“Bloody hell! Who are they?” her father asked, coming to an abrupt halt.
Edward and Cedric said foul words under their breaths.
At first, Esme thought it must be the nuns that had prompted their expletives. But when she raised her head, she saw a wondrous sight.
“The Vikings are coming! The Vikings are coming!” Sister Hildegard shrieked suddenly.
“Thank God!” Esme murmured.
Standing in the open doorway that led out to the courtyard were Toste and Bolthor. Each leaned casually against an opposite door jamb, ankles crossed.
Toste’s right hand held a broadsword. He was testing its sharp edge with the thumb of his left hand. Back and forth his thumb flicked as if strumming an instrument… a lethal instrument. His posture bespoke nonchalance; his gesture bespoke just the opposite, especially when his eyes lit on Esme’s cheek, which probably showed the imprint of her father’s hand.
In Bolthor’s right hand was a mighty battle-ax as tall as he was, and Bolthor was a giant. Its spear point touched the floor, its double-edged ax blade caressed his cheek. His expression was relaxed, but his one good eye displayed outrage as well.
“You heard me, wench. Who are they?” her father asked again and increased the pressure on her forearm till she thought he might break the bone.
Esme was tearful, but no longer fearful, when she answered honestly, “They are my champions, my friends.”
Never make a Viking mad…
A blazing fury ripped through Toste.
He saw the livid finger welts on Esme’s pale cheek. No small slap had that been. Nay, a man of considerable size had put his full weight behind that blow. Her father, no doubt. And the viselike grip the same culprit had on her arm now would leave bruises, for sure. The one brother let loose his grip on her other arm and stepped to the side, still flanking his father’s right side while the other brother flanked the left. It was a strategic move designed to shield their father and cage in their sister at the same time.
Oh, you fellows are in such trouble.
Many people, prodded on by biased clerics, liked to think Vikings were ruthless rapers and pillagers… that greed and bloodthirst ruled their kinder impulses. ‘Twas not so. In fact, afore many a battle, Norse chieftains oft-times called out, “Spare the women and children.”
So Lord Blackthorne’s abuse of his daughter sat ill with Toste and Bolthor, who had been informed a short time ago of his arrival by a huffing and puffing Sister Mary Rose.
But a good warrior knew to control his temper. Rage diminished a man’s skills. Timing was all. Becalm thyself, Toste. Becalm thyself.
Once the three men and Esme got closer, Toste yelled out toward the courtyard, “Bjorn and Sveinn, have you posted guards about the abbey borders? You have? Good. And close at hand?” He nodded as if someone had answered him.
“The archers are poised on the roof, as well,” Bolthor told him, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.
It was a ruse, of course. But Lord Blackthorne did not know that. Leastways, not yet. Or leastways, Toste hoped not.
“Sister Esme,” he said with a nod, putting emphasis on her nunly title, even though he knew it did not fit her actual state. He did not want her father to think there was anything between them. Not that there was anything between them. Yet.
Her eyes met his. She blinked several times then, as if to convey some hidden message. He’d played this game many times with his brother over the years, and he “read” her well. She told him she was unharmed and cautioned him to be careful.
“Who are these… people?” her father asked her, still maintaining his iron grip on her arm.
“Father, let me intro—”
But Toste put up a halting hand and spoke in her stead. “Mayhap I am a wayfarer just passing by. Mayhap I am a friend to Mother Wilfreda. Mayhap I am here contemplating the religious life for myself or one of my kin.” Toste paused, then added, “Or mayhap I am your worst enemy.”
Bet on the latter, villain.
Lord Blackthorne’s lips curled back, and he actually growled. His two sons put hands to the hilts of their swords.