining bands, a new horse, and a fur-lined cloak that warmed Ragnfrid against the cold of late autumn. Even when they had coupled—the part of her marriage Ragnfrid had feared most—Ivar had been gentle and considerate. It had hurt, but not very much.

Ivar seemed to sense her watching him and he turned and smiled at her. He had even, white teeth, unusual at his age. Not for the first time Ragnfrid felt a note of guilt at the thought of the real reason she had married him. He loved her, but she did not love him. There were so many reasons why people married though—prestige and wealth were among the most common—but affection was usually not one. And Ragnfrid was a good wife, was she not? She might not love Ivar, but she was supportive and compliant, and that was what was expected of a wife.

They traveled for five days before reaching Aros, and they spent the night in Ivar’s uncle’s great hall. Jarl Sigurd held a feast in their honor and Ragnfrid listened to the guests tell their stories of adventure. One man had just returned from Iceland, an island far to the west and north. The way he spoke of it—a land of ice-topped mountains, gushing waterfalls and green pastures well-suited for cattle grazing—made Ragnfrid long to go there some time. It sounded like a place where even a woman could find some measure of freedom.

The men also spoke of raiding. Many of the local noblemen were planning a raid in southern England come spring. Ragnfrid noticed that Ivar grew quieter as the men spoke of the people they had killed and the riches they had taken across the sea.

Ivar’s own more modest hall lay a bit further north of Aros, and the next morning they started on the last leg of their journey. They rode along the coast for a while, and Ragnfrid enjoyed the view of the bay. It was an unusually sunny and calm day for late autumn and the weak sunlight made the sea ripple in tones of silver. Ragnfrid realized that she was happy that she was to be living near the sea. Both Jorvik and Jelling were several days' ride from the ocean.

“There it is,” Ivar said and pointed inland. Ragnfrid followed his hand with her eyes. A track veered away from the main road and ran inland up a gentle slope. At the end of the track lay a collection of buildings of varying sizes nestled among brown fields and clusters of trees. As they came closer Ragnfrid saw that there was one larger building, the hall, surrounded by smaller outbuildings and larders. This was a far cry from the rich estate where she had grown up, but she felt a sense of belonging already. The farm was well maintained and the fields that they passed looked as if they had been tilled and sown meticulously. Next year's corn was peaking through the black earth already.

As the hollow sound of their horses’ hooves on the dirt track reached the hall, its inhabitants started to appear, no doubt curious to see the new wife of their master. First, a man of about Ivar’s age emerged from one of the outbuildings holding an axe in one hand.

“That’s my cousin Asgeir.” Ragnfrid nodded. Ivar had told her that he had a cousin—the bastard son of his maternal uncle—who looked after his farm when he was away. A handful of older thralls and a young man, hardly more than a boy, came out too, and they all watched in silence as Ivar and Ragnfrid dismounted. Pretending to admire the farm, Ragnfrid looked around for Moninna. There was no sign of her and Ragnfrid was seized by a mild panic. Had she married Ivar for nothing?

But then through the open door she saw movements in the dim interior of the hall and a moment later, Moninna ducked through the low door and walked the few paces to join the other slaves. Her dark hair had grown a bit, now reaching right below her earlobe, and her clear blue eyes watched Ivar and Ragnfrid greet the others with a carefully neutral expression. She was every bit as beautiful as Ragnfrid remembered.

* * *

Not long after yuletide Ragnfrid suspected she was pregnant, and when the days grew longer than the nights, she was sure. She told Ivar the day before he set out for England for the spring and summer.

“You’re certain?” he asked, looking up at her in surprise. He had been sharpening his sword by the hearth and now he put down both whetstone and weapon and stood. He put his hand on Ragnfrid’s stomach and his smile grew wide.

“Yes,” Ragnfrid said. “I’m sure. Come autumn you will have a son or a daughter.”

“The Gods favor me. The harvest looks to be a good one this year and my own seed grows strong.” There was such a note of confidence in Ivar’s voice that Ragnfrid almost laughed. Ivar had worked very hard to put his seed in her belly, and although she had not enjoyed it, she was happy she had conceived. Now she could give Ivar a child, if not her love.

“I’m certain that I will have luck in England as well,” Ivar continued. “I’ll bring you back many riches, my love.” He put his arms around Ragnfrid’s waist and kissed her on the mouth.

“I’m sure you will,” Ragnfrid said with a small laugh as she pulled herself from his grip. She felt Moninna’s gaze on them from across the hearth.

Suddenly Ivar frowned and for a moment Ragnfrid feared that he had sensed her resistance to his embrace—she was usually careful not to let it show—but to her relief he said, “Since you are with child now, are you sure I should not tell Asgeir to stay home?” Ivar had planned for his cousin to run the farm while he was away, but Asgeir was eager to make his fortune in England and Ragnfrid had convinced Ivar to let Asgeir come along.

“No,” Ragnfrid said with a shake of her head. “We will be safe, and the child won’t be born until you’re back. Besides, we have Arne.” She nodded at the thrall boy who was busy sharpening a stake on a bench further down the hall. “And the neighbors are never far.” Standing on a little mound at the edge of the sheep pasture, one could see the hall of one of Ivar’s many other cousins a bit further west and there were other farms just a short ride away.

