“You know what. I forgot just how ugly you are!” Mr. Thrall said to his wife, smiling, grabbing her by the hand and prancing out of the door of Mr Viking’s home. Mr. Viking and Mrs Snoradottir sat at the table. His walked his fingers along the table and onto her hand and she swatted it away, smiling. She’d missed this.
Before the wife swap it had been nothing but arguments.
“Stop coming home covered in monk’s blood! I don’t want to wash your tunic every day!”
“Stop complaining, woman, you don’t wash my tunic anyway! We have Thralls for that!”
“Well maybe you should have married Mrs Thrall instead then!” and that’s how the whole thing started. How the Historical Wife Swap team had been called in to make that a reality, if only for a week.
After her very messy divorce at 15, Mrs. Snoradottir (who went by a different name back then, but hates it and refuses to let anyone know what it was) married Mr. Viking and settled in a small area in England, nice and close to a village for Mr. Viking to pillage, and with a little hut at the bottom of the garden in which lived the Thrall family.
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