Page 49 of A Tale of Two Vikings

“If anyone should be offended, ’tis me,” Toste said. “That last soldier—the one with the missing front tooth—was eyeing me like a tasty morsel. And me a nun, at that.”

“You are not a nun,” Esme pointed out from under his robe.

“Well, he didn’t know that.”

“We nuns get accosted all the time,” Sister Margaret remarked. “Doesn’t matter if we’re young or old, comely or homely as a hog. Men seem to think we are wild for their bodies from being confined in a convent so long. They expect great things in the bedsport from nuns.”

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.