Ivar nodded and sat back down. Ragnfrid cast a glance at Moninna who was preparing their supper. She wondered what she thought of the news of her pregnancy. In the months since she had arrived, Ragnfrid had tried to get to know Moninna better. She had asked about her family and her childhood and although Moninna was always perfectly polite, she was guarded and never offered much more than a few words of answer. She treated Ragnfrid like nothing more than her owner. Ragnfrid hoped that with Ivar and Asgeir gone, Moninna might feel more comfortable.

The next morning they said goodbye in front of the hall. Ragnfrid watched as the two men rode south towards Aros, where the fleet bound for England was moored and waiting for them. She had been married to Ivar for close to half a year, and still she had found no fault with him as a husband. Except of course that he was Ivar and not Thyra or Moninna. Sometimes Ragnfrid—for just a brief moment—wished that he would be cruel or careless to her. That way she would be justified in loving another. But he never was. So Ragnfrid was relieved to see him go. Relieved that she no longer had to lie with him, but even more relieved to be free of the guilt that always haunted her.

* * *

The days of spring passed and Ragnfrid and the thralls were busy. New calfs and kids were born, the fields needed weeding, and then there were all the usual chores. Ragnfrid got to know the thralls better. Arne had a vivid imagination and he would tell stories of gods and jotnar as they sat around the hearth. The other thralls had welcomed Ragnfrid and they eagerly taught her everything she needed to know about running the household. Moninna, however, was still a mystery.

One day Ragnfrid was sitting on a bench in front of the hall. It was still only spring but the afternoon sun was warm enough for her to sit outside. One of the thralls—an older woman named Unna—had advised her not to be on her feet all day. Ragnfrid had found it silly at first—her waist was still as slim as ever—but then had decided that an afternoon of spinning in the sunshine could not hurt.

Monnina emerged from behind the hall with a basket over her arm, and as she passed she glanced at the spindle in Ragnfrid’s hand.

“Would you like to learn how to spin?” Ragnfrid made sure not to sound too eager. “I can teach you if you like.” Moninna hesitated for a moment. The spinning and weaving was usually done by the free women of a household, and it was a valuable skill. Then she put down the basket—which Ragnfrid saw was filled with eggs—and sat down on the bench.

Ragnfrid showed her the tools used for spinning: the spindle, the distaff and the different sized stone whorls. First she tied some cleaned and carted wool around the distaff with a string. Then she chose one of her smallest whorls and slipped it onto the end of the spindle.

“I’m going to spin wool for a new tunic for Ivar,” Ragnfrid said, “which means I want to make a thin thread. That’s why I chose this whorl. If I wanted a coarser thread, if I was going to weave cloth for a sail perhaps, then I would choose a larger whorl.” Moninna inched closer on the bench as she watched. Ragnfrid could feel the warmth of her body.

Ragnfrid held the distaff in one hand and with her other she pulled at the wool, until she had formed enough of a thread to tie it around the spindle. Then she wound the thread around, pulling more and more wool off the distaff. When she had wound the yarn around the spindle a few more times she stopped.

“Would you like to try?” Monnina hesitated, but then she nodded. Ragnfrid handed over the tools, and Moninna picked them up awkwardly.

“It takes some practice to figure out exactly how to hold the spindle,” she said as she adjusted Monnina’s fingers, “but you will get the hang of it. Hold up your other arm like this.” Gently Ragnfrid grabbed Moninna’s arm and raised it up higher. This was the first time they had ever touched, Ragnfrid realized. They had never accidentally brushed hands as they both worked at the hearth or bumped into each other in a doorway.

Just as Moninna was about to attempt to wound the thread, Ragnfrid heard the sound of horses approaching. Riders from neighboring farms came by often, but this sounded like at least a handful of horses. She stood and walked to the corner of the hall from where she could see down the hill. There were six riders in all, and at the front rode a woman. Even at this distance Ragnfrid recognized her and she felt her heart beat faster. Thyra was coming to see her.

“I can only stay a short while,” Thyra said after they had greeted each other. Ragnfrid had led Thyra into the hall and all around them the thralls were busy bringing out wine and preparing a decent meal for the Queen of the Danes. “The king expects me to return to Aros before nightfall.”

“Of course,” Ragnfrid said with a smile, although the mention of King Gorm brought up the old, familiar annoyance. Through the open door Ragnfrid could hear the chatter of Thyra’s entourage: four guards and a lady, who Ragnfrid had been relieved was not Hild.

Ragnfrid watched Thyra as she looked around the hall. It looked to her as if Thyra wrinkled her nose just a little, but Ragnfrid could not be sure in the sparse light cast mainly by the hearth. She had to admit that Ivar’s hall was more modest than any either her or Thyra had lived in before, but Ragnfrid had come to love the intimacy of the smaller space. It was clean and well furnished too.

“Ivar has gone to England for the summer.”

Thyra nodded. “Yes, I heard. I’m sure the gods will grant him luck.”

Unna brought over two cups of ale and they drank in awkward silence. Ragnfrid wondered if she should tell Thyra that she was with child, but her old friend seemed so distant—almost a stranger—that she could not bring herself to say it. Instead she said, “I assume you are here to visit Jarl Sigurd?”

“Yes, we’re here to advise him on his work on fortifying the Aros harbor.” Ragnfrid had to fight to keep a grimace off her face. Thyra knew nothing of defensive works. How could she advise a jarl on such matters? Thyra had changed, she thought. Her friend had always been proud, but never haughty.

