An Ahn later the Forkbeard, accompanied by Ottar, keeper of his farm, and Tarl Red Hair, now of Forkbeard’s Landfall, inspected his fields.

The northern Sa-Tarna, in its rows, yellow and sprouting, was about ten inches high. The growing season at this latitude, mitigated by the Torvaldstream, was about one hundred and twenty days. This crop had actually been sown the preceding fall, a month following the harvest festival. It is sown early enough, however, that, before the deep frosts temporarily stop growth, a good root system can develop.Then, in the warmth of the spring, in the softening soil, the plants, hardy and rugged, again assert themselves. The yield of the fall-sown Sa-Tarna is, statistically, larger than that of the spring-sown varieties.

“Good,” said the Forkbeard. He climbed to his feet. He knocked the dirt from the knees of his leather trousers. “Good,” he said.

Sa-Tarna is the major crop of the Forkbeard’s lands, but, too, there are many gardens, and, as I have noted, bosk and verr, too, are raised. Ottar dug for the Forkbeard and myself two radishes and we, wiping the dirt from them, ate them. The tospits, in the Forkbeard’s orchard, which can grow at this latitude, as the larma cannot, were too green to eat. I smiled, recalling that tospits almost invariably have an odd number of seeds, saving the rarer, long-stemmed variety. I do not care too much for tospits, as they are quite bitter. Some men like them. They are commonly used, sliced and sweetened with honey, and in syrups, and to flavor, with their juices, a variety of dishes. They are also excellent in the prevention of nutritional deficiencies at sea, in long voyages, containing, I expect, a greatdeal of vitamin C. They are sometimes called the seaman’s larma. They are a fairly hardfleshed fruit, and are not difficult to dry and store. On the serpents they are carried in small barrels, usually kept, with vegetables, under the overturned keel of the longboat. We stopped by the churning shed, where Olga, sweating, had finished making a keg of butter. We dipped our fingers into the keg.It was quite good.

“Take it to the kitchen,” said the Forkbeard.

“Yes, my Jarl,” she said.

“Hurry, lazy girl,” said he. “Yes, my Jarl,” she said, seizing the rope handle of the keg and, leaning to the right to balance it, hurried from the churning shed. Earlier, before he had begun his tour of inspection, Pudding had come to him, and knelt before him, holding a plate of Sa-Tarna loaves. The daughter of Gurt, the Administrator of Kassau, was being taught to bake. She watched fearfully as the Forkbeard bit into one.

“It needs more salt,” he had said to her.

She shuddered.

“Do you think you are a bond-maid of the south?” he asked.

“No, my Jarl,” she had said.

“Do you think it is enough for you to be pleasant in the furs?” he asked.

“Oh, no, my Jarl!” she cried.

“Bond-maids of the north must know how to do useful things,” he told her.

“Yes, my Jarl!” she cried.

“Take these,” said he, “to the stink pen and, with them, swill the tarsks!”

“Yes, my Jarl,” she wept, leaping to her feet, and fleeing away.

“Bond-maid!” called he.

She stopped, and turned.

“Do you wish to go to the whipping post?” he asked. This is a stout post, outside the hall, of peeled wood, with an iron ring near the top, to which the wrists of a bond-maid, crossed, are lashed over her head. Near the bosk shed there is a similar post, with a higher ring, used for thralls.

“No, my Jarl!” cried Pudding.

“See then,” said he, “that your baking improves!”

“Yes, myJarl,” she said, and fled away.

“It is not bad bread,” said Ivar Forkbeard to me, when shehad disappeared from sight.

He broke me a piece. We finished it. It was really quite good, but, as the Forkbeard ha said, it could have used a dashmore salt. When we left the side of the hall we had stopped, briefly, to watch Gunnhild and Pouting Lips at the standing looms. They worked well and stood beautifully, under the eyes of the Forkbeard. Otto had then joined us and we had begun our inspection. Shortly before concluding our inspection, we had stopped at the shed of the smith, whose name was Gautrek. We had then continued on our way. On the way back to the hall, cutting through the tospit trees, we had passed by the sul patch. In it, his back to us, hoeing, was the young broad-shouldered thrall, in his white tunic, with cropped hair. He did not see us. Approaching him, her kirtle held high in two hands, itfilled with verr dung, was blond, collared Thyri.

“She has good legs,” said Ottar.

We were quite close to them; neither of them saw us. Thyri, in the afternoon, had made many trips to the sul patch. This, however, was the first time she had encountered the young man. Earlier he had been working with other thralls at the shore, with parsit nets.

“Ah,” said he, “greetings, my fine young lady of Kassau.’

She looked at him, her eyes flashing.

“Did you think in Kassau,” he asked, “that you would one day be dunging the fields of one of Torvaldsland?”

She said nothing to him.

“I did not know in Kassau,” said he, “that you had such fine legs.” He laughed. “Why did you not, in Kassau,” he asked, ‘show us what fine legs you have?”

She was furious.

She, holding her kirtle with her left hand, angrily scattered the dung about the sul plants. It would be left to a thrall to hoe it in about the plants.

“Oh, do not lower your kirtle, Thyri,” said he. “Your brand is quite lovely. Will you not show it, again, to Wulfstan of Kassau?”

Angrily she drew her kirtle up, revealing her thigh. Then, furiously, she thrust it down.

“How do you like it, Thyri,” asked he, “to find that you are now a girl whose belly lies beneath the sword?”

“It lies not beneath your sword,” she snapped. “I belong to free men!”

Then, with the brazenness of a bond-maid, she, Thyri, who had been the fine young lady of Kassau, threw her kirtle up over her hips and, leaning forward, spit furiously at the thrall. He leaped toward her but Ottar was even quicker. He struck Wulfstan, the thrall, Tarsk, behind the back of his neck with the handle of his ax. Wulfstan fell stunned. In an instant Ottar had bound the young man’s hands before his body. He then jerked him to his knees by the iron collar.

“You have seen what your ax can do to posts,” said he to me, “now let us see what it can do to the body of a man.” He then threw the young thrall to his feet, holding him by the collar, his back to me. The spine, of course, would be immediately severed; moreover, part of the ax will, if the blow be powerful, emerge from the abdomen. It takes, however, more than one blow to cut a body, that of a man, in two. To strike more than twice, however, is regarded as clumsiness. The young man stood, numbly, caught. Thyri, her kirtle down, shrank back, her hand before her mouth.

“You have seen,” said Ottar, to the Forkbeard, “that he has been bold with a bond-maid, the property of free men.”

“Thralls and bond-maids, sometimes,” said I, “banter.” “He would have put his hands upon her,” said Ottar. That seemed true, and was surely more serious. Bond-maids were, after all, the property of free men. It was not permitted for a thrall to touch them.

“Would you have touched her?” asked the Forkbeard.

“Yes, my Jarl,” whispered the young man.

“You see!” cried Ottar. “Let Red Hair strike!”

I smiled. “Let llim be whipped instead,” I said.

“No!” cried Ottar.

“Let it be as Red Hair suggests,” said the Forkbeard. He then looked at the thrall. “Run to the whipping post,” he said. “Beg the first free rnan who passes to beat you.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” he said.

He would be stripped and bound, wrists over his head, to the post at the bosk shed.

“Fifty strokes,” said the Forkbeard.

“Yes, my Jarl,” said the young man.