Page 14

CHAPTER 14

M ary

Half an hour later, Sven led us from the classroom to what I knew immediately as the mead hall. I could see the contrast between how the vast cavern of the ritual chamber, with its ship, might embody the sea, while this one—not as big, but more ornately crafted—surely represented the world of the Vikings ashore.

As soon as we entered, a voice rang out from a door at the side.

“Come, you lazy girls! Enough of your pleasures; it is time to serve your men!”

“That’s Mor Inge,” Sven told us. “Hurry up and get into the kitchen. Mor Inge can be even stricter than Mor Astrid, with naughty girls.”

My eyes hardly had time to take in the grand space as I scurried in the direction of the scolding voice. I saw a high vaulted ceiling supported by massive wooden beams, and I thought I could make out upon them the same sorts of carving I had seen in so many other places. For the first time, I noticed what must be some of the very runes Sven had lectured us about, alongside the stylized pictures of gods, heroes, and women at the feet of both. Tapestries adorned the walls here as well, as in my master’s house, seeming to depict a single battle in different phases: longships full of warriors, Vikings storming a beach, a melee with armored knights, a final scene of bloody triumph as the Norsemen carried away their human plunder.

The closer I got to the kitchen, though, the more I found myself distracted by the scent in the air, of wood smoke and roasted meat. My mouth began to water; my apprehension couldn’t stop my hunger.

Mor Inge, a stern-faced woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe braid, stood by a large hearth. The flames cast dancing shadows across her weathered features as she fixed us with a disapproving glare. “Hurry now, girls,” she barked. “You must learn to wait upon your masters at table.”

We shuffled forward. I couldn’t help but feel yet again acutely aware of my nakedness in this grand setting. Mor Inge led us to a row of wooden tables laden with steaming pots and bowls. The rich aroma of stewed meat mingled with the earthy scent of freshly baked bread and the sweetness of ripe apples and plums.

“Pay attention,” Mor Inge commanded, her voice sharp. She lifted the lid from one of the pots, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. “This is your masters’ breakfast. You will serve them with grace and efficiency.”

She demonstrated how to ladle the thick stew onto wooden trenchers, arranging slices of dark bread and chunks of apple alongside it. “Take care not to spill,” she warned. “Your masters expect perfection.”

With trembling hands, I picked up a trencher and began to fill it, trying to mimic Mor Inge’s precise movements. The weight of the wooden plate felt strange in my hands, so different from the modern dishes I was used to. I arranged the food carefully, acutely aware of Mor Inge’s critical gaze.

As I worked, I couldn’t help but marvel at the ingredients before me. The stew was rich with chunks of meat and root vegetables, seasoned with herbs I didn’t recognize. The bread was hearty and dense, still warm from the oven. The apples glistened in wooden bowls, their skins perfectly smooth and unblemished.

“Hurry now,” Mor Inge urged, her voice tinged with impatience. “Your masters await. When you have brought their trenchers, you will return for their mead.”

I glanced nervously at the other girls, seeing my own uncertainty reflected in their eyes. Camille’s jaw was set in a determined line, while Sophie’s fingers trembled slightly as she arranged fruit on her trencher. Together, we made our way back into the main hall, each carrying a loaded plate.

As we entered the main hall with our full trenchers, I let out a soft gasp at the sight before me. The Sons of Odin sat at a long wooden table, its surface polished to a high sheen. Each Viking warrior had a high-backed chair, ornately carved with more of the runes and symbols I now recognized from Sven’s lesson.

But what made my heart race was the sight of the low, padded stools placed beside each chair. These, I realized with a mixture of apprehension and excitement, were meant for us.

I approached Sven hesitantly, my eyes fixed on the rough surface of his trencher to avoid spilling its contents. As I set it before him, I caught a glimpse of his face—his blue eyes sparkled with approval, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a small smile. That tiny gesture of praise sent a shiver of pleasure through me.

I turned and hurried back to the hearth-kitchen, where with a long finger and a stern expression Mor Inge indicated a keg. Below it, on a shelf, sat six carved wooden goblets, the meaning of the runes on them obscure to me. I reached out, my lower lip caught between my teeth, only to have Mor Inge’s voice ring out and confirm that I had done it wrong.

“Not that one, little whore,” she said scornfully. “That’s Aksel’s goblet. Do you not even know your master’s name, and he the Overherra ?”

“I… I…” I stammered, much too aware that Mor Inge had a strap hanging at her waist just like Mor Astrid’s.

“It’s that one,” she said, pointing. “Sven, Erik, Henrik, Aksel, Lars, Jens.” She went rapidly through the cups, so quickly that I felt lucky to have grasped which one belonged to my own Herra . I did my best to memorize the four runes on the cup as I held it in both shaking hands while Mor Inge opened the tap to let the golden fluid flow.

I turned back toward the table and began to carry the goblet, suddenly conscious of a strange feeling of importance. Cupbearers . They were important, weren’t they? Behind me I heard the other girls whispering about whose drinking vessel belonged to whom, and then Mor Inge, her tone exasperated, repeating the list minus my master’s name. I concentrated on not spilling a drop of mead as I crossed the floor until at last I could set Sven’s goblet before him.

“Kneel, lille en ,” my master murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. I sank to my knees on the padded stool beside him, acutely aware of my nakedness in contrast to the Vikings’ rich attire. The soft cushion was a small mercy against the hard stone floor, but the position left me feeling utterly abased.

