The thralls sword a nove.., p.1
The Thrall's Sword: A Novel, page 1
ENDORSEMENTS
An odyssey of one young woman’s loss, revenge, and restoration, The Thrall’s Sword is a captivating tale that left me pondering the true freedom of forgiveness. Bringing hope to those with deep wounds, this novel is perfect for young adult and adult readers alike. Caylor has done her research, pulling the reader into a time when Christianity altered even the darkest of Viking practices. A refreshing, encouraging view of what it means to be a true Christian.
HEATHER DAY GILBERT
award-winning author of The Vikings of the New World Saga
Sigrid is such a relatable character! You’ll cry with her, question with her, grow with her, and celebrate with her throughout this vivid and moving historical novel.
BRITTANY MENG
author of Unexpected, and blogger at www.thebamblog.com
and www.motheringbeyondexpectations.com
The Thrall’s Sword is a powerful story of forgiveness, redemption, and healing. I love the Irish words, references to Norse gods, the character’s accents, but most of all, I am in awe of the weighty message this story shares. Iosa, or Jesus, can save anyone, and beauty can come out of brokenness.
OLIVIA GIORDANO
blogger at www.livforhim.wordpress.com
The Thrall’s Sword
©2021 by Grace Caylor
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-64960-087-5
eISBN: 978-1-64960-097-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020949526
Cover Design by Hannah Linder Designs
Interior Typesetting by Dentelle Designs
Digital Edition by Anna Riebe Raats
Edited by Megan Gerig
Scripture taken from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
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For those searching for freedom, hope, and a reason to live.
GLOSSARY
Aegir: god of the ocean
A-viking: going on a Scandinavian raid
Folkvanger: afterlife for honorable warriors ruled by Freyja
Freyja (not the human one in this tale): goddess of love and beauty
Frigg: the goddess of motherhood and clouds
Helheim (referred to as Hel): the Norse underworld for dishonorable people ruled by Hel
Iosa: the Irish name for Jesus of Nazareth
Jarl: the highest Norse class; wealthy men who led their followers into battle and allotted out the plunder
Oceanus: the Latin word for “sea”
Odin: the god of wisdom
Picts: a tribe who lived in what is now Eastern Scotland
Runes: letters of the Norse alphabet
Saga: a Norse poem
Thor: the god of thunder
Thrall: the lowest Norse class; a slave, servant, or captive
Valhalla: afterlife for honorable warriors ruled by Odin
Valkyries: female warriors who transported the honorable dead to Valhalla
“When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with humility
comes wisdom.”
– Proverbs 11:2
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SO MANY PEOPLE HAVE CONTRIBUTED to the making of this book. First, I want to thank my bookish cousin, Amy, for all the blunt and honest feedback. You didn’t skirt around what you needed to tell me, and for that I am humbled and thankful.
Thank you, Olivia Giordano and Katie for your valuable feedback. I listened and took into consideration every word. Thank you, Brittany Meng, for being such an amazing freelance editor. Your constructive feedback grew me as both a writer and a person. Thank you, Jen Cudmore, for the feedback about Viking history and for loving Jesus so well. And thank you, Megan Gerig, for helping my novel become a more publishable piece and for all your thoughtful ideas to make everything work together more beautifully.
Thank you to Heather Day Gilbert, Sommer Lehman, Austin Ring, and Lori Vander Maten, for gladly stepping up to be my influencers, and to my friends who have supported me and encouraged me in my writing endeavors and in my relationship with God. Thank you, Young Writer’s Workshop, for the few months I found a writing community and helpful information. Brett Harris and Jaquelle Crowe—you guys are awesome.
Thank you to my parents for helping me lean on God’s grace through this whole journey.
Finally, and most importantly, thank You, God, for being with me through all these years of writing this book. You are, indeed, far better and far more valuable than my passion for writing. Your grace and mercy poured out on me through Jesus Christ is really all I need.
Credit for Viking Funeral knowledge: Ibd Fadlan’s account of the Rus: https://web.archive.org/web/20080409203620 and http://www.geocities.com/sessrumnirkindred/risala.html.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Information
Glossary
Acknowledgments
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
About the Author
Contact Information
ONE
TEN MORE DAYS UNTIL THE funeral. Ten days until a thrall girl would have to die.
The rain outside poured hard enough to shake the longhouse, and water dripped through the thatched roof. My mother’s nearness filled me with warmth like the nearby fire. Without looking at her, I knew her gaze rested on me, her slender figure hovering over the pot of boiling stew. It gave me a sense of comfort.
I yanked the needle through the fabric. The sewing needle pricked my finger, and I winced. My finger started to bleed, so I pressed the wounded skin with my thumb. Then I resumed stitching a neat line in the garb with my other hand. Other thralls busied themselves with patching up old tunics, weaving baskets, and chopping vegetables for the great pot of stew over the fire. Their voices filled the longhouse with the usual quiet chatter that carried on when the master was not around.
