The great wooden door of the convent crashed open, and the chanted prayers of the women faltered and died. A small group of Viking raiders burst in, their leader barking orders: "Rolf, Leif -- up to the end, look for any other doors, make ´em secure. Baldur, Harald, Skriv -- get these women over into that corner out of the way. And keep them quiet, eh? Fafnir -- go see how the rest are getting on. I want all the livestock and prisoners down by the longboat, you know the drill."
He paused, looking round and nodding. Then he sheathed his sword and eased his helmet off. "Here," he said to his shield-boy, "take these. Now -- who's in charge here?"
A tall, hard-faced woman pushed free of her captors and planted herself in front of the Viking. She raised her arm "Stop, heathen!" she commanded, "You shall not defile this house of God!"
"Ah. You'll be the abbess, yes?"
"No!" she snapped, "I am not the abbess."
"Don't try my patience, woman. Which of you is the abbess?" He looked across at the other women.
"There is no abbess here. This is a convent, you ignorant heathen, not an abbey."
"Well then. . ." the Viking paused, scratching where his hair had been flattened by his helmet. "Well. . . So who is in charge then?"
"I am. My name is Elfrida and I am Mother Superior of this house." "And I am Thorkil Shieldbiter. But you're not an abbess or a deaconess?" the Viking persisted.
"No!"
"Not even a prioress?"
"No!" She stamped her foot. "Get it through your thick head. I. am. the. Mother. Superior."
"Okay, okay." Said Thorkil, "I suppose you'll have to do. By the way, where are we? I mean, what's the name of this place you're in charge of?"
"Carbridburh. And we are the Little Sisters of the Epiphany. Why, are you lost?"
The Viking shuffled. "Not really, well a bit I suppose. It was so foggy, we just rowed up the river until we saw a big building. Is there a king or anything nearby?"
"Worried, are you?" Elfrida sneered, "Scared that there may be an army of the king's guard on its way even as we speak?"
"Nah, your poxy kings are a bunch of wimps and wusses. I just thought there might be a princess or suchlike in the neighbourhood. Good for ransom. Or we can sell them in the slave markets over on the Continent. So whereabouts are we?"
"In Carbridburh we pay our taxes to the Earl of Eggfroth, or we would except that God's house has tax-exempt status. I could show you, if you had such a thing as a map."
Thorkil laughed. "Got a map?" he said. "She asks if we've got a map! Of course we've got a map. And a map-maven. Rolf!" he shouted across to the group guarding the rest of the women, who were alternately feeling them up and boasting about how they could show them what was what. "Rolf! Leave their tits alone for a minute and show this lady our map!"
Rolf came across, unrolling a grubby sheet of parchment. "Here you are then," he said, stabbing with his finger, "See -- here in the middle there's Yggdrasil the world tree, and all round the outside there's the Midgard serpent biting his own tail."
Elfrida sniffed. "No wonder you got lost. You should have Eden in the middle of the earth, and four rivers flowing out from it to the firmament that is beneath."
She was so confident that Thorkil fetched Rolf a casual thump round the ear that sent him flying. He turned to Elfrida: "So how do we get back to Uppsala, then?"
"Go back down the river till you get to the sea," she said, "then turn left . . ."
"Er, left?"
"Left!" she said firmly, "Go towards the same side as the hand you don't write with."
It was Thorkil's turn to sniff. "Pardon me," he said smugly, "but I don't write with either hand. I'm a Viking, not a scribbler."
Elfrida sighed. "Well, turn to the side you hang your -- "
"-- cock?" Thorkil offered.
"Shield. I was going to say. Turn to the side your shield is on, which is left, sail along the coast for a few days and then ask again."
"Well, thanks. So back to business. I don't suppose you've got much by way of treasure and that, not being a proper abbey?"
"Certainly not, the Little Sisters of the Epiphany are dedicated to poverty. Our treasures are the poor whom we care for."
"Damn! This isn't going to look good in my saga. How about holy relics? There's a fair market in them."
Elfrida shook her head. "We haven't really been established long enough to get much of that sort. Of course, if you were to slaughter us all, our remains might come to be venerated in the future. But I suppose you're just going to sell us into slavery?"
"Well, yes. That's about the size of it." Thorkil shrugged.
It was at this point that a young novice broke free of the guard and came running over to Thorkil and Elfrida. She bobbed a curtsey and said: "She's ever so holy, Sir. She kisses lepers and everything."
"Hold your tongue, child!" snapped the Mother Superior. "It is not for you to speak unbidden."
"Quite right" said Thorkil, "It's very rude to interrupt the grown-ups. But tell me, Elfrida, do you really kiss lepers?"
"Certainly, we are all God's children -- except for you heathens, of course."
Thorkil nodded. "Fair enough -- can't argue with that. Still, kissing lepers is something. It'll make up for you not being a proper abbess." He turned to his followers: "Right -- you men. You can get on with the plundering and looting, get the people down to the boat, burn the hovels, tear up any books -- you know what to do. Anybody needs me, I'll be here ravishing this woman who kisses lepers. Yes, you heard me. Kisses Lepers!"
Elfrida's eyes lit up: "I'm to be ravished! O joy, the martyr's crown is mine! Mox dimittes domine . . ."
The young novice gasped. "But you can't do that to Mother Superior. She washes the feet of the poor. She is a saint!"
