GEDDA SALMUNDSEN

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Gedda’s hair shone red in the firelight as he approached one of the great bonfires that lined the shore. A circle of warriors laughed and shouted before the flame, their crude words flowing as freely as the wine. “Looking fair, Gedda.” A heavy hand landed on his shoulder; he brushed it off and reached for a cup of wine. A chorus of japes followed; spoken through the haze of drink, they were no real insults. Despite his smooth features, his friends in the band knew him to be a fierce fighter—for his swift blade had cut the bellies of many Englishmen—and hardly questioned his fortitude. They often joked that Gedda could swim like his namesake, though he was quick to remind them not to mock the name his father gave him. Now he was determined to drink like one, but only after paying homage to his fallen lord.

Turning his back on his companions, Gedda approached Erik’s pyre. The flames leapt before his eyes as he watched his lord’s burning body shrivel in the fire. From where he stood, he could see neither Kjartan’s eyes nor Åse’s, but he had heard that Erik’s widow was not much younger than himself—perhaps too young to lose her husband. He surmised that she was silent from grief; Gedda’s quiet was not so sorrowful, borne more out of being mired in his own thoughts. At twenty, he had been busy telling tales around the fire and ingratiating himself with Erik’s men. Now, a year later, he hardly knew with whom he would sail when the sun rose. While the warriors in Erik’s service had traded many stories over the months, none of them knew of the trouble he had left behind.

As the briny air blew over the beach, intermingling with woodsmoke, the scent that lingered in the wind was not unlike that which had blown over the island outside the village Gedda had called home not two years ago. The terms of the duel had been simple: Ulfrik, the accuser, would strike first; Gedda, the accused, would strike next. So grave was Ulfrik’s insult that Gedda had agreed to let the loser’s death determine the verdict. He who lived would be innocent; he who died, guilty. They had walked the stony ground, both bearing the same weapons—sword and shield and bitter grievance. With the whole village quiet in anticipation, the only sounds had been the distant rush of the ocean and the pounding of his heart in his throat. Gedda had known that his opponent was a helmsman of decent renown, sharp-eyed in battle as he was at sea. Yet the gravity of his circumstances had not dawned on him until Ulfrik’s blade flashed, bright and vicious, rending his sleeve. Blood had bubbled hot on his shoulder; the salt air had stung at his wound. Then, feinting with his injured shoulder, Gedda had struck Ulfrik through the belly. By the time he had wrenched his blade from his opponent’s gut, Ulfrik had turned gray in the face, unable to lift his shield against Gedda’s next slash. When dark blood had pooled beneath Ulfrik’s dead body, Gedda was innocent by the law. If only the helmsman’s accusations of cowardice had died with him.

By the time golden dawn shone over the shore, Gedda had gathered all his possessions of worth. He had scarcely begun to put the town behind him when he heard heavy footfalls behind him. “Gedda!”

Gedda had turned at the sound of a familiar voice. “Ari?” There, limned in the first light of day, was his dear friend. When they were boys, Ari and Gedda had tussled together; as men, they had sailed in the same ship and fought side by side. Now the sight of a friendly face twisted Gedda’s heart. “Why are you here?”

“I would ask the same of you.” Whereas Gedda had brought his helm and mail, Ari was not dressed for battle. “Why are you leaving? You heard the decree; you are innocent.”

“Ulfrik lies dead, but his words linger like poison in a well.” Gedda had turned away so he could not see Ari’s brow creased with concern.

“In time, they will forget,” Ari had said. “He is dead; you and I shall live on. We shall win wealth and fame. When we take wives and have sons—”

“Do not speak to me of wealth and wives and sons!” Gedda must have woken the blacksmith and his wife with his shouting, but in the moment he had not cared. “You know as well as I that Ulfrik was not the dishonest one.” Then, when it seemed that Ari was finally without words, he had added, “He was right to call me a coward, Ari. If you had seen it, would you not have done the same?" That was the last Gedda had seen of Ari. After twenty years of loyal friendship—twenty years through which he was fonder of Ari than of his own brothers—his only keepsake was the shame that followed him wherever he wandered, neither an outlaw nor an exile but nevertheless without a home.

The shadow of that shame loomed over him as he drew closer to Erik’s close kinsmen, but he refused to let it darken his face. As Segrim mined wisdom from ancient verse, Gedda let the exile’s words echo in his ears. There was a man who, dishonored or not, made something of himself.

He said nothing more even as he peered around the dancing flames to see Åse and Kjartan once more. Where they planned to go, he did not know. Yet Gedda himself was restless, and the whisper of the water on the sand stirred a need to sail again.