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 behere, 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 willpunish 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.
