Page 36 of A Tale of Two Vikings

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 ofttimes 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.

“I repeat, who are you?” Blackthorne asked through gritted teeth.

Toste looked pointedly at the hand which still held his daughter. “I am Toste Ivarsson, and this is Bolthor the Skald, and if you do not release that nun this instant, I will cut off your hand.”

Esme’s eyes went wide at his words.

What? You thought I was a pacifist Viking?

The fool did not release his hold on his daughter, who tried to intercede, “Toste is just teasing. Ha ha ha. What a jester he is!”

Do not be naive, m’lady. I would slice your father through in a trice and think naught of it.

Her father looked askance at her. “Toste? You call the heathen by name? By the rood, girl, if you have given your virginity to a bloody Viking, I will take a birch rod to your back till there is no skin left.”

Keep it up, Blackthorne. You are tempting my sword. “Oh, well, I think I would have something to say about that,” Toste said, stepping forth and forcibly pulling Esme out of her father’s grip and to his side, where he tucked her under his left arm. The sword in his right hand remained poised at the ready. Bolthor had moved closer to the men as well, and he held his halberd in the battle position. “For your information, Lord Blackthorne, though I question your paternal rights at this point, I have not lain with your daughter.”

I will, though. You can be sure of that. She will owe me much at the end of this day, and I do not mean coin.

“How dare you intervene between a father and his daughter?”