Unna brought them bowls of stew and a basket of bread, and as they ate Thyra told Ragnfrid all about Gorm’s war with Henry of Saxony. His assaults to the south were the reason that the king and queen were fortifying not just the southern border, but many towns as well, Thyra explained. Ragnfrid felt her concentration slip and her eyes drifted to Moninna, who was busy baking more bread at the other end of the hearth. Her face showed no signs of it, but Ragnfrid was sure she was listening closely to their conversation.

“Next we sail to Zealand,” Thyra said. “We will stay at the royal hall at Lejre for the summer and visit the eastern jarls.” Ragnfrid brought her attention back to the queen.

“That sounds lovely.” Ragnfrid ate the rest of her food while she listened to Thyra speak of all the powerful Jarls in the kingdom of the Danes: who had been granted favors, who had married a new wife, who had died on raid, and so many other trivial details.

“Thank you for the meal and the wine,” Thyra said after she had emptied her bowl. “I think it’s time I return to Aros.”

Thyra stood and brushed down the skirt of her dress with her hands. With surprise Ragnfrid realized that she was relieved that Thyra was leaving. What they had once shared was seemingly lost forever.

As Ragnfrid stood to follow Thyra outside she felt something warm run down her inner thighs. Quickly she turned around and walked a few steps away from the others. She only had to lift her dress to the middle of her calves before she saw the dark streaks of blood against the pale skin of her legs. With her pulse pounding in her ears she turned back around. They were all staring at her. They too had seen the blood.

“You must lie down right away, my lady,” Unna said. She took Ragnfrid by the elbow and guided her firmly to the big bed. What did this mean, Ragnfrid wondered as she lay down. Was she losing the child?

“What ... what is happening?” She asked, looking around at the solemn expressions. Her eyes met Thyra’s, whose face was white as bleached linen.

“It might be nothing,” Unna said with a pat on Ragnfrid’s hand. “But it’s best if you stay calm.”

Ragnfrid nodded. “I’ll try.” She knew just as well as anyone that blood from the womb was a bad sign. Ragnfrid’s mother had lost two early pregnancies before she had died giving birth to Ragnfrid’s youngest brother. She felt her hands tremble and she tucked them under the blanket that Unna had pulled over her.

Thyra stood and came over to the bed. “I really must go now. Thank you, Ragnfrid, it was lovely seeing you.”

“Can you not stay?” Ragnfrid heard herself ask. A moment ago she had been relieved that Thyra was going, but now suddenly everyone else felt like strangers. She needed her oldest friend.

“I’m so sorry, but the king is expecting me back.”

“Please. Just for a little.” Ragnfrid felt tears well in her eyes and Thyra’s face above her became a blur, but still she could see that Thyra shook her head. Then Thyra turned and left the hall.

* * *

Not long after the blood had started, the child came. Ragnfrid felt something slip out of her and she reached under her skirt and the blood soaked linen towel that Unna had placed between her legs. The child was not even as big as Ragnfrid’s thumb. She wrapped it in the linen towel and tucked it under the blanket next to her body. She would ask Unna to get rid of it tomorrow, but she would keep her child that never lived close to her for one last night.

Even though Ragnfrid stayed in bed the stream of blood from her womb persisted even after the first few days had passed. She noticed how Unna frowned as she changed the linen towel between her legs, and it frightened her.

“Am I going to die?”

Unna looked up from the pail of water in which she was wringing out one of the bloody towels. She narrowed her eyes as she studied Ragnfrid. “Only the Norns know the day of death of any of us humans, my lady. And you are young and strong.” Ragnfrid nodded. Her fate had been decided on the day of her birth and being afraid would not change it. The thought made her feel a little better.

Unna picked up the pail and said, “I will go see to the cows. Arne will need help, he is hardly more than a boy.” She looked around the hall. “If you need anything, Monnina will be with you. I’ve put her in charge of the cooking.”

Ragnfrid nodded, grateful that Unna had taken command of the household. Then she pulled up the blanket, turned around and fell asleep. When she woke up her throat felt as dry as the bark of a felled tree. She turned and saw Moninna by the hearth. She looked over as Ragnfrid sat up and quickly she filled a cup with water from a bucket and brought it to the bed. Moninna was an excellent thrall, Ragnfrid thought. Always anticipating the needs of her masters. That was how a thrall survived, she supposed. She wished that she could make Moninna live though.

“Thank you,” Ragnfrid said as she took the cup. Monnina turned to leave. “Will you sit with me a moment?” Ragnfrid padded the blanket with her hand.

Moninna sat down on the edge of the bed. They sat in silence while Ragnfrid drank. When the cup was empty she let it sink to her lap. Deep in thought she brought her free hand up to clasp the Mjølner pendant around her neck. She thought of the child and felt hollow. She shook her head lightly to rid herself of the somber thought. There was no point in dwelling on a life that had never been destined to be lived. She lifted her gaze and saw that Moninna was looking at the pendant between her fingers.

“Only my mother was a Christian,” she explained, remembering what she had told Moninna at the creek in Jelling. “My father and my brothers believe in the gods of the Norsemen.”

“What do you believe in, my lady?”

Ragnfrid hesitated. “I’m not sure, but I always liked the tales of Thor. He is strong and brave and he is proud. My father gave this to me when I was little. He always said that I too had a temper to match the thunder.” Ragnfrid smiled at the memory. She had been a wild child, riding and running with her brothers, and her father had been proud of her. He had indulged her inclination towards things more suited to boys, and Ragnfrid had been ecstatic when he had bought her the Mjølner pendant at the market in Jorvik. Thor’s hammer was usually worn by men and boys, and Ragnfrid had felt that her father understood her.

