Page 33 of A Tale of Two Vikings

“Relax, child. Do not show your fear,” Mother Wilfreda advised as she sat on a high stool before a table, grinding medicinal herbs with a mortar and pestle. A sweet aroma wafted through the air—cloves and something else, possibly chamomile. “Pick up your mending. Do something with your hands so he won’t notice their trembling.”

No sooner did Esme take a torn surplice in hand than the wooden door swung open and banged against the timber wall, almost breaking off the leather hinges. For a certainty, there would be dent marks in the wood.

“There you are, girl,” her father said, giving her a once-over which could be summed up in the sneer on his thin lips. Her father tended to call her “girl” overmuch, probably to put her in her place. There were no happy greetings after an absence of a year, no hugs of welcome. All to be expected. At forty and eight years, with only a sprinkling of gray in his black hair, her father could still be considered a handsome man, if not for the lines of cruelty that bracketed his eyes and mouth. He was a big man, and today he wore fine leather, calf-high boots, a chain shert with an attached coif over a wool tunic and braies, with sword and long knife scabbarded at his belt, all covered by a sweeping fur-lined wool cloak with a gilded brooch fastener. Similarly attired were her two brothers. Dressed for a fight, they were.

With me?

“Lady Esme.” Her brother Cedric greeted her with eyes as cold as her father’s. At least he did not call me “girl.” His quick scrutiny took in her drab attire and dismissed her as beneath his contempt.

“Sister,” her other brother Edward said, with an emphasis on the word that said loud and clear he felt no bond with her, despite their shared blood.

Esme nodded her acknowledgment of their salutations, such as they were. The hostility is so thick in this chamber I could cut it with a knife. And so serious they all are. I feel like sticking my tongue out at the three of them. Well, that is mature, Esme. No wonder my father calls me “girl.”

“I hear you are betrothed, Edward.” She tried to make conversation—a futile effort when faced with the three brooding men, who would rather be anywhere in wintertime but a remote nunnery.

“Yea, and what is it to you, sister?”

Well, that was certainly pleasant.

Mother Wilfreda made a tsk-ing sound of disgust. “Have you taught your sons such ill decorum, John?” the nun inquired of Esme’s father.

Good for you, Mother. Stick out your tongue, too. That would show them. Bloody boors! Oops, I guess I will have to go to confession again for saying “bloody.” Oh, well, it was worth it, even if I didn’t say it aloud.

“Behave thyself,” her father said to Edward, clouting him on the side of the head with one of his calfhide gauntlets.

Ouch! Note to myself: Stay out of clouting distance from Father.

Edward winced and backed away, scowling at Esme, as if it were her fault he had such poor manners.

Well, that was certainly pleasant, too.

“How is Elsbeth?” she asked Cedric. As if I care! Cedric was the oldest of her brothers at thirty. Elsbeth was his wife of at least ten years. Most times, Elsbeth had her nose so high in the air she could scarce see in front of herself.

“Big with child,” he replied grudgingly, casting a surreptitious glance at their father. No doubt he feared a slap with the same gauntlet if he spoke to her with disrespect. “She should be dropping the babe any day now.”

Blessed Mary, those two breed like rabbits. “Your seventh, as I recall.”

“Yea, and all girls,” he spat out as if girls were on a par with slugs. How like our father he is!

“Go, holy man, get us some of that mead this abbey is famous for,” her father ordered the priest, as if he were a menial servant. Then he sank down into an armchair far too close to Esme. Her brothers stood on either side of the open doorway since there were no other chairs in the room.

Oh, good Lord, he’s sitting down. That must mean he plans to stay for a while. Should I discuss the weather? Or ask about his health? Nay, best to shut my teeth and wait till he tells me the purpose of this visit.

The priest scurried off, no doubt thankful to be out of the nobleman’s presence. Esme would scurry off, too, if given the chance. She doubted Father Alaric would return. He would probably go to the chapel and pray. A good idea. St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes—that’s who would get her pleas if she had the chance.

Just then, through the open doorway could be heard a cacophony of animal and human sounds. “Oink-oink. Ruff-ruff. Come here, you thievin’ animals.” Almost immediately, they saw the five-legged pig shoot down the corridor, past the open doorway, with a string of sausages dangling from its mouth, followed closely by a dog the size of a pony, drool hanging from its mouth, and those two followed by Sister George. Who knew the piglet could trot so fast? The oinks and barks and shrieks could be heard for a long time after the trio passed. Eventually, the noise faded to silence.

Her father’s and brothers’ jaws dropped practically to their chests. In the end, her father muttered, “I always knew this abbey was strange. I did not realize how strange.”

If you only knew! Pray Sister Stefana doesn’t have a nude dancing epiphany about now.

“Not so strange. Have you no animals at Blackthorne?” Mother Wilfreda asked with a chuckle.

“Not a freakish five-legged pig!” he said, giving his head a shake of disbelief at what he’d just witnessed. “Who keeps a pig indoors?”

“There’s probably pig shit all over this place,” Edward added with a sniff of disgust.

Well, sometimes. And dog, and goat, and horse, and cat, and duck, and whatever animals Sister George has rescued this week.