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!"

"Really?" cried Thorkil. "Excellent!" He called after his men: "She's a saint, hear that? A saint. Tell the skald to put that in my saga. It's 'a leper-kissing saint' that I'll be ravishing, and she washes the feet of the poor too."

"Stop, please, for pity's sake." The novice wailed. "Spare this saintly old lady. You will kill her. If -- if you must ravish someone, take me instead!"

"WHAT?" Thorkil and Elfrida cried together.

"He'll do no such thing!" Elfrida continued, "Are you mad?" She turned to the Viking: "I see what it is -- she wants to be a martyr herself -- A child martyr, she would be beatified on the nod -- canonised before the year is out -- She'll have her own cult, with pilgrims going to HER shrine to view HER relics -- NO WAY!"

"Hey, don't shout at me," Thorkil cried, "You think I would go along with this? I would be the laughing stock of the Viking world. Think of it: I get the chance to ravish a saint -- who kisses lepers, no less -- and I am supposed to trade that for a perfectly ordinary cock-starved little teenager? No way!"

The youngster burst into tears. Thorkil pulled a face. "O for goodness sake! What's her name?"

"Gilda."

"Well look," Thorkil said. "Look, Gilda. I'm sure you mean well, but your Mother Superior has worked long and hard to get where she is today. And I've got my reputation to consider too, you know. It wouldn't do for me to raid the convent and leave her unravished. It wouldn't be right. That's not how things are done. Your time will come."

Gilda continued to sob, staring from Elfried to Thorkil, and back again. He couldn't take it. "Oh see here, there's no need to sulk. If you want, I can get my crew to sport with you a bit. Or you can go down to the longboat and tell my shield-boy I sent you along for a bit of a cuddle. Ulf!" he called, "go along with her and tell young Erik he's not to go all the way. She'll fetch more if we can sell her as a genuine virgin, no previous experience."

Gilda tossed her head, and stamped out with Ulf. The great door of the convent slammed behind them.

Thorkil turned to Elfrida, shrugging: "Honestly, the younger generation ..."

"I do not know what they are coming to." Elfrida finished the sentence for him.

"See, they get everything too easy these days," he continued.

"Handed to them on a plate," she agreed. Then added: "That thing she said, you couldn't could you?"

"What was that?" Thorkil asked.

"I don't suppose you could actually ravish me to death, could you?"

Thorkil stared at her: "You mean?"

"Come on, you know, fuck me to death. Could you do that, do you think? Would that be asking too much?"

"I've no idea." Thorkil struggled with the concept. "We usually hit people with a sword or battle-axe, where I come from. Or run a spear through them."

"You see, if I was not just ravished but actually ravished to death, and ideally -- er -- spreadeagled over the altar, I would be a shoo-in for canonization as a saint and martyr. I'd have shrines everywhere with pictures of me, standing up looking saintly with a big gold halo round my head and the instrument of my martyrdom in one hand."

"Instrument of your martyrdom?"

"Yes. Your prick, of course. The images would show me holding it so people would be reminded of what killed me."

"Wow! Great Thor and Thunderbolts!"

"Do you mind?"

"O sorry. But a picture of you holding my dick in every church!"

"Statues, too." Elfrida added.

"I like it. The other Vikings will be sick with jealousy. Hey, lets give it a try then, Elfrida."

"Fine." She hoisted her gown, smiling at him as he let his breeches fall. Her eyes bulged. "Good grief, I haven't seen one of those for a long time, and there's a lot more of it than I remembered. That could certainly be lethal."

"Oh well," Thorkil shrugged modestly, "you know how it is. We've been at sea for a good while."

"All to the good, but if you don't mind I'll just apply a little unction to it." Elfrida tilted a lamp and poured a stream of warm oil over Thorkil's jutting organ. It swelled and grew even further under her hands as she smeared the oil up and down his shaft, and over the head.

Thorkil groaned. "Not too much of that just yet, Elfrida. What is unction anyway, some kind of spell or blessing?"

"No," she said, "you're thinking of Holy Oil. This is more of a lubricant. As I said, it's been a long time since I have had anything like that in me, and you are rather well built. So lets get to it. How do you want me? Stretched out on the altar facing up?"

"Fine, that'll do for a start. Unless you think you should be on top of me?"

"I think that's against the strictest teaching of our religion. You may force me, of course. But why?"

"O, just a thought. You being a Mother Superior and all. . . "

"Ho, ho, very funny. Yes, well let's get started." And she reached down to grasp his glistening organ and carefully introduce its massive head to her cunt. He eased forward a little, then pulled back. "That's the way," she said, "gently at first, please. May I call you Thorkil?"

"Certainly," he replied, easing his prick a little further into her, then pausing before slowly pulling back to the entrance. She was tight, and talking helped to keep him from losing control. "By the way, Elfrida, er, may I call you 'Mother'? It makes it somehow more exciting."

"Call me anything you like, if it keeps you up to the mark."

"Mother! I like it! Anyway, my name is Thorkil Thorfinnson, but I'm known as Thorkil Shieldbiter. I am thinking of changing my by-name, though."

"Really," she gasped, as he once again thrust forward into her, deeper than before. He was thick, stretching her. She groaned with pleasure, working her hips to take him more deeply. Building a rhythm. "Uh! -- Why -- uh! -- why -- are you thinking -- uh! -- of changing your -- uh! -- name?"

"I thought -- uh! -- I would -- uh! -- call myself -- uh! -- Thorkil -- uh! -- Motherfucker."