“We shall see,” I said.
A bond-maid thrust through the crowd. “Does my Jarl not remember Gunnhild?” she asked. She whimpered, and slipped to his side, holding him, lifting her lips to kiss him on the throat, beneath the beard. About her neck, riveted, was a collar of black iron, with a welded ring, to which a chain might be attached. “What of Pouting Lips?” said another girl, kneeling before him, lifting her eyes to his. Sometimes bond-maids are given descriptive names. The girl had full, sensuous lips, she was blond; she also smelled of verr; it had doubtless been she whom I had seen on the slope herding verr. “Pouting Lips has been in agony awaiting the return of her Jarl,” she whimpered. The Forkbeard shook her head with his great hand. “What of Olga?” whined another wench, sweet and strapping, black-haired; “Do not forget Pretty Ankles, myJarl,” said anotherwench, a delicious little thing, perhaps not more than sixteen. She thrust her lips greedily to the back of his left hand, biting at the hair there.
“Away you wenches!” laughed Ottar. “The Forkbeard has new prizes, fresher meat to chew!”
Gunnhild, angrily, with two hands, jerked her kirtle to her waist, and stood straight, proudly before the Forkbeard, her breasts, which were marvelous, thrust forward. How magnificent she seemed, the heavy black iron at her throat riveted. “None of them can please you,” she said, “as well as Gunnhild!”
He seized her in his arms and raped her lips with a kiss, his hand at her body, then threw her from him to the boards of the dock.
“Prepare a feastl” he said. “Let a feast be prepared!”
“Yes, my Jarl!” she cried, and leaped to her feet, running toward the palisade. “Yes, my Jarl!” cried the other girls, hurrying behind her, to begin the preparations for the feast.
Then the Forkbeard turned his attention to the serpent, and the disembarkment of its riches, which, on the shoulders of his men, and others, were carried, amid shouts of joy and wonder from those gathered about, to the palisade.
When this was done, I accompanied the Forkbeard to a place behind, and to one side, of a forge shed. There was a great log there, from a fallen tree. The bark had been removed from the log. It was something in the neighborhood of a yard in thickness. Against the log, kneeling, one behind the other, their right shoulders in contact with it, knelt the new bond-maids, and Aelgifu. Some men stood about, as well, and the brawny fellow, the smith. Nearby, on a large, flat stone, to keep it from sinking into the ground, was the anvil. A few feet away, glowing with heat, stood two canister braziers. In these, among the white coats, were irons. Air, by means of a small bellows, pumped by a thrall boy, in white wool, collared, haircropped, was forced through a tube in the bottom of each. The air above the canisters shook with heat.
To one side, tall, broad-shouldered, stood a young male thrall, in the thrall tunic of white wool, his hair cropped short, an iron collar on his throat.
“She first,” said the Forkbeard, indicating the slender, blond girl.
She, moaning, was seized by a fellow and thrown on her belly over the peeled log. Two men held her upper arms; two others her upper legs. A fifth man, with a heavy, leather glove, drew forth one of the irons from the fire; the air ab~ut its tip shuddered with heat.
“Please, my Jarl,” she cried, “do not mark your girI!”
At a sign from the Forkbeard, the iron was pressed deeply into her flesh, and held there, smoking for five Ihn. It was only when it was pulled away that she screamed. Her eyes had been shut, her teeth gritted. She had tried not to scream. She had dared to pit her will against the iron. But, when the iron had been pulled back, from deep within her flesh, smoking, she, her pride gone, her will shattered, had screamed with pain, long and miserably, revealing herself as only another branded girl. She, by the arm, was dragged from the log. She threw back her head, tears streaming down her face, and again screamed in pain. She looked down at her body. She was marked for identification. A hand on her arm, she was thrust, sobbing, to the anvil, beside which she was thrust to her knees.
The brand used by Forkbeard is not uncommon in the north, though there is less uniformity in Torvaldsland on these matters than in the southi, where the mercnant caste, with its recommendations for standardisation, is more powerful. All over Gor, of course, the slave girl is a familiar commodity. The brand used by the Forkbeard, found rather frequently in the north, consisted of a half circle, with, at its right tip, adjoining it, a steep, diagonal line. The half circle is about an inch and a quarter in width, and the diagonal line about an inch and a quarterin height. The brand is, like many, symbolic. In the north, the bond-maid is sometimes referred to as a woman whose belly lies beneath the sword.
“Look up at me,” said the smith.
The slender, blond girl, tears in her eyes, looked up at him.
He opened the hinged collar of black iron, about a half inch in height. He put it about her throat. It also contained a welded ring, suitable for the attachment of a chain.
“Put your head beside the anvil,” he said.
He took her hair and threw it forward, and thrust herneck against the left side of the anvil. Over the anvil lay the joining ends of the two pieces of the collar. The inside of the collar was separated by a quarter of an inch from her neck. I saw the fine hairs on the back of her neck. On one part of the collar are two, small, flat, thick rings. On the other is a slngle such ring. These rings, when the wings of the collar are joined, are aligned, those on one wing on top and bottom, that on the other in the center. They fit closely together, one on top of the other. The holes in each, about three-eighths of an inch in diameter, too, of course, are perfectly aligned. The smith, with his thumb, forcibly, pushed a metal rivet through the three holes. The rivet fits snugly.
“Do not move your head, Bond-maid,” said the smith.
Then, with great blows of the iron hammer, he riveted the iron collar about her throat. A man then pulled her by the hair from the anvil and threw her to one side. She lay there weeping, a naked bondmaid, marked and collared.
“Next,” called out the Forkbeard.
Weeping, another girl was flung over the branding log.
In the end only Aelgifu was left.
The Forkbeard, with the heel of his boot on theground, drew a bond-maid circle. She looked at it. Then, to the laughter of the men, her head high, lifting her skirt, she stepped to the circle, and stood, facing him, within it.
“Remove your clothing, my pretty one,” said Ivar Forkbeard. She reached behind the back of her neck and unbuttoned the dress of black velvet, and then drew it over her head. She stood then before us in a chemise of fine silk. This, too, she drew over her head, and threw to the ground. She then stood there, statuesque, proudly.
Ivar licked his lips. Several of his men cried out with pleasure, others struck their left shoulders with the palms of their right hand. Two, who were armed with shield and spear, smote the spear blade on the wooden shield.
“Will she not be a tasty morsel indeed?” Ivar asked his men.
The men cheered, and struck their shoulders, and again, the spear blades smote upon the shields. Fear entered the eyes of the proud Aelgifu.
“Run to the iron, wench,” suddenly commanded Ivar Forkbeard, harshly. Moaning, Aelgifu ran from the circle to the branding log, and was thrown over it, belly down. In a moment the iron had bitten her. Her scream broughtlaughter from some of the other bond-maids. She was then thrust to the anvil and thrown to her knees beside it:.
I saw the young, broad-shouldered thrall, who had been standing to one side, go to the slender blond girl. He lifted her to her feet.
“I see, Thyri,” said he, “that you are now a woman whose belly lies beneath the sword.”
“Wulfstan,” she said.
“I am called Tarsk here,” he said.
He fingered the collar on her throat. “The proud Thyri,” he said, “a bond-maid!” He smiled. “You refused my suit,” said he. “Do you recall?”