Chapter 11
Rowdy. The hall is much more chaotic than the thrall room.
Men are shouting, dancing, arm-wrestling.
Most of them are farmers, traders, but they also look like warriors to me—much tougher than my own folk.
We wouldn’t stand a chance. Some women seem entertained by the raucousness.
Others try to keep a semblance of elegance, holding civil conversations.
The hall is filled with tables, which in turn are filled with bodies.
Thrall girls run about, serving and cleaning.
A lot of cleaning. Large hearths brighten the room.
The smell of food, drink, and sweat is overwhelming.
I’m not sure if it excites or disgusts me.
A few men can’t sit upright—their eyes glazed like my father’s always were. Ale-mad.
I follow Vidar as he leads me along the edge of the room to the jarl’s table.
It’s raised on a platform to display those honorable enough to sit with the chieftain.
I see Thyra, stone-faced. I see Ari, a sly smile.
I see a dozen faces I don’t know. Then, sitting next to Jarl Sigurd, a face I recognize.
Asbjorn. My heart sinks. The weight of my crime returns.
Am I to be punished? Sweat trickles down my temple as I remember stories of how slaves are disciplined. Shaved hair. Drowning to near death. Mutilated breasts.
Next to him, his wife. Even worse. Her controlled posture contrasts the chaos. A woman of such feline elegance must view me as some dead rat rotting on the side of the road. The stark opposite of her. Her gaze burns hotter than all the other eyes combined. May she show me mercy.
As more notice me approaching the platform—the cheering starts. Some whistle. Others shout comments. I feel stripped bare. Reduced to a piece of meat.
“Finally, some entertainment!” shouts one.
“I have a lap right here!” shouts the next.
The urge to shrink, to vanish, almost overwhelms me. But I keep my spine straight. Let them gawk.
Finally, I ascend the steps to the jarl’s table. Vidar gestures for me to stand behind the jarl, who gives me a quick glance over his shoulder before continuing his meal. He eats roasted meat, his fingers glistening with fat. I wait.
The shouts multiply as more men spot me.
“Give us a dance!” A burly warrior stands.
“It’s too hot for that dress!” shouts a drunk.
Burning shame. A hundred eyes cut into me. My pride bleeds out as I’m reminded of my place. The bottom. My lowest point. Tears press behind my eyes.
The women give me the coldest stares. Who would appreciate a young slave girl stealing the attention of their ale-mad men? I am making enemies—though I didn’t choose to be here, elevated before the entire valley. All of the jarl’s subjects are here. I wither under their stares.
The jarl raises himself.
“Men and women of Opdal,” he shouts. “Honored guests.”
He gestures to Asbjorn and his wife. The noise dies down, but some don’t catch on just yet.
“Silence!” roars Sigurd.
Instant stillness. A drunk man burps loudly, then collapses trying to sit on a bench, making the room explode in laughter. Even the jarl laughs before raising his arms.
Quiet again.
“This woman,” says Sigurd, loud enough to reach the back of the room. “This girl. She has dishonored my close friend.”
A murmur spreads across the tables. For some reason, I had expected everyone in the valley to know of my crime, my punishment, my status. But naturally, everyone has their own lives. I am not the center of creation.
“I now give her a chance to ask forgiveness,” continues the jarl. “To venerable Asbjorn and his blessed wife.”
My shoulders relax. Forgiveness—much better than mutilation.
Ari’s eyebrows raise as he turns to Asbjorn. The monster of a man stands, towering. He takes his woman’s hand with the gentleness I had admired. She also stands.
I haven’t planned for this. What am I supposed to do? I have no idea how to formally ask forgiveness. I will look like a fool. Look like a thrall. Which I am, a foolish thrall.
“Go on, girl,” says Sigurd.
My legs sag like wet clay. I barely remember how to walk.
I stumble to the couple, who have now moved to a more visible place on the platform.
People in the back raise themselves to get a better view of the show.
My heart pounds like it might burst. I have no idea what I should do.
But I want to live. They will punish me if I refuse, if I humiliate the jarl and Asbjorn.
They could execute me, or mutilate me. I want to live.
I want to live well, with both hands, with my nose, with my breasts. I need to show submission.
I throw myself on my knees, clasping my hands under my chin as I look up at Asbjorn with the most innocent expression. The one I had used as a girl when caught doing something naughty.
“Forgive me, my lord,” I shout for the room to hear. I give it my all, to seem genuine. “I knew not how I offended you!”
Men howl in laughter, women too. I have no idea why, but a comment from the crowd explains it.
“On her knees! Lucky Asbjorn!”
He raises his hand at the jeering drunks. That’s all it takes. They instantly heed his order without a word. As if he is the jarl. The room falls silent. He must truly be a renowned warrior. They know of him.
“I accept your apology,” Asbjorn announces. “But I do not speak for my wife. You stole from her as well.”