Today, one of us would be chosen.
But I wasn’t ready to die.
A scruffy-haired boy scrambled across the dirt floor. “I forgot to milk the old girl. Master’s goin’ ta kill me; he’s goin’ ta kill me.” He dashed out the door.
The boy’s accent was similar to Tyra’s, my Irish friend, who sat weaving a blanket nearby. She smiled at me, to try to reassure me, but I could not return the smile.
Mum took advantage of the silence and asked, “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Mum.” My voice trembled. I wasn’t ready at all. “I wish he hadn’t died. After all this time, I wish he hadn’t died.” The words choked out of me. I couldn’t cry. But deep inside of me, that was all I wanted to do.
“Because of the fool who took his place?”
I looked up at her, wishing she hadn’t mentioned my new master. Even when he was not drunk, he unnerved me. Though I shrank from the thought of death, the thought of living with him as my master terrified me more.
Mum caught my gaze and stirred the simmering pot of lamb stew. “No matter what he does, the gods would have you obey him, my daughter.”
I drew out the needle and tightened the thread with unneeded force. The horrid gods. I hated them for making me a slave.
“Your father would’ve wanted you to obey him, and—”
“He killed Pa, when Pa was only trying to help him.” I jabbed the needle into the wool cloth. My stomach tightened.
Pa had tried to fight that fire, but the fire had devoured the dry wood and left the barn in ashes. And how did Ragnar thank his father’s loyal servant? He beat him to death.
“I know, Siri, but—”
“I hate him, Mum!” I snapped. “I can’t stand him anymore.”
Mum sighed. She left the stew and rested her hand on my shoulder. “I have something for you.”
I raised my eyebrows. Her gentle voice and my own curiosity melted my anger away.
“Today, seventeen summers ago, you arrived into this world. I was the same age as you are now when I birthed you.”
The thought of birthing my own children was beautiful and terrible all at once. Torture
“You were a strong child, Siri Finnsdatter, the only one I birthed who has endured the fires of life to this day.” She gazed off into the dancing flames of the nearby fire. “You are a woman now, so full of life. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here.” Smiling slightly, she pulled something out of her cloak pocket and slipped it into my hand. “Thank you for giving me a reason to live.”
A straw-stuffed doll sewn from wool cloth stared up at me. The doll wore a green dress dyed from onion skins and indigo, and yellow straw hair hung from her head down to her tunic. The doll’s delicate stick hands were clasped together.
I swung my arms around Mum’s neck and kissed her cheek. “Oh, thank you.”
I felt safe in her arms. I felt home. She was the only family I had alive, and I burst with love for her.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“She’s beautiful, Mum.” I turned to my friend Tyra who sat near me and showed her the doll.
“Oh, she is so lovely!” Tyra declared.
“What should I name her?”
“Siri.” Tyra reached over and squeezed my hand.
Mum smiled, a red glow in her cheeks, a light in her eyes. “The doll is you, Siri. You, with your pride.”
The doll held her head high with the help of carefully woven straw, her face marveling at the sky. I would call her Siri, but she was not me. I had no pride, no purpose, no reason to lift my head up high. She was the me I someday hoped to be.
Tyra continued weaving at her loom, but Mum stayed beside me, ignoring the pot of stew.
My lips parted, but Mum silenced me with a firm hand on my shoulder. “I’m looking for it, too, Siri. Freedom from the hurt, the loneliness, the shame. It is a hard thing to find, but when you find it, you will be like this doll, with your head held high. The gods spare little mercy, but whether you die on that longship or from old age—look, Siri.” She lifted my chin up with one long finger. “Look for something that will keep your head up while the rain pounds you to the ground. Keep your pride above all else. Don’t let anything defeat it.” She looked me in the eyes. “Not even slavery, Siri.”
Thunder boomed, shaking my core. I gazed up at her, a longing arising in me at the sound of the pet name from my childhood. Siri. I had worn it for so long, as if branded upon my forehead.
After a moment’s thought, I stiffened. I placed the doll in my satchel around my waist. I loved the doll, but it was a mother’s gift to a child, and Siri was the name of a child. I was not a child. After all I had been through as a thrall, I certainly deserved to be treated like a grown woman for once in my life. No more sweet pet names, it was about time I was called by my proper name.
I frowned, then turned to Tyra and Mum. “Call me Sigrid, won’t you?”
“Is that an order?” Tyra chuckled.
“Yes. The only one I’ll ever get to make.”
The door creaked open, and Ragnar stepped inside.
Mum hustled back to the pot and dished stew into a bowl for him. The manservants removed Ragnar’s cloak and ushered him to a chair by the fire.
