“Pssssss,” said the cat, who backed up further inside the bush.
“Here, cat. Here, cat,” she said, waving the feather in front of the bush.
It was a futile effort. The cat would come out when it wanted to. Still, the two of them—cat and woman—engaged in a hissing-cajoling battle.
“Why do you want the cat?”
“I don’t want the filthy animal, but mice dared to enter the scullery today. Mother Wilfreda needs a mouser. Go away.”
Never one to be bullied by a lady, Toste stood still, of course. While he waited for her to give up the game, he scanned the abbey holdings. He’d come to know the spartan buildings and their inhabitants well these past two sennights. The well-kept grounds bespoke neatness and efficiency, and would no doubt be lovely in the spring and summer. In the distance, he could see the wattle-and-daub, thatched huts of the villagers. Many hectares of plowland lay fallow for the winter but would spring forth with wheat and oats in just a few months. Sheep grazed. Cows lowed. Dozens of conical beehives, their occupants in hibernation for the winter, resembled squat soldiers watching over the religious flocks.
He inhaled deeply. The scent of winter filled the air, but also the heady aroma of Margaret’s Mead, made from the vast amounts of honey gathered by Sister Ursula, the resident beekeeper. A group of the nuns were off now in one of the nearby outbuildings, brewing up a new batch of mead to be sold to area merchants, as well as imbibed in the convent. Apparently, the sisters’ vows of abstinence did not include the wicked brew. They sang joyfully as they worked… some of their exuberance no doubt due to the ale-joy… a song about Sanctus something-or-other. A welcome change, to his mind, from the usual vocal fare.
Toste had spent far too much time in the bed rushes, healing. He swore to Bolthor yestermorn that time passed so slowly in this nunnery that he counted the hours by the drips of his candle. And listening to choirs practice their religious music did not help at all. If he heard “Kyrie Eleison” chanted one more time, he was going to pull his nose hairs out, one at a time, or give these dim-witted females some reason to chant, “Have mercy.”
Furthermore, who knew the church bells had to ring so many times each day? For matins and compline and vespers and this appointed prayer time or that designated prayer purpose. Betimes he felt as if he had a gong inside his sore head, with its own personal tolling bell. They even prayed over Sister Stefana’s sluggish bowel, for the love of Frigg.
The giggling novices who made excuses to peek in his doorway about fifty times a day were just as annoying. Then there was Sister Hildegard, who had an ungodly fear of Vikings and kept shrieking every time she saw him, “The Vikings are coming, the Vikings are coming.” Hah! He had news for her. The Viking was already here.
Sister Stefana of the sluggish bowel was another story altogether. The short, apple-cheeked lady had the peculiar habit of disrobing at odd moments and dancing naked in the halls. To say that Wilfreda, the mother superior and resident healer, was embarrassed by such behavior would be a vast understatement. Everyone ignored Sister Stefana till she invariably regained her senses. They pretended the demented nun wasn’t naked or doing anything un-nunlike. ‘Twas a bit like ignoring a longship in a mud puddle.
The most outrageous happenstance of his convalescence had been Father Alaric daring to suggest that he might want to confess his sins.
“What makes you think I am a sinner?” Toste had asked.
“Well, I just thought… um, being a Norseman and all that entails… raping and pillaging and whatnot… and being well-traveled… and being a heathen… well, uh…”
“Who says I am a heathen? I worship both the Norse and Christian gods. Like many Norsemen, I have covered my back by being baptized. I am Christian when I want to be.”
“I am not certain that kind of Christianity counts toward heaven. Leastways, if you are even half Christian, ’tis a good idea to go to confession on occasion.”