Page 18 of A Tale of Two Vikings

“This is one…um, unusual nunnery,” Toste commented with a shake of his head.

“Yea, ’tis,” Lady Esme agreed. “Unusual but wonderful, in its own way.”

Toste wasn’t so sure about that.

“But we were talking about life’s hardship and the need to laugh betimes.” Her face softened. “You miss your brother, don’t you?”

“Desperately,” he admitted. To his shame, he felt tears mist his eyes. When did I turn weepish? Next I will be sobbing. Once he was able to speak over the lump in his throat, he elaborated, “In truth, I am disoriented. My life seems totally off balance. I am like a ship that lists to one side, unable to go forward or backward, just in circles.”

“Time heals, I have been told.”

He shrugged. “Mayhap.”

Just then, Bolthor limped up, aided by a long wooden staff. His thigh had been cut to the bone in the battle, and he had a deep gash in his neck where a Saxon had tried to slice his gullet but missed, thank the gods. Bolthor stared at him through his one good eye and asked, “What are you two doing down on your knees in the dirt? Praying?”

Toste looked at Esme, and she looked at him. Then they both burst out laughing. She had a lovely, dulcet-toned laugh.

“Nay, just talking,” Toste said, rising gingerly to his feet, then extending a hand to Esme to help her up. She glanced at her dirty hand, then at his clean one, then seemed to dismiss the consequences and placed her palm in his. His much larger, callused hand engulfed her smaller one. To Toste’s shock, he felt the contact of her skin on his in the most erotic fashion, like ripples of pleasure extending out from their briefly joined hands to all his extremities…and one special extremity in particular. Esme, who came only to his shoulder, was equally affected—he could tell by her heightened color and the trembling of her hand, still encased in his. She jerked her hand away as if burned, and made a great show of brushing dirt from her gunna.

Toste was well satisfied with his work this day. If he could rattle a nun’s composure, then he had not lost his knack. Or an almost-nun, he reminded himself.

“What have you been doing?” Toste inquired of Bolthor, who did not appear to be in a good mood…though it was ofttimes hard to tell. He was a giant of a man, a berserker, with a black patch over one eye, and scars from numerous battles covering most of his skin. Even when he smiled, he appeared to be scowling.

“Nice of you to ask!” Bolthor snarled. “These nuns think I am a horse…not a warhorse, mind you, just a plain old farm horse.” He took on a decidedly feminine tone and mimicked the nuns: “‘Bolthor, can you lift that wagon so we can fix the wheel? Bolthor, the bull won’t come into the barn. Bolthor, that barrel of honey is too heavy for me to carry and you are so big and strong. Bolthor, could you do me a little favor…nay, ’tis not cleaning the garderobe today, just dig a little moat for me.’” He cocked his head at Toste, seeking sympathy, then remarked, “Hah! There is no such thing as a little moat.”

“What would you rather be doing?” Esme asked Bolthor.

“Creating sagas. I am a skald.”

“Really?”

Bolthor nodded vigorously. “Wouldst thou like to hear my latest?”

“Nay, nay, nay. Not right now,” Toste said. I think I am going to throw up.

“Of course,” Esme said, just to annoy him, he would wager.

Toste groaned.

Bolthor made that harrumphing sound he usually did before spouting his poems. Then the dream-expression came over his battle-scarred face. Too late to stop him now. “I call this one ‘The Warrior and the Nun.’”

“Huh?” Esme said.

“Uh-oh!” Toste said.

“Once was a maid so fair

But for beauty she had no care.

She had no use for men,

For sex she had no yen.

So she entered a nunnery

And swore she would never marry.

But along came a man like no other.