It had all ended when Ragnfrid had become a woman. Her father had changed and he had no longer condoned her wild rides and mischief. He had made it clear that he expected her to spin and weave, serve the men of the family and wear a dress. She almost winced at the memory. For years she had felt confused and betrayed. Just because she had grown up, she had not changed. But the people around her had.

“I guess it reminds me of home,” Ragnfrid said, clutching the pendant tighter. ”Of my family and my ... friends.” As she said the last part, she realized that the only friend from England that she missed was Thyra.

Moninna nodded. For a long time none of them spoke. Ragnfrid could hear Unna’s voice outside as she chatted to Arne. The boy—shy as was typical for his age—answered her with only few words.

“You and the queen are old friends?” Monnina asked. Ragnfrid looked up at her with some surprise. Monnina really did seem to have an uncanny ability to know what was on Ragnfrid’s mind.

“Yes. We grew up together in Jorvik, and I came with her when she married the king. I thought that we would remain close, but I know now that it was a foolish hope.” Ragnfrid was almost certain that Monnina sensed the truth: that Thyra had been more than just a good friend.

In her lap Monnina ran the end of her simple girdle through her fingers while she stared at the wool blanket covering the bed. She seemed to be deep in thought. When she finally spoke she said, “Can I speak frankly, my lady?” She lifted her eyes to Ragnfrid’s.

“Of course.” Ragnfrid sat up straighter and leaned closer to Moninna.

“I don’t think you should judge the queen too harshly. I know she abandoned you on the day when ... when you lost the child. But perhaps she could not bear to see it. It is not uncommon to flee when confronted with the things that bring us our own sorrows.”

Ragnfrid had not thought of that. Thyra’s waist had been as slim as ever and she had been married for a year now. Everyone would expect an heir to be on the way.

“I’ve seen it often, my lady. It’s hard to see someone have what you desire, and sometimes even harder to see them lose it too.”

“Like seeing someone gain their freedom—or losing it?” Ragnfrid had never considered how it must feel to a thrall to see other thralls freed or—even worse—recaptured after a flight.

Moninna’s smile was wistful as she met Ragnfrid’s gaze. “Something like that, yes.”

“The Christian god, he commands you to not be envious, does he not?” Ragnfrid had rarely listened when her mother spoke of her god and his son, the man the Danes called White Christ, but this she thought she remembered.

Moninna nodded. “Yes. You should not covet what others have.”

How different this god was from the ones of the Norsemen, Ragnfrid thought. The Aesir and Vanir were proud and often quarreled with each other.

“Do you remember your home?”

“I do,” Moninna said. “It’s a village, about a day’s ride from the coast. It’s south of Dublin, I think.

“What’s it like there?”

Moninna seemed to think for a moment. “Well, it’s home. It’s not so different than here, except that my family is there. I have two older sisters and a younger brother.”

“Do you miss them?”

“Every day, my lady, and I worry for them too. There were many raids around my village, and I wonder if they’re safe.”

“I hear that many of the Norsemen in Ireland have gone to Iceland. Maybe your village is safer now?” It was a feeble attempt at comfort, and Ragnfrid knew it as soon as she had said it.

“Maybe,” Monnina said with a thin smile. “I doubt that I will ever know what has become of them.”

Suddenly Ragnfrid was filled with a sense of shame at how the Norsemen treated people like Moninna. Surely, if a man or woman was made a thrall, it was because they were not strong enough to remain free? Thralls were craven by nature, were they not? That was what the Norsemen believed, and Ragnfrid had believed it as well. Now her doubts felt like a betrayal of her people.

“Have you lived in many places before you came here?” Ragnfrid asked. She felt an urge to change the subject, to ignore her feelings of guilt and shame. But if she wanted to know Moninna, she would have to face the way she had been treated by the Norsemen.

“Yes, my lady, I have.”

“And were they all cruel to you?” Moninna bit her lip and Ragnfrid could tell she was looking for a weighted, appropriate answer.

“Please tell me the truth,” she said as she put her hand on Moninna’s. “I won’t punish you for it.”

Moninna took a deep breath. “I’ve met a few kind people since I was taken from Ireland, but most have treated me with indifference as long as I did what they told me. And then there were the ones who seemed to enjoy cruelty.”

Ragnfrid felt her face burn as she thought of all the times she had seen a thrall mistreated and all the times she had thought nothing of it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For everything that’s happened to you.”

Moninna smiled again, although there was immense sorrow in her eyes. “I’m glad that your husband brought me here though, and I’m glad that he married you, my lady. This place ... it’s the most peaceful life I’ve known so far.”

“If there is ever anything you need, will you let me know?” Ragnfrid said. “Again, I promise I won’t punish you or any of the other thralls.”

“I’ll try, my lady.”

* * *

The trickle of blood from Ragnfrid’s womb slowed and around Midsummer she felt almost herself again, strong and determined. Her pride at being a Norseman, however, was irreparably damaged as she got to know Moninna better.

