abstinence did not include the wicked brew. They sang joyfully as they worked…some of their exuberance no doubt due to the ale-joy…a song about Sanctus something-or-other. A welcome change, to his mind, from the usual vocal fare.
Toste had spent far too much time in the bed rushes, healing. He swore to Bolthor yestermorn that time passed so slowly in this nunnery that he counted the hours by the drips of his candle. And listening to choirs practice their religious music did not help at all. If he heard “Kyrie Eleison” chanted one more time, he was going to pull his nose hairs out, one at a time, or give these dimwitted females some reason to chant, “Have mercy.”
Furthermore, who knew the church bells had to ring so many times each day? For matins and compline and vespers and this appointed prayer time or that designated prayer purpose. Betimes he felt as if he had a gong inside his sore head, with its own personal tolling bell. They even prayed over Sister Stefana’s sluggish bowel, for the love of Frigg.
The giggling novices who made excuses to peek in his doorway about fifty times a day were just as annoying. Then there was Sister Hildegard, who had an ungodly fear of Vikings and kept shrieking every time she saw him, “The Vikings are coming, the Vikings are coming.” Hah! He had news for her. The Viking was already here.
Sister Stefana of the sluggish bowel was another story altogether. The short, apple-cheeked lady had the peculiar habit of disrobing at odd moments and dancing naked in the halls. To say that Wilfreda, the mother superior and resident healer, was embarrassed by such behavior would be a vast understatement. Everyone ignored Sister Stefana till she invariably regained her senses. They pretended the demented nun wasn’t naked or doing anything un-nunlike. ’Twas a bit like ignoring a longship in a mud puddle.
The most outrageous happenstance of his convalescence had been Father Alaric daring to suggest that he might want to confess his sins.
“What makes you think I am a sinner?” Toste had asked.
“Well, I just thought…um, being a Norseman and all that entails…raping and pillaging and whatnot…and being well-traveled…and being a heathen…well, uh…”
“Who says I am a heathen? I worship both the Norse and Christian gods. Like many Norsemen, I have covered my back by being baptized. I am Christian when I want to be.”
“I am not certain that kind of Christianity counts toward heaven. Leastways, if you are even half Christian, ’tis a good idea to go to confession on occasion.”
“The best part of repentance, in my opinion, is the sinning,” he’d quipped.
“St. Augustine said the same thing,” the priest had admitted.
I hope he doesn’t expect to turn me into a saint . “Did you have some particular sin in mind for me?” It was an indication of Toste’s boredom that he’d even carried on such a conversation with a priest as old as that biblical Moses.
“Fornication,” Father Alaric had replied without hesitation.
“Ah, that. Yea, I might have done that once…or twice.” Or several hundred times . “But not lately.”
“Then, too, there are abominations,” the holy man had added. The flush on his round jowls had crept up to his tonsured scalp.
Huh? “What are abominations?” Toste had wanted to know.
Blustering for the right words, the priest had sputtered out something scandalous about men and animals and body orifices.
Toste was not easily shocked when it came to sex, but his jaw had dropped open then. Really, clerics accused Vikings of the most outlandish things. “You can wipe that sin…that abomination…from my slate,” he’d finally managed to say.
But now Toste was venturing outdoors…no doubt to save his sanity, or what was left of it. His head wound had been severe, but he should have recovered long before this. Oddly, the pains in his chest and back hurt him more than the head blow. Well, not so odd. It was the type of
Toste had spent far too much time in the bed rushes, healing. He swore to Bolthor yestermorn that time passed so slowly in this nunnery that he counted the hours by the drips of his candle. And listening to choirs practice their religious music did not help at all. If he heard “Kyrie Eleison” chanted one more time, he was going to pull his nose hairs out, one at a time, or give these dimwitted females some reason to chant, “Have mercy.”
Furthermore, who knew the church bells had to ring so many times each day? For matins and compline and vespers and this appointed prayer time or that designated prayer purpose. Betimes he felt as if he had a gong inside his sore head, with its own personal tolling bell. They even prayed over Sister Stefana’s sluggish bowel, for the love of Frigg.
The giggling novices who made excuses to peek in his doorway about fifty times a day were just as annoying. Then there was Sister Hildegard, who had an ungodly fear of Vikings and kept shrieking every time she saw him, “The Vikings are coming, the Vikings are coming.” Hah! He had news for her. The Viking was already here.
Sister Stefana of the sluggish bowel was another story altogether. The short, apple-cheeked lady had the peculiar habit of disrobing at odd moments and dancing naked in the halls. To say that Wilfreda, the mother superior and resident healer, was embarrassed by such behavior would be a vast understatement. Everyone ignored Sister Stefana till she invariably regained her senses. They pretended the demented nun wasn’t naked or doing anything un-nunlike. ’Twas a bit like ignoring a longship in a mud puddle.
The most outrageous happenstance of his convalescence had been Father Alaric daring to suggest that he might want to confess his sins.
“What makes you think I am a sinner?” Toste had asked.
“Well, I just thought…um, being a Norseman and all that entails…raping and pillaging and whatnot…and being well-traveled…and being a heathen…well, uh…”
“Who says I am a heathen? I worship both the Norse and Christian gods. Like many Norsemen, I have covered my back by being baptized. I am Christian when I want to be.”
“I am not certain that kind of Christianity counts toward heaven. Leastways, if you are even half Christian, ’tis a good idea to go to confession on occasion.”
“The best part of repentance, in my opinion, is the sinning,” he’d quipped.
“St. Augustine said the same thing,” the priest had admitted.
I hope he doesn’t expect to turn me into a saint . “Did you have some particular sin in mind for me?” It was an indication of Toste’s boredom that he’d even carried on such a conversation with a priest as old as that biblical Moses.
“Fornication,” Father Alaric had replied without hesitation.
“Ah, that. Yea, I might have done that once…or twice.” Or several hundred times . “But not lately.”
“Then, too, there are abominations,” the holy man had added. The flush on his round jowls had crept up to his tonsured scalp.
Huh? “What are abominations?” Toste had wanted to know.
Blustering for the right words, the priest had sputtered out something scandalous about men and animals and body orifices.
Toste was not easily shocked when it came to sex, but his jaw had dropped open then. Really, clerics accused Vikings of the most outlandish things. “You can wipe that sin…that abomination…from my slate,” he’d finally managed to say.
But now Toste was venturing outdoors…no doubt to save his sanity, or what was left of it. His head wound had been severe, but he should have recovered long before this. Oddly, the pains in his chest and back hurt him more than the head blow. Well, not so odd. It was the type of
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