Everyone was too stunned to speak at first by Sister Margaret’s forthrightness.
“Really?” Bolthor commented finally. He was probably composing a saga in his head about nuns and their wicked appeal.
“There’s only one nun I’ve ever been attracted to,” Toste confessed.
And Esme knew by his twitching member which one he referred to.
“But how about those Saxon soldiers back near Jorvik?” Bolthor said with a hoot of laughter. “I thought they would fall all over themselves trying to get away from a leper.”
“And one of them said you were giving him the evil eye,” Sister Margaret added gleefully. “Little did they know you look at everyone that way.”
Esme wondered if Bolthor was offended by Sister Margaret mentioning his damaged eye, but, nay, he quickly replied, “Mayhap I should leave off my eye patch all the time. The evil eye could be a weapon as sharp as my battle-ax, Head Splitter.”
“Methinks you are all enjoying this far too much,” Esme grumbled.
“Hmmm. I should create a poem to celebrate this adventure,” Bolthor said.
Everyone was too tired and cold to protest. Besides, nothing ever seemed to stop the skald once he started.
“This is the saga of ‘Toste’s Great Adventure.’ ”
“Great,” Esme heard Toste say, but she wasn’t sure if it was a question or an observation.
“Once lived a Viking named Toste,
His life was no longer carefree.
Alas, death took his beloved brother,
And no happiness in Toste could stir.
But then he met a nun,
Who was not really a nun.
She was comely of face,
And her body had grace.
Plus, she could whistle
In a way most shrill
But could provide a thrill
If she did it against a man’s… uh, windmill,
Which was exactly where her face was planted
When hiding from her father as she fled.
On the other hand, she should not whistle,
Because then Toste’s manpart would not stand still.
But, leastways, on this great journey
Everyone was full of glee.
And is that not the best thing about Vikings—
That they can laugh at themselves?
Well, one of the best things.”
“Bolthor, if I hear you even once repeat that particular saga at Ravenshire, I will make you wish you were a real leper, living in a leper colony far, far away from my menacing presence,” Toste said.
There was a short silence. Then a wounded voice inquired, “Dost not like my sagas, Toste?”
“I like your sagas in general,” Toste lied. Esme didn’t have to see his face to know it was a lie. “But I do not like that one in particular. It makes me out a pathetic, whining kind of man.”
“So?” Bolthor said. Then, “Ouch! Why did you clout me on the head? You almost knocked Sister Margaret’s head rail off.”
Which prompted Sister Margaret to say, “I liked your saga, Bolthor. Do you think you could write a short one that I could use in the selling of my mead in the Jorvik markets?”
“Hmmm. Mayhap.” Within seconds, Bolthor was saying:
“Margaret’s Mead is a wonderful brew,
Sweet as honey, through and through.”
Sister Margaret repeated the poem several times to commit it to memory and promised to have her agent in the Coppergate markets of Jorvik use it as a selling ploy. Bolthor practically sputtered with pride.
“Toste, I have to get up now,” Esme said. “I’m getting a cramp in my back.”
“Not just yet,” he cautioned. “We’ve already entered Ravenshire lands and should be at the keep within the hour. We must be especially careful for a little longer. Keep in mind that Eirik, the lord of Ravenshire, is half Saxon, half Viking, while his wife, Eadyth, is full-blooded Saxon. Many of their guests are Saxons. We do not want word to get out of your whereabouts till we are ready to face your father again.”
“St. Bridget’s breath! I am weary to death of all this chaos. I yearn for peace and quiet. Sad, isn’t it, that a woman of my age wants only a peaceful life? Is it possible this madness will finally be over soon?”
“Well, you will be out of danger for a while, till after the yule season is past, but peace is the last thing you will find at Ravenshire. And as for chaos—well, I suspect chaos reigns there.”