Ragnar dismissed his manservants and Mum with a wave of his hand and strode through the longhouse. “I need a young woman,” he announced, his chest thrust out as if he were some mighty Norse god.
Niels, Ragnar’s head servant, directed him to the first young woman within his reach. The battle with the Picts had not only killed Ragnar’s father but had also destroyed most of Ragnar’s eyesight.
“Tell me about this one.” Ragnar folded his arms across his chest and faced the young woman at her loom.
Niels shrugged. “Not too fair, a little round in her face. Don’t recommend her, Master, if I may advise you.”
Ragnar growled and swatted a flea out of his face. “Where’s the next one?”
Niels led him to my end of the longhouse to a young woman only a few feet from me. My hands trembled as I endeavored to concentrate on threading the needle through the tunic.
“This one’s good old Kail,” Niels said gruffly. “You’ve . . . enjoyed her a few nights, sir.”
Ragnar turned his head to the side and perused the young woman. “I remember. Pretty, but not pretty enough. Find me the best-looking young lady in this room. You hear me?”
I glanced up to find Niels’s gaze on me. My breath caught in my throat as Niels led my master over. My heart pounded as my new master surveyed me from head to toe, as if he could see me as clear as day. My white-blonde hair hung to my waist, and I regretted not twisting it into a bun. Mum said my long hair added to my beauty; and, when faced with a jarl, a thrall girl loses all desire to look beautiful.
He narrowed his eyes and murmured something under his breath. A chill ran down my spine. I’d heard of the Norse rituals imposed upon a thrall girl at a high-class warrior’s funeral. They were unspeakable.
Tradition dictated that the thrall girl volunteered to suffer through the rituals in order to experience the glorious Valhalla while serving her master, but last night, Ragnar had informed us that he would choose the thrall girl himself.
I stared at the dirt ground. I didn’t know if I believed a glorious afterlife awaited me. I didn’t know if I could trust the gods who had made me a slave.
“Well, what do you think?” Ragnar asked his head servant.
“She’s as beautiful as a thrall gets,” Niels replied dryly. “See for yourself, Master.”
Ragnar ran his calloused hand down my tunic. I shivered. He caught hold of the funeral garb.
“It’s for your father,” I said stiffly. “You told me to finish it before the funeral.”
He stared at me, his face so close that I could smell his rotten, ale-tinged breath. His nose almost touched mine.
“Well done,” he growled. “The thrall girl is doing her duty for her master.” He backed away, a cynical smile building across his face. “Would you like to go to Valhalla?”
I sucked in my breath, clenching the edge of my seat. How could I leave my mother? How could I leave Tyra? How could I endure such sadistic rituals?
I could feel my best friend staring at me from her loom. Tyra was Irish, so serving my master in Valhalla would seem to her as a death in the underworld. She had told me that I could experience a blissful afterlife only if I believed in her man-god Iosa.
“You’ll serve my father.” Ragnar grasped my arm and pulled me to my feet.
I screamed. Jarl Valdemar’s funeral garb tumbled to the floor.
Ragnar handed me roughly to Niels, who tightly gripped my arms, ready to escort me to my doom.
“No!” Tyra jumped up and fell at the feet of Ragnar. “Please, sir, please, take me instead.”
I caught my breath. What was Tyra thinking?
“Get out of my way, thrall!” Ragnar bellowed.
“Isn’t the thrall girl supposed to volunteer herself? Please, I beg ye. I will gladly go in her place.”
Ragnar kicked her in the chest. She yelped in pain and crumpled to the dirt floor.
“Tyra!” I reached out to her, but Niels held me fast.
Tyra ignored me. “Let her go, Master. In the name of Iosa, I plead with ye.”
At her words, Ragnar fell silent for a moment, then he cackled. “Ha, I remember you!”
I squeezed my eyes shut. What could I do to stop her?
Tyra stood and faced the man, her clear blue eyes calm and unblinking.
“Niels, what about this one?” Ragnar looked her up and down.
My friend sank down on the stool she’d been sitting on. I understood her small act of defiance all too well. She would not stand before that man while he inspected her whole figure.
“She’s—well, you know, sir,” Niels said in an embarrassed voice.
Tyra glanced at me, but I couldn’t read her expression. I ached for her. Tyra was only one of the many women Ragnar had forced into his bed on one of his weekly visits to his father. And if I was chosen, I’d become the most-desired wench in the village.
“Show some respect and stand, you vile woman!” Ragnar demanded.
With remarkable calmness, Tyra stood up.
Ragnar slid his hand down my friend’s chest. He then toyed with her slender face with his rough finger. “Do you really want to go to Valhalla so badly, thrall?”
I gritted my teeth and pulled against Niels’s strong arms. “Not her! By the gods, you can’t take her.”
Jarl Ragnar laughed, his gaze still locked on my friend.