Although she was still reluctant, Moninna told Ragnfrid bits of her life before she had come to Aros. Moninna had been sold by a Norseman to an English trader and he had brought her to England. There she had been sold a handful of times before she finally was bought by a wealthy Saxon merchant in Wessex. He had had many thralls and Moninna had even made a few friends. But soon she had realized that the merchant had not bought her for domestic work. He chose to take Moninna to bed more often than his wife, and out of jealousy the wife had treated Moninna worse than the dogs. Tired of his wife’s nagging, the merchant had finally sold Moninna after only a few years. Then a trader had taken her to the slave market in Hedeby.

Midsummer was an important holiday and one of the biggest feasts of the year, but since Ivar and Asgeir were away, the festivities at the farm were modest. Ragnfrid ordered a pig to be slaughtered and Unna and Moninna roasted it on a spit over a fire outside the hall, and they ate at a trestle table under the blue sky.

Ragnfrid sat down next to Moninna with a heaping plate of pink meat that Unna had given her. It no longer seemed strange for Moninna and Ragnfrid to sit together and talk as they ate. They were so few left on the farm and the boundaries between free and thrall had melted away somewhat.

Ragnfrid followed Moninnas gaze across the barley field. Walking along the edge of the corn was Arne. As they watched his gray tunic and head of blond, unruly curls grew smaller and then disappeared behind a row of linden trees.

“Thank you for letting him go, my lady,” Moninna said, turning her attention back to the meat on her plate.

Ragnfrid smiled between bites. “I never would have thought of it if you had not suggested it. It’s me who should be grateful.” Moninna had carefully suggested that Ragnfrid let Arne go to the neighboring hall. There he could celebrate Midsummer with thralls his own age. Ragnfrid knew of course that there was a risk that the boy would not return, but the look of first perplexity and then delight on his face when Ragnfrid had given him permission made her almost wish that he would not.

As they ate they spoke of the year that had passed. Both Ragnfrid and Moninna had been in a very different place last summer solstice. Ragnfrid had only just arrived from England, but already she had sensed Thyra pulling away from her. This year she felt hope instead of despair, she realized. Yes, she had lost the child but she might conceive again. And she had Moninna’s friendship.

As they finished eating, Ragnfrid looked around at the tired faces. It had been a busy day, and most of the farm’s thralls were much older than Arne. “Why don’t you all go to bed early tonight,” Ragnfrid said. “Tomorrow is another day, just as fit for cleaning up.”

There was a murmur of appreciation as they all rose and walked into the hall. There were few luxuries more cherished by older thralls than rest. Only Ragnfrid and Moninna remained.

“The sun won’t set for a while still,” Ragnfrid said. “Let's walk for a bit.”

They set out side by side down the track leading from the hall. Ragnfrid felt the warmth on her back. Although it was long past supper time, the sun still hung far above the horizon behind them. They had not agreed on where to go, but by unspoken agreement they walked towards the bay. The water shimmered in the distance and Ragnfrid had to narrow her eyes to look at its brilliance. She had come to love the sea as much as she had expected, but with the busy life at the farm she had few opportunities to enjoy it.

“Was your village by the sea?” She asked Moninna.

“No, but it’s on a river. That’s how they came, the men who took me.”

Ragnfrid nodded. The strength of the Norsemen had always been their mastery of traveling by waterways, be it rivers or the great oceans. “Jorvik is on a river as well. My brothers and I used to make rafts when I was a child.” Ragnfrid laughed at the memory. “That’s how I learned to swim.”

“My brother loved to swim,” Moninna said. “He used to beg me to take him to the river when he was little, but most of the times I told him no. I was too afraid that something would happen to him, that he would drown or be taken. But then, on the rare times when I did take him, he was so happy, splashing around and laughing, that I thought that perhaps it was worth the fear that I felt.”

“Was that when you were taken?”

“No. I was herding our sheep up in the hills. Alone, thank Our Lord.”

Soon the low bushes and grass gave way to sand and the water of the bay lay right before them. Ragnfrid sat down on a washed up stump of wood and unlaced her leather shoes. Then she stood and let her toes bury into the sand. The sun had beaten down on it all day and it felt warm and soft against the hard skin of her feet. Moninna watched and then did the same.

Side by side they walked to the water’s edge. This beach was so different from the wide, windswept one where Ragnfrid had disembarked the ship from England. The waves here were much smaller than the rushing, white-topped waves of the western ocean. This water seemed benign, inviting.

“Let’s go in,” Ragnfrid said on a whim. She had not planned this, but it seemed like the perfect way to celebrate the beginning of summer. She began to unhasp the silver clasps that held her dress in place. She felt Moninna hesitate at her side.

“Don’t worry, it’s a calm day,” she said as she let her dress fall onto the sand. She turned to Moninna, gave her a brilliant smile and then she ran into the water. It was colder than Ragnfrid had expected and her linen shift hindered her movements somewhat, but still, she felt exhilarated. She turned and looked back to the shore.

Moninna was taking off her own clothes, and Ragnfrid could tell that her hand was reluctant as she untied first her girdle and then pulled off the dress. Even though most of Moninna’s body was hidden by her worn linen shift, Ragnfrid felt breathless as she watched her. Slowly, Monnina walked into the water and soon her shift clung to her skin. Ragnfrid could see her nipples through the thin fabric, but quickly she shifted her gaze to Moninna’s face. Her black hair had grown longer, since neither Ragnfrid nor Ivar cared about her cutting it short. It now reached her shoulders and the wet ends clung to the white skin of her neck. Ragnfrid had never seen a contrast more beautiful.

“It’s cold,” Moninna said with a laugh as she reached Ragnfrid.

