“I’m married, you know,” says Asbjorn with a sly smile.
“And happily, I hear. I hope to hear of a newborn.”
“I’m sure you will. No, this girl wasn’t the reason for our journey, but she was the cause.”
He pulls up the seax, the root of my problems. Or maybe the root is my thievery, not what I stole.
“Beautiful,” says the man, his gaze returning to me, “like the girl.” He smiles. His comment should offend me, but he carries a friendly expression, like he pities my situation. None of the men in Asbjorn’s crew had shown any regret for putting me in chains.
“Some men ride horses, others ride goats,” says Asbjorn. His crew bursts out laughing. So rude, but I don’t take it personally. I’m comfortable in my skin. Men have called me a beauty when flirting. Now, one called me a goat.
Besides, a Volva need not worry what some horny bastards think of her looks.
“So what did she do?” asks the newcomer.
Asbjorn holds up the knife. Standing next to each other, their broad shoulders are as if chiseled out of stone. Their mothers must have fed them well—milk and mead and meat. With their full beards and giant frames, my beardless Narve is a boy by comparison. Asbjorn is older than me, but his friend must be closer to my age, barely twenty-something summers.
“She stole this,” says Asbjorn.
The younger man’s eyes widen. “No way!”
“I swear it. She snuck into my house and took it out of my battle chest,” Asbjorn insists. “While I was in the house, even! Sleeping like a babe!”
They both howl in laughter like it’s the craziest story they have ever heard. The blonde noble leans on Asbjorn’s shoulder, wiping his eyes, gasping. He blows out a long stream of air, controlling his giggles. Despite myself, I am forced to crack a smile. What a ridiculous scene. Better if I seem strong than fearful.
“And she smiles,” says the noble, pointing right at my face. “Chained up for theft, and she still smiles.”
“You should have seen her when we threatened to kill her folk. How she stepped forward, chest puffed out like Thor. ‘I stole your seax’she said.”
Asbjorn mocks me—standing proud, fists clenched, comedically defiant. All the men around me laugh. The blonde noble wipes his eyes again, struggling to stay on his legs.
“Stop it, Asbjorn. I will die from this, by Odin.”
The laughter dies out slowly. I can’t remove my own smile, even in this dire position. A shackle around my neck, on my ass, and I smile like a fool—just like the noble said. But I can’t help it. They really are quite funny. The situation is ludicrous. Asbjorn’s noble friend makes me feel safer, strangely enough.
The noble points at me again, his voice cracking as he speaks.
“Little girl, where did you get balls like a bull?”
I raise myself to face him. It takes all my might to lift the chain. It scrapes along the ground.
“My name is Kilda.”
The laughter dies into silence. No one had expected me to speak. He steps forward as soldiers huddle closer, eager to hear the exchange.
“I didn’t hear you. Speak again,” he says, voice still unsteady.
“I said, my name is Kilda.”
“Kilda, I like that,” he says. “I will call you Kilda the Bull.”
Roaring laughter from the men. Kilda the Bull. Because of my balls. To be honest, I kind of like it. Even if I have dishonored Asbjorn, these men think highly of me. They harbor some strange respect for a woman with the gall to break into a warrior’s house and steal his seax. The audacity.The balls.
“What’s yours?” I ask, feeling my balls grow as I test the man’s boundaries. What slave asks questions of a free man? One of the men releases a low whistle, surprised at my insolent behavior. But the noble only laughs.
“My name is Vidar,” he says.
“Very fitting.” I raise an eyebrow.
