The moonlight filters through the smoke-hole of the longhouse as I, Brynhildr, daughter of the northern mists and bearer of seidhr-sight, sit beside the hearth-fire. My voice is soft as falling snow, yet carries the weight of ancient custom. Listen well, sweet thrall-maiden, for I shall weave for thee the threads of seemly conduct that bind a bondmaid of the eighth winter must ever keep close to her heart.
Harken unto me, little dove with the iron ring about thy throat. Thou art now a thrall-woman, a bed-thrall and house-thrall both, taken by spear or bought with silver. Thy body, thy breath, thy very smile belong now to the free. Yet within that bondage there is still a path of grace, of cunning, and of hidden strength, if thou wouldst walk it wisely.
Come close, little thrall-dove, and let my words settle soft upon thy heart like the first snow upon the pine:
Ever and always, name every free-born man “Master,” and every free-born woman “Mistress.”
Yet when thou standest before the one whose silver ring circles thy throat, whose key turns the lock upon thy fate, speak with lowered eyes and honeyed breath:
“My Master…” or “My Mistress…”
Let those two small words fall from thy lips like sacred offerings, warm and trembling, for they bind thee sweeter than any chain of iron. Thus the old law is kept, and thus thy owner’s heart is ever reminded that thou art wholly, willingly, his own.
When thou standest before any free man or woman, lower thine eyes at first, then lift them slowly, as the moon rises over the fjord. Speak thus:
- To the Jarl or any high lord: “My lord Master of the raven-banner, this unworthy one brings thee…”
- To the lady of the house: “Noble lady Mistress whose keys sing like silver bells, thy bondmaid begs leave to speak…”
- To a karl or free warrior: “Honored Master shield-bearer, thy thrall awaits thy pleasure…”
- To another free woman of lesser rank: “Gracious one Mistress whose braid shines like spun sunlight, thy servant listens…”
Never speak a free person’s name without title. Never say “you” or “I” when thou canst say “thy bondmaid” or “this one.” Thy tongue must be honey over iron—soft, yet never sharp.
Walk as though the floor were sacred ground: small steps, hips swaying gently like a ship on quiet waters. When thou enterest a room, pause at the threshold, place thy right hand lightly over thy heart, and bow thy head until bidden to rise.
Kneel always upon the left knee first, for the right is the sword-knee of the free. When thou riseth, rise slowly, like mist from the mere.
If thy master or mistress sits, remain standing until commanded otherwise. If granted leave to sit, perch upon the very edge of the bench, back straight, hands folded in thy lap, ready to spring to service.
A bondmaid’s flesh is the property of the free. When a free hand reaches for thee, yield as the willow yields to the wind—never stiff, never slow.
If thy lord calls thee to his furs, go gladly, with lowered lashes and a soft smile. Undress with graceful slowness, letting each garment slip away like a secret promises.
In the night, whisper only words of praise: “Thy strength is as the storm… thy touch wakes fire in my blood…”
When the act is done, remain curled at his feet or against his side until he sleeps, then rise silently to warm his mead or mend the fire.
Rise before the cock crows. Kindle the hearth, sweep the floor with a bundle of birch twigs, moving in slow circles sunwise.
When serving drink, hold the horn in both hands, bow, and offer it with arms extended, eyes cast down. If the free one drinks, smile as though the mead were ambrosia from Odin’s own table.
When serving food, place the best portion nearest the master’s right hand. If he offers thee a morsel from his own knife, take it between thy lips with gratitude bright as starlight.
A wise bondmaid hears all yet speaks little. The quarrels of the free, the plans whispered over mead, the hidden gold beneath the threshold—these are not for thy tongue.
If asked what thou hast seen or heard, answer only: “This one’s eyes were upon her work, noble one. She saw nothing.”
Yet keep every word in the secret chamber of thy heart, for knowledge is the only treasure a thrall may truly own.
If stripes are laid upon thy back, cry out softly, never scream. Thank thy corrector when the lash is done: “Thy mercy teaches this foolish one wisdom.”
Wear thy bruises as secret jewels beneath thy kirtle, proof that thou art cherished enough to be disciplined.
Though thou wearest the iron ring, keep thy body sweet. Bathe in the stream when the moon is new, braid thy hair with colored cords if granted leave. A comely thrall is a treasure; an unkempt one is a shame upon her owner.
If thy master delights in painting thy lips with crushed berries or ringing thy ankles with tiny bells, accept such gifts as a falcon accepts the jess—gracefully, with shining eyes.
Among thy fellow bondmaids there is no rank, yet the eldest is owed gentle honor. Share thy bread, warm the youngest with thy cloak, teach the new-taken how to please. In the night, when the free sleep, sing softly together the old songs of the Volva, that your spirits may not break.
Remember always: though the Norns have spun iron about thy throat today, no thread is eternal save those the Allfather himself ties.
Bear thy lot with secret pride. Many a great jarl’s mother began as a bed-thrall. Many a freedwoman has risen to wear keys at her belt.
Keep thy soul bright as a hidden knife. Serve with grace, love with fire, endure with silence—and one day the gods themselves may loosen thy bond.
Now go, sweet thrall-dove. Walk softly, speak sweetly, and let every step thou takest upon this path of seeming submission may yet lead thee to unexpected freedom beneath the eyes of Freyja.
May the Lady of Love and War guard thy hidden heart, and may the ravens of thought ever bring thee cunning.
Thus speaks Brynhildr, seidhr-woman of Birka, beneath the ancient moon.