“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 woundedpride. 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.”