Ragnfrid looked around. On the other side of the bay the land was a blend of hills of green meadows and even darker green forests. Up past the beach she could see the hall. It was the only sign of people visible. Being alone with Moninna she felt the happiest she had in a long time.

When she turned back to Moninna she noticed a large patch of uneven, reddish skin on her forearm. Moninna followed Ragnfrid’s gaze and in vain she tried to pull down her wet sleeve to cover up the marks.

“What happened?”

“The wife of the Saxon merchant I told you about. One morning when her husband was in a particularly jolly mood after spending the night with me, she pushed me into the hearth.”

Ragnfrid winced. “Does it still hurt?”

Moninna shook her head. “Not anymore, although it did for a long time.” Her eyes roamed over Ragnfrid’s upper body and fell on her left collarbone. “You have a scar too?”

Ragnfrid brought up her hand and touched the familiar white line right above her breast. “Yes. I fell out of a tree many years ago. A branch slashed right through my skin as I was going down.” Feeling embarrassed about the trivial origin of her own scar she hastily added, “It did not hurt very much.”

Moninna’s brow curled into a slight frown. She lifted up her hand and let her index finger run along Ragnfrid’s scar. At Moninna’s touch Ragnfrid felt a powerful burst of heat in her center that ran through her body and into her arms and legs and made her cheeks flush. In an attempt to hide her arousal, she quickly ducked her head under water. She grabbed Moninna around the waist and toppled her into the waves as well. For a while they splashed around laughing and when the sun was close to the horizon they left the water and walked back onto the beach. For a bit they sat in the sand and soaked up the last rays of the sun in the hopes of drying their wet shifts just a little before returning.

When twilight fell they pulled on their dresses and shoes and started back towards the hall. They walked mostly in silence. Now that they were nearing the farm Ragnfrid felt the distance creep back between them. The closeness she had felt to Moninna at the beach seemed a distant memory already.

They entered the farm, careful not to disturb the sleeping thralls. Arne was not yet back and the hall was dark and quiet. As mistress of the house Ragnfrid slept at one end of the hall while the thralls slept together at the other end, and this was where they went their separate ways. Ragnfrid turned to Moninna and whispered, “Thank you for celebrating Midsummer with me.”

Moninna did not answer nor move. Ragnfrid could see the outline of her light gray dress and white skin, but she could not make out her expression in the darkness. “I hope you sleep well.” Then she turned to walk towards her bedstead. But before she could leave she felt Moninna’s hand around her wrist. When Ragnfrid opened her mouth to speak, Moninna put a finger over her lips. Then she pulled Ragnfrid towards the big bed.

* * *

Ragnfrid could not remember being as happy as she was that summer, not even when she had been with Thyra. Every day she ran the household with capable vigor and every night, after the other thralls were asleep, Moninna tiptoed to Ragnfrid’s bed and slipped under the blankets. As the months went by Ragnfrid got to know Moninna’s body almost as well as her own. When afterwards they lay intertwined, in a whisper they would speak of their homes and their dreams and Ragnfrid felt that slowly she was getting to know Moninna’s spirit as well.

One morning towards the end of summer, when the corn stood yellow and tall in the fields, Ragnfrid was outside the hall when something out on the bay caught her eye. Shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand she looked closer. They were not much more than two dark dots against the shimmering water, but there was no mistaking that they were ships. They sailed across the bay into the harbor at Aros. The next day Ragnfrid saw three more ships, and the day after that she saw five; the men were returning from their summer raiding in England.

When she heard the beat of hooves nearing the hall she was not surprised. She had expected Ivar and Asgeir to return as more and more ships entered Aros. She had known this day was coming soon. Still, her legs felt weak at soon coming face to face with her husband, and she had to sit down on the bench built along the hall's outer wall. The thought that Ivar would soon learn that she was no longer with child was unbearable. He would be so very disappointed, and he would likely be eager for Ragnfrid to conceive again. As before they would share a bed and couple every night, and Moninna would go back to sleeping on the benches with the other thralls. Although she did wish for another child, Ragnfrid felt tears sting her eyes at the thought.

She pulled herself together just as the rider—for there was just one she saw—emerged behind a row of trees. As he came nearer it became clear that it was not Ivar. This man had red hair where Ivar’s was light and even mounted it was clear to Ragnfrid that he did not have her husband’s impressive height. Perhaps Ivar was staying with his uncle a few days before returning home and he had sent her a messenger so that she would not worry?

As the man reined in his horse in front of her, Ragnfrid saw that most of the thralls had come out as well and were waiting behind her, no doubt curious about any news. The man dismounted and she realized that she had seen him once before, at Jarl Sigurd’s feast to celebrate their marriage last autumn. He was one of Ivar’s numerous cousins, a man by the name Eivind Gudmundson who had been on the raiding expedition to England as well. This man was Ivar’s equal and not a man he would send to convey a trivial message, and Ragnfrid felt a pang of fear. When she saw the stricken look on Eivind’s face as he approached her she knew her fear had been justified.

He stopped in front of Ragnfrid, bowed and said, “Fru Ragnfrid, your honored husband showed great courage as he fought the English. He killed many Englishmen and acquired much gold and silver, but as we came to a small village west of Selsey he was slain and taken by the valkyries to Valhal.”

