"Sister Jasmine! Once I again I find you hauled here in front of me for
consorting with a MAN! Once more I must remind you that you are not supposed
to leave the convent grounds after nightfall! I gather this time you were
seen talking to that dreadful Crispin, a rough and rowdy militiaman as ever
there was! Once more I must chastise you. Come here!"
"Yes, Sister Kate. I am very sorry. I am only a weak and wayward child, and
I am grateful (ooooo! ow!) for your guidance."
Sister Jasmine carefully concealed her yawn as Sister Kate swiped at her
ineffectually with the whip. It had only been an innocent chat with Crispin,
and Crispin wasn't rough or rowdy. Crispin was dishy. Crispin didn't even
know how dishy he was... but Sister Jasmine had plans for Crispin. She
hadn't wanted to come to this crummy nunnery, stuck out here on the coast,
miles from anywhere. Not even the bishop visited here, let alone the princes
and the parties. Life could be very dull as the youngest daughter of a noble
family. But Sister Jasmine ("Ooooo! OW! Sister that hurt! Ooooo!) didn't
plan on remaining a sister for ever. It was just a question of finding a
nice young man to run off with. One who wasn't too scared of the churchmen.
But finding one of those around here was going to be hard work. They were
all a bit scared, even Crispin. After all, the raids of the Northmen did
seem like a punishment from God. Even Sister Jasmine, not exactly the most
devout Nun in the convent, prayed most sincerely along with the rest of her
sisters, the words every congregation on the Northumbrian coast had spoken
these twenty years, since the raiders first came with flame and fire.
"Protect Us, Oh Lord, from the wrath of the Northmen."
"And you a wicked and wilful child... (oooo! Ow! yes sister!) and you ...
"Sister, what... OOOOO!"
The crash of the door chased the echoes of their screams from stone wall to
stone wall. Stood in the doorway was a man... and not just any man! He bore
a buckler, and a warhammer, and the sigil about his neck was not that of
Christ but of some heathen pagan god. For a moment, he stood, the light of
burning buildings silhouetting him in the doorway as if he were an
apparition from hell. Then he strode into the room.
Sister Kate screamed and screamed as he approached the two of them. This was
good. This he understood. The women usually screamed, especially these rich
ones in strange black and white costumes that lived in echoing halls full of
riches and jewels. But the other one didn't look scared. She was no warrior
woman, she had no sword (and besides these effete Anglish didn't seem to
have shield maidens). He brandished his warhammer in front of her, to make
it clear that if she didn't do what he wanted she was going to end up hurt.
Her only response was a slightly quizzical raised eyebrow. He got the
distinct impression that she was measuring him up... and she wasn't
Still, Sveyn was no blushing violet. Let this woman think what she liked of
him. He would tie them both up, carry them off and make house slaves of the
two of them. Let her be unimpressed in shackles.
Sveyn's instincts told him that he'd better make sure of the one with the
look of blood-eagles in her eyes. He pulled out some rope from her belt and
grabbed her by the wrist. She didn't resist- she just gave him a look that
sent shivers down his spine. He bound her hands above her head, found a
metal spike and drove it into the wood above the fireplace with his
warhammer. She was forced onto her tiptoes, barely able to stand. Sveyn
figured that would probably prevent her doing any damage while he dealt with
the screaming one. Taking some more rope from his belt, he proceeded to bind
the other nun hand and foot, so she was helpless at his feet.
Sister Jasmine's mind was racing with possibilities. She had heard some very
interesting rumors about these Northmen. They said that women were free to
be warriors and even landholders. This interloper looked physically strong
and well-fed, and the decorations on his clothes were very fine. Perhaps
there was something to this Viking life after all. Hmmmm. Strong... but
possible not all that bright...
Sveyn had the two strangely clad maidens at his mercy... or so he thought.
As he got another length of rope from his belt to tie the strangely defiant
one more securely, her knee lashed out and made sickening contact with his
groin. Sveyn doubled up in agony, feeling as if he was at sea during a
tempest as his guts churned. He manfully grabbed Sister Jasmine's flailing
foot and tied her ankles together. He was a viking warrior and no mere
Anglish woman was going to get the better of him! He'd show her! He started
to pull her long black habit up...
Sister Jasmine just looked at him. Somehow, the look of contempt in her eyes
unmanned him even more than the throb in his bruised testicles. She was
without doubt the most perfect woman he had ever seen, and helpless, yet
Sveyn just couldn't summon up the blood to do what he knew he ought to. Her
look just withered him. No matter what marvels met his eyes, he was unable
to respond. Perhaps her would have better luck later, on the boat, when his
balls ached a bit less...
