1. ONE #2
“It sounds to me like you can’t tell the difference between the jarl’s granddaughter and some scabby thrall-maiden. You think I’ll allow myself to be coerced by some turd-mongering thrall into doing something other than whatever what I feel like? Go lie in your bed of dirt!”
I spit in his face and kick down the remaining rails, knocking out a whole section of the fence.
Now the other thralls are coming down.
“Folki! What’s going on?”
“What do you think?” Folki says, wiping the string of saliva out of his patchy beard and flicking it into the grass. “Same thing as always.” Then he glares at me like he’s about to lose his temper.
If this Folki fellow was a free man I’d already be pounding his face in for looking at me that way. But there’s a pretty steep fine for assaulting another man’s thrall and I’ve already let Heidrik spend my allowance for this month, so I can’t afford to hit him first.
“You better fix that fence and get back to those sheep,” I tell him, “or I’ll let Asger know I saw you sitting down and you’ll all be whipped for slacking off.”
The thralls running over hesitate and look between themselves, but this thrall, Folki, keeps looking me in the eye.
“And just what is it you’re slacking off from, Hervor?” he says, “All the other girls your age are spinning yarn for their mothers at home. How come you have time to come out to the jarl’s pasture and play? I think it’s you who needs a whipping.”
“You better be prepared to fight if you’re going to speak to me that way!”
He snorts. “I’m not about to throw away my life.”
“Fine, maybe I’ll go right now and tell my grandfather you said I need a whipping and demand he have you fed you to the hounds!”
“At which point the jarl will ask you what you were doing in his sheep pasture instead of spinning yarn out of the wool he made us take down to your mother. Just let us be, Hervor. We’re only trying to do our work and no one wants to fight you.”
This thrall is getting on my nerves, scolding me and looking me in the eye.
He’s a foot taller than I am but I give him a hard shove.
He says an oath behind his beard and staggers back, nearly losing his footing.
If he shoves me back I’ll tear his head right off his shoulders.
Gods in Asgard I hope he shoves me back!
“Just walk away Folki!” cries one of the other shepherds as they come running over, “Don’t let her get to you!”
The way Folki is glaring at me I know he’s aching to break my nose. There’s a twitch in his lip; he clenches and unclenches his fists: he’s about to give in to his anger. I’m ready for it. I’ll slip his punch and knock his teeth out.
To my dismay, he starts heading back toward the sheep.
“Fy faen! Where do you think do think you’re going? Get back here and fight, you nidding! Din jaevla aergr-soper!”
“Hervor!” shouts one of the other thralls, “you know duelling words are forbidden!”
“Thrusting boy!”
“Hervor!”
“Fine! Go on then! Get back to your pig pen! Go suckle your fathers, you man-biting shepherds!”
Finally, Folki whirls around.
“You spoiled brat—it’s time you knew! Your real father was a slave like us! Your mother had you with a swineherd!”
The other shepherds gape and turn white, but I’m seeing red.
Fine or no fine, no thrall is going to get away with that.
I head straight for him without a word and punch him in the mouth so hard it knocks him off his feet.
He glares up at me with a bloody lip, but before he can get up, I seize him by the hair.
He snarls and grabs my wrist with both hands; I hit him again and his nose cracks under my knuckles.
“That’s enough Hervor! Let him be!” The other thralls snatch me from behind, and Folki yells as they pull me off him; I’m clutching a brown patch of hair between my fingers.
“How dare you! My father’s only ever looked out for you! He treats you far better than you deserve! How dare you speak of him that way!”
Folki spits out a bloody tooth and winces as he sets his nose. But he’s chuckling as he gets back on his feet. “That’s just it, Hervor,” he laughs, blood trickling over his lips, “Frodmar’s not your father.”
“Don’t, Folki,” one of the shepherds warns him. But Folki doesn’t listen. He’s already crossed the line, and now he’s giving in wholeheartedly.
“Frodmar’s your step-father,” he says, grinning with his bloody teeth.
“When your mother was a little younger than you, she couldn’t hold her mead, and once when the jarl threw a feast for some of his bravest men, she got very drunk and wandered off.
She stumbled into a swineherd’s hut while he was sleeping. ”
“Thor and Loki! Shut your mouth!”
“And what do you think they did in there?” says Folki, savouring every word. “Did you hear me, girl? You thought you came from a great line of huskarls and jarl’s daughters? The Princess of Lofoten? What a joke! You’re a swineherd’s bastard-girl!”
“Gods in Asgard, Folki!”
“I’ll kill you.” I say, shivering. “I swear on the jaws of Fenrir. You’re a dead man.”
But Folki is still basking in his revenge. “Frodmar married your mother as a favour to the jarl so no one would know where you came from. But we all know, Hervor. We all know. You’re the only one who doesn’t, because the jarl forbids all H?logaland from speaking of it.”
“On pain of death,” says one of the others, “which you seem to have forgotten, Folki. What do you think’s going to happen to you now?”
At last Folki realizes what he’s done, and he backs away, turning pale. He wrings his hands. “You’re right,” he says with a cracking voice, “I really lost it there. Odin help me. What am I going to do?”
“Make a run for it,” the other shepherd says quietly, “At least then you’ll have a chance to get away. If you stay here, you’ll be without a head by sundown.”
He nods and glances quickly around the pasture to make sure no one’s watching, then he sends me one last hateful look and darts off into the trees.
My heart is racing as I watch him go. My fingers are tingling.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” I’m unable to hide the panic in my voice as the two thralls release me and back away.
“No, Hervor, of course not. Folki didn’t know what he was saying.”
“Yes he did, and so did you!” Hot tears blur my eyes. “Gods in Asgard. Oh gods—I can’t breathe.”
One of the thralls puts his hand on my shoulder. “Take a deep breath, nice and easy.”
“No! Get away!”
He backs off and holds up his hands. “Perhaps it’s best if you speak to your mother …”