The girl startles awake, eyes wide at Ari’s lack of clothes.
“Oh… uh… good evening, most honored skald,” she says clumsily.
“Good evening,” he responds.
“Kilda is hosting us thrall girls, and uh… we wondered if perhaps, you could, if you wanted to, of course, tell us a story?”
His eyes turn to me as a grin grows in his beard. He fastens a dark lock of hair behind his ear.
“You would have me entertain your guests?”
A silly smile spreads on my face as I push the girl on the shoulder.
“It was her idea!” I say as my body heats up. “The ladies wouldn’t complain.”
He contemplates this for a few seconds, giving my eyes time to greedily lap up the sight of his form. His muscles have their own shadows, by Freya. Hard as rock. Built like a god. A god under the rainbow. Practically naked. A naked god under the rainbow.
Sifrid’s mouth stands agape as she gazes up at him—or rather, up and down him.
“I will come,” he says finally.
“Thank you, Ari the Skald,” says the girl without looking away. “I will find a way to repay—” I put an arm around her shoulders and yank her to myself.
“I need a minute to get dressed,” says Ari.
“Good idea,” I say as I turn the girl away. “We don’t want a riot. You know where to find us.”
We walk back to the house, giggling like children who have pulled some naughty prank. I’m happy to see Ari again. Whata man. Makes me feel like a little girl. Butterflies flutter in my belly.
“Freya’s tits,” says Sifrid. “That man is built like a giant.”
CHAPTER 43
Suspense hangs thick in the air. Sifrid has received gratitude and slaps on the back for inviting the skald. When she had described how he had opened the door—almost naked with loose hair—the women had whistled and cheered, wanting to hear all the juicy details. The ladies are ready for some action.
A knock on the door. Dead silence, just a couple eager whispers are heard as slaves—often excluded from the pleasures of storytelling and poetry—are about to be indulged and entertained.
“Behave, ladies!” I say as I rip the door open.
There he is, casually dressed in leather pants and an open linen shirt. His toned chest confirms Sifrid’s detailed description. Girls stretch their necks trying to catch a glimpse of the dark man at my door. There is no noise from the rowdy bunch. No one wants to scare off the poet.
“Welcome, Ari the Skald,” I say, gesturing for him to enter. “Please regale us with your craft.”
He steps in without a word. As a skald, he must be used to speaking in front of crowds, but showing up for a house full of drunken thrall girls takes balls. I’ll give him that. I can’t erase my gleeful, childish grin.
He looks around the room, nodding as he scans every face. Even the older slaves are wide-eyed as they wait for the show to start.
“This is, without a doubt,” says the skald. “The most beautiful crowd I have ever performed for.”
All the ladies cheer, raising their cups and spilling ale over each other. It’s like a bubble bursting. Some stand and clap, others roar. A group in the corner howls like wolves at the moon. I’ve never seen men behave this way, let alone women. These ladies, forced in daily life to be submissive, to obey every order, now get to play as hard as they work. The sound shakes the walls.
The skald laughs with the girls, stepping between them and touching hands that are stretched out to him. It’s clear he’s enjoying the attention, the mangy bastard. They are grateful for his presence, and he’s grateful for theirs. Despite myself, I have to fight the impulse to smack away their groping hands as I follow behind him.
Reaching the hearth, where my chair is, he gives me a questioning glance. A freeman asking a slave if he can sit in her chair. I nod, glad that the women are having so much fun, even if I feel a tinge of jealousy.
Ari sits, raising his hands to silence the rowdy crowd. They obey.
“Thor,” he begins. “Was snoring so loud he shook the heavens.”