As I should be , whispered a voice in my head. I belong to the Overherra , and I have pledged to serve him.

No , another said, remembering what Camille had said in the bath. Wait.

Around me, I could hear the soft rustle of movement as the other girls took their places beside their masters. Camille’s face was a mask of forced neutrality as she knelt beside Erik, while Sophie seemed almost eager to assume her position at Aksel’s feet.

Once we were all in place, Sven rose to his feet, his powerful presence commanding immediate attention. He raised his ornate goblet, its surface polished with much use. The hall fell silent, every eye fixed on our leader.

“Brothers,” Sven’s voice rang out, deep and resonant. “And you, our newly claimed thralls. Let us remember the lessons of this morning.”

His gaze swept over us girls, and I felt a flush creep up my neck under his scrutiny.

“Recall the world tree, Yggdrasil,” he continued. “Its roots delve deep into the past, while its branches reach toward the future. We, the Sons of Odin, are the guardians of this cosmic tree. And you, our volur in training, are now part of this sacred duty.”

I shivered at his words, remembering the weight of responsibility he had placed upon us in our lesson.

“As you kneel here,” Sven’s voice grew softer, more intimate, “remember the runes we discussed. Uruz, the primal masculine force. Berkana, the nurturing feminine principle. Here at this table, you embody the union of these forces. The feminine serving the masculine, and the masculine replying with grace and mercy.”

Sven raised the goblet to his lips and took a long sip, his throat working as he swallowed the golden mead. He sat back down into his chair, looking around the table with clear approval of what he saw. Then, to my surprise, he lowered the cup to my mouth.

“Drink, lille en ,” he murmured.

I parted my lips, allowing him to tip the goblet slightly. The sweet, honeyed liquid flowed over my tongue, its taste unlike anything I’d experienced before. It was rich and complex, with hints of fruit and spices I couldn’t identify. The alcohol burned pleasantly as I swallowed, warmth spreading through my chest.

Sven set the goblet down and turned his attention to the trencher before him. He tore off a chunk of the dense, dark bread and dipped it into the savory stew. The aroma made my mouth water as he brought the morsel to his lips and took a bite. Then, to my astonishment, he held out the remaining piece to me.

“Open,” he commanded softly.

I obeyed without hesitation, allowing him to place the bread on my tongue. The flavors were very welcome in my mouth after such a long fast: the earthy richness of the bread, the complex spices of the stew, all mingling together in a symphony of taste. As I chewed, I felt a wave of emotion wash over me.

This act of being fed by my master’s hand was profoundly intimate. It emphasized my dependence on him, my subservience, in a way that even the sexual acts we’d shared hadn’t quite managed. And yet, instead of feeling demeaned or angry, I felt… cherished. Protected. Cared for.

I glanced around the table, wondering if the other girls were experiencing similar emotions. My eyes landed on Camille, kneeling beside Erik. Her face was flushed, her breathing slightly uneven as Erik held a piece of fruit to her lips. Despite the troubled furrow of her brow, I could see the way her body leaned toward him, the unconscious tilt of her head as she accepted the morsel from his fingers.

Even Camille, fierce and defiant Camille, seemed affected by this ritual. I watched as she swallowed, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as if savoring not just the taste, but the entire experience.

Amélie, Sophie, Yvette, and Fleur all seemed to be in various states of blissful surrender. Sophie’s eyes shone with adoration as she gazed up at Aksel, while Amélie’s cheeks were pink with what looked like pleasure and embarrassment in equal measure.

I turned back to Sven, finding his intense blue eyes fixed on me. He smiled, a small, private expression that made my heart race.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice pitched low.

As the meal progressed, I found myself falling into a rhythm with Sven. When his goblet ran low, I would rise gracefully to my feet, go to the keg, and carefully refill his cup under Mor Inge’s watchful eye. Each time I did so, he would reward me with a gentle caress or a morsel of food from his own hand.

The fare was simpler than what I was accustomed to, but hearty and satisfying. The stew’s meat, slightly chewy, had a flavor I’d never known—venison, I thought, perhaps—and the root vegetables nearly melted on my tongue. The bread was as dense as it looked, and chewy, with a slightly sour taste that complemented the savory stew perfectly.

Sven alternated between feeding me bites from his own trencher and allowing me small sips of mead from his goblet. The sweet, honeyed alcohol warmed me from the inside out, making my head spin pleasantly. I found myself leaning ever further into his touch, craving his approval with an intensity that both thrilled and frightened me.

The meal seemed to stretch on for hours, yet I found myself wishing it would never end. I found something profoundly satisfying about serving my master in this way, about being fed and cared for like a cherished pet. The voice of resistance had not faded entirely, but the good food and drink, and the care the Sons of Odin showed for their bed thralls, lulled it to a drowse, if not asleep.

Finally, as the last of the food disappeared from the trenchers and the mead ran low in the goblets, Sven pushed back his chair and stood. The other Vikings followed suit, their powerful bodies looming over us kneeling girls.

“Brothers,” Sven’s voice rang out, “I believe it’s time for our thralls to have their dessert.”

A ripple of anticipation ran through me at his words. Sven’s large hand cupped my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark with desire, and I felt an answering heat pool low in my belly.