Knees scraping the wood, I keep my eyes on the floor. Not wasting time, I press my forehead to her feet. Let this end swiftly. Clutching the bottom of her dress, I shout into the floor.
“Forgive my transgression, fair lady, I offer my life. Spare me!”
A careful hand strokes my cheek. I look up at her gorgeous face. Her touch is so gentle, so soft. With a finger under my chin, she pulls me to my feet.
“Your life is not yours to offer,” she says so all present can hear, “and I cannot choose to spare it. All I can do is forgive you, which I do with everyone here as a witness.”
The room is dead silent. No one moves. It’s almost surreal, like a scene from a legend.
I stare into her spring-green eyes. They carry a kindness that disarms me, healing my wounded pride.
I see mercy. A living goddess. She pulls me into an embrace.
Melting into her caring warmth, I sob. I am forgiven, reborn. She shushes me like calming a child.
The room erupts into cheering. This time, I don’t feel I’m some object to be toyed with.
This time, it feels like they cheer for my victory.
For the story of forgiveness unfolding before them.
They cheer for the grace of a mighty warrior and his ethereal wife as they show pity for the lowest thrall—a thrall who disgraced them.
She holds me firmly, close enough to whisper in my ear.
“I have heard your story told—the reason for your thievery. I knew it was you. I saw you. Had it just been my textile, you would have walked free. Asbjorn had no choice.”
She detaches, leaving me stunned by her intimate speech. The woman is otherworldly. I have to learn such mannerisms. She stands shoulder to shoulder with Freya and Idunn. The brightest of goddesses.
Asbjorn leans in, speaking low.
“If I hear of you lying or stealing again, I will kill you myself.”
I nod once, a vow I hope to keep. A threat, yes, a warning, but also an opportunity for change. A chance to be born again. Not just as a thrall or Volva. As a woman. I can rebuild my honor. Odin has blessed me again.
Ari stands, bowing his head to the jarl.
“My jarl, these events have brought me inspiration. May I share the poem?”
“Of course,” says the jarl.
Bastard Ari. He grins at me as he steps before the crowd.
They clap over their heads and cheer. How will he humiliate me now?
At my weakest moment. Bastard. The skald seems comfortable in public, waiting patiently as people settle.
It’s easy to see that he loves this, loves the attention. Bastard. He clears his throat.
“When I first saw this simple thief,
With shackled neck, she couldn’t breathe,
Now with no chains, she walks as free
But feels at home down on her knees.”
An explosion of sound. Laughter fills the hall.
All types of comments are hurled at me. My cheeks blaze.
I should rip his fucking tongue out. It all washes over me as my blood boils.
Be humble, Kilda, at least it’s over. I’m already forgiven.
To my horror, Ari raises his arms. He isn’t finished. Bastard.
“Now made a thrall, she knows her worth,
Sweat and blood, the hours she works,
All you here saw her grovel in dirt,
But where I sat, I saw up her skirts!”
Men stand in jubilation, excited, entertained.
One starts hitting the table with his fists, and many join him.
My heart is racing. My entire body is flushed.
Such humiliation. Everybody is watching.
I’m probably red as a strawberry. Let it be over now, blessed Freya.
The rhythm of fists builds to a fever. Reaching its peak, it’s just a thunderous noise—a merciless wind battering the ears.
One day, I’ll get that fucking skald. Bite off his ear, or rip off his—
Jarl Sigurd steps forward, grabbing my shoulder and leading me back to the center of the platform. He is not amused like the other men, or at least he is hiding it.
“Hilarious, Ari skald.” He turns to the room. “All of you, hear me now. This thrall is my property. A slave I own by law. Any man who lays a finger on her insults me.”
Men nod around the room. Others are wiping tears after Ari’s so-called poetry.
Such luck. Despite being dishonored by an overly pampered poet, I am officially protected by the jarl—or rather, I am his property.
Now everybody knows I am a valuable slave.
Being claimed… a blessing and a curse tied in one knot.
The women, however, stare with indignation. It will be harder to win them over. I’m afraid they will target me. Hate me. My skin crawls.
“Her mind is touched by Odin,” Sigurd continues. “Her heart is touched by Freya. Any man who harms a hair on her head will feel the wrath of the Aesir!”
Protected by the jarl himself. This went so much better than I could have imagined. It’s like payment for my show of humility. A foolish smile grows on my face. The jarl is fair. The women can’t touch me, for I am touched by Freya.
Every man raises his cup. Ale sloshes and spatters on the ground all over the place.
“Hail Odin!” they shout. “Hail Freya!”
The jarl leans in, speaking only to me.
“Don’t disappoint me now. Your life is in my hands, not Odin’s or Freya’s. Stay out of trouble. Back to your chambers.” He gives me a light tap on my back to get me moving.
“Thank you, my jarl,” I say, trying to raise my voice. But it is drowned out in the shouts and cheers of worshiping men.
They worship Odin. They worship Freya. Who touched my mind and heart.