excerpt
The captain merely laughed. Finten continued, “I should have known your words
were false. I will not submit to be collared like a dog. I am a priest of God.”
“Yes, you sound like one.” The Norse leader stepped into the pen and came face
to face with the fiery Finten. “I am Hjálmar, Captain Hjálmar.” Taller by far and
stripped to the waist, he lunged at Father Finten, pinning the scruffy priest to the
deck. The captain grinned at his victim and spoke almost in a whisper. “You are
about to have your first bath and trim, my hairy friend, and I am delighted to be your
bather. Washing priests is my specialty.”
The Norse crew gathered to watch the sport. They shouted encouragement to
their captain like rowdy boys at a schoolyard fight. Finten struggled, kicked and
punched. Momentarily, he gained his freedom, but was tackled and held down by
the Norse captain once more.
“Never will you force such an unholy and unchristian rite on me. Bathing is immoral
and evil and unnatural,” Finten howled. He thrashed at his opponent, but was
no match for the powerful wrestler.
Captain Hjálmar stripped him of his cassock and sat sideways on his heaving
chest. He was forceful but almost gentle at the same time, addressing his remarks to
Finten in a calm, steady voice. “No different than any other man I have known. You
do have all your parts I see. I had been told that priests of Rome were snipped of
their manly marvels to keep them from a woman’s bed.”
“I’ll snip you of your manly marvels, you boastful pagan beast,” Finten yelled.
He struggled to cover his privates but two Norse crewmen held his arms to the deck
while another two grabbed his feet. Finten squirmed wildly from side to side while
Hjálmar snapped the cord of twine that held a copper Celtic cross around the priest’s
neck. The captain flung the metal object in an arc to the white-capped waves. “By
Aegir, ruler of the seas, no thrall of mine will spread his fleas and stench of sweat and
piss and shit upon my ship.” Then, he tossed the priest’s garment to his lieutenant,
“Here, Bjorn, boil this nest of fleas for rags while I rid this Roman monk of sanctimonious
stink. Phew.” Dipping into the sudsy bucket of salt water, Hjálmar lathered
a sheepskin cloth with a block of bright yellow soap and proceeded to scrub Finten’s
heaving torso, still talking to him in the same steady tone.
“Ah, you should be bathed by a woman. Then you would no longer wish to be
so full of vermin. We men of the Danelaw, bathe, comb our hair, and change our
woollen garments on every Laugerdag, which you call Saturday. We scrub no matter
the season, even when we are absent months on end from wives and sweethearts.”
The Norseman looked around to his crew who were enjoying such sport on a chilly
morning at sea. “Ah, yes. Our wives and sweethearts – may they never meet.”
“I will not submit to pagan practices,” the struggling monk bellowed.
“You, my friend, were created by the god Ríg to be a servant to all. And so you will
be, and work among my other thralls. Only those in mourning need not wash. It is
said that Odinn, king of the gods, left his hair unwashed as a sign of mourning for
the death of his son, Baldr. You are neither a god nor in mourning.”
“Of course I’m in mourning. I’m in mourning for dead friends and lost liberty.”
Father Finten’s quick reply did nothing to change his situation. Alternating between
the sheepskin cloth and a brush of pig bristles, Hjálmar scrubbed the struggling
monk from head to toe.
Manolis Aligizakis 