For a long moment Ragnfrid only stared at Eivind’s bent head. Not once during the months of spring and summer had she doubted that Ivar would come back. She had known of course that not every Dane came back from raiding—it was certainly not without its risks—but she had only just married Ivar. They had not even had a full year together as husband and wife. Her mouth felt as dry as thatch as she stammered, “Please come inside.” Then she turned and led Ivar into the hall.

Inside, Moninna brought Eivind a cup of ale and he drank while he told Ragnfrid how one morning before dawn they had attacked a village not far from the coast. The villagers, however, had been forewarned—or perhaps just well prepared—because one of the farmers had been waiting for them in the half dark of an alley between two houses. Before anyone could react he had charged towards Ivar and put his sword through his belly.

“He died a death of honor, I assure you,” Eivind said. “He showed much bravery.”

Ragnfrid nodded. “I ... I see that. What of the farmer? The one who ... killed my husband?” She was not sure why she asked this, but in some way it seemed important.

“He didn’t live long. He was cut down by our men who then burned his house and captured his wife. He defended his home bravely, he did, but in vain.”

Avoiding Eivind’s gaze Ragnfrid looked around the hall. She was a farmer too. What if one day men came from the sea to take everything she had worked so hard for. Would she risk her life like the Saxon farmer had? She did not know, but she felt no ill feelings towards him. The farmer had done what any honorable man would; defended what was his.

Finished with his ale, Eivind placed the cup on the bench beside him and took a bag from his belt which he handed to Ragnfrid. “This was Ivar’s share of the plunder we took before he died.”

Ragnfrid loosened the leather string that held together the bag and looked inside. It was filled with silver coins and a few gold trinkets. “Thank you.” Then Eivind pulled a sword out of its scabbard and handed it to Ragnfrid, and she saw that it was Ivar’s sword. She recognized the intertwined patterns on the hilt.

“For Ivar’s son,” Eivind said, but then he frowned and let his eyes fall to Ragnfrid’s waist. He appeared to realize his mistake and added, “or for you, his widow.” In the months since she had lost the child Ragnfrid’s belly had never felt as empty as it did now.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She waved Arne over and gave him the sword and the bag of coins. He took it and placed it in the chest that held all of the farm's valuables. Ragnfrid turned to Eivind. “What of Asgeir, Ivar’s cousin?”

Eivind seemed to think for a moment. “Oh yes, I remember the lad. He drowned before we even made it to England.” Ragnfrid thought of the young man, his youthful face which had been so full of hope, pale and swollen by the ocean water and she suppressed a shiver.

“Thank you for bringing me such unlucky news,” she said. Eivind rose, bowed to Ragnfrid and left the hall. She heard the hoof beats of his horse as he rode away.

* * *

Ragnfrid arranged the silver coins in neat stacks next to her on the bench. There were a lot of them, more than she had expected. The raid to England certainly had been profitable, she thought as she counted the last stack in her head. It was enough for her to live off for years. She wondered if Ivar had thought about her in the moments before he died. Maybe he had taken his last breath thinking that at least he had provided well for his child and widow.

It was five days now since Eivind had brought her the coins, the sword, and his sorrowful message, and Ragnfrid was slowly coming to terms with her new status as a widow. She had been surprised at how much she grieved the loss of Ivar. After all, she had never really loved him, but he had taken care of her and he had been the father of the child that Ragnfrid had carried. She was sure that he never knew of her true feelings towards him and she was glad of that. She knew well what unrequited love felt like. There was also a sense of relief in her that he would never know that she had lost their child. She still remembered vividly how his face had lit up when she had told him that he was going to be a father. Death had spared him that sorrow at least.

Picking up one stack at a time she placed the coins back in the purse. She placed the bag in the chest and locked it. She went outside and around the hall where she found Moninna collecting the eggs that the chickens were fond of laying in the thick bushes that ran along the cow pasture.

“Will you walk with me?” she asked and with a smile Moninna put down the basket.

“Of course.”

They walked along the fence that separated the pasture from the ripening rye field. Ragnfrid felt her spirits lift as she looked at the abundance of the farm. She had run it well and she was pleased with her own skills.

“I counted the silver that Ivar left me,” she said. “It’s a lot of coins. I’m thinking of buying perhaps a handful more cows and then we could extend the barn. Or perhaps build a new, larger one. What do you think?”

“That sounds wise,” Moninna said. “It would yield a lot more milk. You could perhaps sell some at the market in Aros.”

“That’s what I was thinking as well,” Ragnfrid said, happy that Moninna seemed to grasp her vision. Since the news of Ivar’s death she had realized that with her widowhood came new opportunities. She could run the farm with the help of Moninna, who also seemed to have a good eye for farming. She stopped and grabbed Moninna’s arm. Hurriedly she looked around and saw that the view from the farm was obscured by trees. She pulled Moninna to her and kissed her on the mouth. Moninna returned the kiss.

She pulled herself away from Moninna and studied her face. She brushed one of the black strands of hair that were still too short to be held by a string behind Moninna’s ear.

“We still have to be careful of course,” she said, “but now that Ivar is never coming back we can be together. We’re free.”

Moninna nodded but her face did not show the excitement that Ragnfrid had hoped. Again she had that guarded look that she had carried the first many months that Ragnfrid had known her. Ragnfrid tried to catch her eye, but she looked away out across the field.

“What is it?” Ragnfrid asked and when Moninna did not respond she added, “Tell me, please?”

“We’re not free,” Moninna said, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. “You’re free. I’m still a thrall.”

