The little bay lay quiet, only a single plume of smoke rising up from Frode’s hut. Hulda lay in her cot and stared up at nothing, wishing…
Well, in truth, she did not know for what to wish. That Móðir might have taken her part? That Faðir thought more of his own flesh and blood than his reputation?
That she were lying in Quarrie’s arms.
Och, by Freya’s heart, he did not know. He did not even know that she carried his child. He might never know that she’d given up her place in her home to preserve that child’s life.
How could she do aught else? Their child might well be all she’d ever have of him. A little boy with wavy auburn hair. Or a girl with his laughing, hazel-green eyes. And, mayhap, if Hulda were very lucky, his smile.
How could she willingly lose that precious child in a rush of blood? Bad enough that such things happened accidentally. She had lived most of her life in a rough-and-tumble man’s world. She had no way to be sure that her body knew how to bear a child.
It had known how to love a man, though. Ach, ja, it had. How to open itself to the one she adored. Give and give to him. Take him in.
Just the memory of it made her dizzy.
She had grown up aboard boats likeFreya, and lying in her cot, being rocked by the gentle motion of the bay, should be comforting. Instead, it made her feel ill.
She had to rise and run for the rail, where she vomited and vomited, losing what felt like all she’d taken to eat for days.
And what was she to do? How to exist here, on this vessel, when the weather began to turn bitter? When her belly grew. When theFreyawas hauled in for repairs.
She had gambled for love, and lost the direction of her life.
The night proved a long one. She was up several times dry-heaving over the side, for she had nothing left in her. Limp as a wet sail, she still half hung over the rail when Frode’s son, Bjarni, came down to the shore next morning and stood looking at her.
He soon went away, no doubt to tell Frode she was there. Hulda crawled off to her cot and at last fell asleep.
It was afternoon when she woke, and she felt cold. A stiff breeze batteredFreyaat her anchor and the waves felt rough.
Hulda sat up and clutched at her stomach. Yet another trip to the rail brought up nothing. When she raised her head, dripping and miserable, Frode called to her from the shore.
“Hulda! Girl, what are you doing there?”
She lifted her eyes and looked at him, striving mightily not to look as ill as she felt. What could she say?
“Come ashore,” he called. “Have something to eat.”
At the thought of food, her stomach commenced a slow roll. But if she did not begin to look after herself, she would do old Roskva’s job for her.
“Ja, I will come.”
Frode lived with his son in the cluttered hut, little more than a kennel, if truth be told. It did not smell good inside, but Hulda was grateful to be in out of the cold wind.
Bjarni sat by the fire and Frode put Hulda there, then began passing her food while scowling.
“Girl, what are you doing there aboardFreya?”
“I was trying to sleep.”
“You did sleep.” He grunted. “I went aboard to see to you.” He examined her without much mercy. “Are you ill?”
“I had to leave home.” She looked at the bread in her hands. “I have nowhere else.”
“Freyaneeds to be hauled ashore for repairs.”
“Ja. Give me a few days. I will gather myself soon.”
“I suppose I could give you a few days, ja. Why cannot you go home?”
