The Cauldron and the Courthouse

The old conqueror broods and mopes, stomps and pouts. He hasn’t spoken for three days. Finally, he approaches her, his queen, his great prize, with his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.

You’d better think of something fast, Guthrun, she says to herself.

What’s wrong my lord? You should be out talking to the men, not wasting time on me. Oh no, of course I adore talking to you, sire. How could I not? There’s no one else to talk to after you massacred all my brothers, and…well, all the men of my race. And most of the children. And enslaved the women. Good show, by the way, all that killing and enslaving. What’s that?

Oh. You accuse me. I see.

No, of course it’s not true. Who told you that? Ah, Herkja. Cute. Your little “serving girl,” is she? How vigilant she is, my king. Shame if someone gouged her eyes out. Hm? Oh, nothing.

Okay, here goes: I swear I never bedded Theoderich, that hero of unparalleled charm, he who is a shining god on the battlefield, and of whom the bards will sing forever. No man could ever be as great as you, not even my dear departed Sigurth, slayer of dragons, superlative specimen though he was. How’s that?

Not good enough. Hmph.

Well then, I double swear I didn’t do it. I swear on…uhm…a Bible? Is that a thing we’re doing yet? No? Runestones? Shit.

Fine, it looks like we’re going to have to take this thing to trial.