“But to me you’re not a thrall. I swear it Moninna, I’ve never considered you as less than any Norsemen.”

“But I am less. I have no rights here, no protection.”

“I can protect you.”

“But what if something happens to you? Or what if you tire of me? I’m not a wealthy widow. I’m a thrall and a foreigner. I will never be safe here.”

“I will not tire of you, never ...” Ragnfrid’s words faltered. Suddenly, as if she had been struck by Mjølner, Ragnfrid realized the terrible truth. This, living here at the farm with Ragnfrid, was not the life that Moninna would choose if she were free.

“I … I thought you cared for me?” Ragnfrid had meant to say “love me,” but lost her courage at the last moment.

Finally Moninna turned her head and looked at Ragnfrid. “I do care for you, but this is not my home. Your people are not my people.”

Ragnfrid felt as if her heart had been ripped out. Had Moninna loved her because she had no other choice? “You would leave me too?” she said, “Like everyone else?” She could hear the pathetic note in her voice, but she was too desperate to care.

Moninna took her hand and squeezing it she said, “Ragnfrid, losing people you love, it’s just the way of the world. I’ve lost everyone I ever loved, except you. And although I care for you, I still miss my home and my family. Their memory kept me alive for years. I’m in a better place now, but I have not forgotten them, and I never will.”

Ragnfrid ripped her hand from Moninna’s grip, turned and ran.

* * *

As Ragnfrid emerged from the low door the first drops from the heavy, gray clouds fell on her face. She walked a few steps down the track leading away from the hall. They were already far away, only two small gray figures against the brown fields of autumn. They were each other’s opposites; Arne tall and blond and Moninna much shorter and dark.

Ragnfrid felt a strong pull to run after them, or maybe just to yell so they would turn and she would see Moninna’s face one last time. She had been too cowardly to come out and say goodbye when they left, too proud to show her tears, and now it was too late.

At first Ragnfrid had been angry with Moninna, but her anger had turned to shame as she had realized that Moninna was right. Moninna could never be free as long as she was Ragnfrid’s thrall.

After the corn had been harvested, Ragnfrid had freed all the thralls. Secretly she had hoped that Moninna would decide to stay and live with Ragnfrid as a free woman, but Moninna had informed Ragnfrid that she wished to travel to Ireland before winter came. Ragnfrid had paid Arne well to travel with Moninna and make sure she got safely on a ship headed for Dublin. After that Arne was free to go wherever he wished to spend his coin.

Ragnfrid stood and watched until the two figures were nothing but little dots. The rain was heavier now and the drops ran from her hair down into her face where they mixed with her tears. The two dots disappeared behind a copse of trees and Ragnfrid turned and walked back into the hall. She stopped inside the door and wiped the rain from her face with her sleeve.

“There you are, my lady,” Unna said from her place at the hearth. “I was getting worried. It’s a dreadful weather out there.”

Ragnfrid smiled at her, grateful for the old woman’s cheerfulness and mere presence. All the older thralls, although free now, had decided to stay with Ragnfrid. It was too late for them to start a new life, Unna had said.

“I hope Arne and Moninna will make a quick journey to Aros before they get too wet and cold.”

“Me too,” Ragnfrid said with a nod and walked to the big bed. She sat down on the edge and let her hand run over the blanket. Then she picked it up and inhaled its scent. It smelled of wool but underneath the musky smell she could still smell Moninna. Last night as they had laid in each other’s arms one last time, Ragnfrid had presented Moninna with a desperate idea; they would meet in Iceland in two years time. Then Moninna could see her family first but later they could be together in a land where no one knew them.

“Maybe we can tell people we’re sisters,” Ragnfrid had said, unable to hide her excitement.

“Would people believe that?” It had been too dark to make out Moninna’s face but Ragnfrid had known that her brow had curled up into its usual skeptical frown.

“Perhaps not,” Ragnfrid had said with a laugh, “but I hear there are people there from Ireland too.”

“Irish thralls, no doubt.”

“Well yes, but still your people, Moninna.”

“Perhaps.” And that was all the commitment that Ragnfrid could get from her. However much she tried she could not convince Moninna to promise that she would come find her in Iceland in two years time.

And maybe that was just as well, Ragnfrid thought as she put down the blanket. Maybe they were too different to spend their lives together. She still might sell everything though, bring her fortune to Iceland and live a life where no one would know her as Thyra’s lady or Ivar’s widow. Maybe she would live up on a solitary mountain where she could wear her trousers and tunic and where she could do as she pleased. Or she might marry again so she could have a child. She might even find another woman like herself to live with. She was alone now, but she was free.

About the author

Anne Line Kraemmer writes historical fiction with a focus on Scandinavian history and she hopes to publish both more short stories and novels in the future. She grew up in Denmark and earned a law degree from the University of Copenhagen. She now lives in Northern California with her family. You can learn more about her writing on twitter @alkraemmer.

About the illustrator

Yaleeza Patchett has been creating whimsical art and illustrations since a child; her inspiration comes from the cartoons, comic strips and animated movies she grew up with. Four years ago, Yaleeza began expanding her art into her own business named Rowan Ink. It began with a simple pair of hand-painted custom-made shoes for a friend’s birthday. Through her artistic journey she has expanded into different art mediums, but her true passion is sketching, illustrating and painting. Yaleeza currently resides in the south side of Indianapolis with her husband, her dog, and her cat. You can find her current artwork at Rowaninkstudio.com