“What? No way!” shouts Ragnhild. “Is it true, Kilda?”
I shake my head and roll my eyes again.
“Of course not, your uncle has his head in the clouds.”
He rubs the girls’ heads, disturbing their hair again.
“This one.” He points at Ragnhild. “Has powerful dreams. She will be a Volva like you. The other one, she has strong arms. She will be a warrior, like me.”
Both girls laugh and jump up and down at his feet.
“Lift me, uncle Vidar!” shouts Ragnhild.
“No, me!” shouts Gunnhild.
“Run off now, I need to talk to the Bull.”
“The Bull,” Gunnhild repeats before the two of them run off giggling, ready to terrorize the next innocent victim.
Vidar towers above me, easy smile, easy charm. He could pick any woman from a crowd. Probably has. Using them like I used Narve.
“You know how to make a lady feel welcome,” I joke.
“I won’t stop until it’s your official title.”
“I’ll have to invent one for you too.”
“Oh no need, folk already call me the Bull. For my balls, like you.”
We laugh together. For a moment, I forget my situation. That I am property, that if I were to have children now, they would also be property. Reality crashes over. Vidar yanking the chain around my neck. My knees scraping the floor. The humiliation. Thyra’s eyes. My smile evaporates. What a cold-hearted bastard. He picks up on the shift in atmosphere—his own smile melts away. He scratches the back of his head.
“Look,” he says, “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“For what? For yanking my chain? Calling me a slave? Humiliating me in public?”
“All of it,” he says. “Your status is what it is. I had to keep up appearances, especially in front of Thyra.”
“My status?”
“You are a slave by law, Kilda. I’m sorry. I would have made you a free woman if it was up to me.”
My anger falters for a second. Is he serious? He just gave me to his father like a trinket, and now he pities me? My brow furrows as I scoff.
“But you didn’t.”
“Custom says I had to gift you to my jarl, my father.”
“Why not just let me go before we arrived?”
“I was with my warriors. They would have seen me as weak, even reported it to the jarl.”
I fold my arms and turn away. Part of me wants to believe him—the other part remembers the cold bite of the chain. Tears well up in my eyes. I don’t want him to see me cry. What to do with his excuses? He ‘had to’ mistreat me? ‘Had to’ force me to my knees? Ridiculous. And yet, I am well treated here, so far. He is speaking to me with respect.
“I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me,” he says. “Or in your balls.”
I snort, quickly drying my eyes.
“We shall see,” I reply with a sniffle.