Sveyn pulled the quieter woman towards him and bound her more securely. He
decided to take her out to the boat first. While he thought his knots were
probably fairly secure, he somehow didn't want to trust the fiery little one
as far as he could lick her. Massaging his aching balls, Sveyn though of the
damage that she might be able to do with a knife on his sails and rigging,
or with the flint and steel... no, better to take the quiet one first and
come back for the shieldmaiden. He double checked all the knots and hoisted
Sister Kate over his shoulder. She screamed and kicked as he took her off to
In the meantime, Sister Jasmine tested her bonds. She could slip out easily
enough. But the convent was a dead-end, Angland was no place for an
adventurous and independent young woman, and the frozen North did sound like
it might have its good points. Beside which, this "fearsome Northman" was
far less fearsome in the flesh. She was pretty sure she could twist him
around her little finger when she needed to... so she decided that maybe she
wouldn't escape. At least not yet. She assumed he'd carried Sister Kate off
to a life of slavery aboard his viking warship, and was coming back for her.
Being second choice was an insult he would pay for in due course, when she
got herself aboard the ship, in the middle of the North Sea, and he couldn't
The ship returned to Sveyn's home in the frozen lands of the North, though
not without incident. Some months later, we find Sister Kate, still dressed
in her Nun's habit but now a serving slave in Sveyn's household. on her
knees to the side of Sveyn's chair.
"Peel me an apple, slavegirl, and be quick about it." Sveyn yanked her
chain, pulling her towards him by the heavy iron collar about her neck.
Sister Kate hated it when he did that, her neck was chafed enough by the
omnipresent weight of the cold metal yoke. She took the knife and started
peeling the apple. This was a job she didn't mind, since it didn't involve
any serious exertion or anything. It was just that she never managed to do
it right, and Sveyn always found some way to find fault. For a brief moment
she entertained a vision of plunging the knife into Sveyn's breast, of
seeing his blood spurt, of fleeing barefoot through the snows to her
freedom. She sighed. Such was not for her. She was not strong, brave, a
fighter like Sister Jasmine had been. She was weak, subservient, a slave.
Had she not been in the service of God? Now she was a hand-maiden to a pagan
beast. But she was, paradoxically, happy. She had no worries. Not for her
the concern over where her next meal was coming from, of whether the ship
needed to be caulked. Her only concerns were trivial, peeling of apples and
scrubbing of floors.
"I don't feed and keep you for you to be slow about doing such simple jobs!"
Sveyn's coarse voice interrupted her reverie. She sighed again. Not once had
he let her finish peeling an apple. It was almost code for "I am going to be
mean to you". "Over to the whipping post!" Sveyn ordered. The ropes of her
capture hung over the wooden pillar at the side of the hall, the carved
pillar that was the scene of so much of her punishment. Sveyn tied her hands
above her head, tied her tightly around the waist and cinched the rope tight
around the pillar. She was balanced on a small ledge by the pillar, but even
if she were to pass out the ropes would hold her in place. Sveyn picked up
his favorite leather whip and started to flog his slave. But there wasn't
much in it. He wasn't really punishing her. This was another of his little
signals. The pile of furs in the corner was the usual endpoint of this
particular sort of punishment. Sister Kate didn't mind that. In fact,
secretly, she enjoyed the feeling of his hairy chest when he pressed his
whole weight down upon her, when he speared her downwards into the furs,
when he howled over her and she howled with him as the honey flowed from her
loins. But there was usually a severe price to pay... and it was not always
she who paid it...
The door to the hall crashed open. Sveyn sprang back from the slavegirl's
back, where his hands had been alternating between light spanks and
"By Odin's ravens, what do you think you are doing, Sveyn Gunnarson?"
"Ah! There you are dear, I was just sorting out this wretched slave girl,
she was peeling an apple and..."
"Thor's tits, Sveyn Gunnarson, you must think I am as dim-witted as the
giants to fall for that one. Don't think I don't know exactly what sort of
sorting out you give the girl while I am out slaving away over a hot forge,
earning our living!"
"No, really dear I was just..."
"So the slave girl has been misbehaving again has she?" Jasmine Freyasdottir
said, grabbing the whip from her husband's hand. "Doesn't look like you have
done a very good job of the punishment, her arse is hardly even marked.
Here, let me help you, my love. Perhaps you should eat the apples with the
peel, it might make a man of you."
Jasmine Freyasdottir didn't waste too many strokes on her former sister,
just enough to give her something to howl about. She turned her attention
back to her husband, who was standing meekly to one side of the hall.
"Sveyn Gunnarson, I give you fair warning that if I catch you with your
hands all over this slavegirl's arse again, I shall divorce you. You will be
a laughing stock. And as you know, since I am the best swordsmith in all
Norway, I will have no trouble finding a real man to be my partner."
Sveyn bowed his head and offered his back to the whip. He thought that he
could probably overpower her, should he really need to. But she was a fine
swordsmith, and she did make them so much money that he'd been able to give
up going Viking and live a life of luxury while she worked... so perhaps it
was worth the odd stroke of the lash?
When she plied his back with the full strength of her arm he was suddenly
not so sure. Not so sure that it was worth many more strokes like that...
and not at all sure that he could overpower her.