The False Virgin

by The Medieval Murderers

  Again Beornwyn gently caressed her cheek with fingers still hot from being held over the fire. ‘You’re a saint yourself, Mildryth, and when I am abbess, you shall be by my side, a bondmaid no longer, but a freewoman, perhaps one day even prioress to the nuns.’

  Mildryth beamed with pleasure and gratitude. In truth, she had no desire to be anything as important as a prioress. Such a role would terrify her. All she wanted was to be a simple nun, for the freedom and security that an abbey offered in this life was more to be prized than any hope of Heaven in the next.

  ‘Now give me your cloak.’ Beornwyn stretched out her arms for Mildryth’s dark mantle of coarse wool, which her bondmaid wrapped tenderly about her, covering her head and tugging the edges forward so as to hide her face.

  Then Mildryth crossed swiftly to the door and, opening it a crack, glanced out. Most of the villagers had vanished inside their own houses by now, or were in the great mead hall, eating or serving Badanoth and his companions. Those that remained outside were too occupied with carving hunks of meat from the roasted sheep or checking on horses to take any notice of a bondmaid leaving a house.

  Mildryth turned and nodded to her mistress, who moved swiftly to the door.

  ‘If any should come looking for me, tell them I’m stitching the altar cloth and cannot be disturbed,’ Beornwyn told her.

  ‘Let me come to the church with you, my lady. I can keep watch. It isn’t safe for you to go alone. If the Vikings should come . . .’

  Beornwyn laughed gently. ‘And what could you do if they did come? One woman alone can slip away into the night and conceal herself far more easily than two. You will do me far greater service by staying here and making sure that no one comes looking for me so that I may keep my sworn vigil undisturbed.’

  So saying, she slid through the door before Mildryth could utter another word of protest, and was gone.

  Mildryth turned back to the cross and offered a silent prayer for her mistress, not one a priest would ever have recognised, but a desperate plea from the heart. Christ must hear Beornwyn and keep her father from making her a peace-weaver. Mildryth was as fearful as her mistress at the idea of her marriage to Aethelbald, for what then would become of her? She’d heard of the manner in which bondswomen were treated in his hall, taken by any drunken animal that wanted to satisfy his lusts, or worked till they were near dead.

  Mildryth had known from childhood that her only hope of a tolerable life was to attach herself to someone who might protect her. The old village crone who read the bones had foretold that Beornwyn’s name would live on for centuries long after Badanoth’s was forgotten. ‘And your fate, child, is bound to hers like ivy to a tree.’

  The bones had spoken and they were never wrong. So Mildryth had fought her way to Beornwyn’s side, even ensuring that the former bondmaid was accused of stealing, so that she could take her place. She felt no shame about that, for God had ordained that she should serve Beornwyn, and God’s will must be done. Besides, the bondmaid was a whore, one of those shameless creatures who would sleep with any man for a cheap cloak pin. She was not the kind of woman who should be allowed to soil with her filthy hands a girl as pure and virtuous as Beornwyn.

  Back then Mildryth had not understood what path her mistress would follow. In her innocence she thought the bones foretold had her mistress would become a great queen. But now she knew Beornwyn’s destiny was far greater than to become mere mother to a tribe. She would be a virgin of Christ, ruling over a double monastery of monks and nuns that would become even more famous than the one St Hilda had founded at Streanæshalch. There was no woman in the whole of the kingdom more saintly or more fitted than Beornwyn to become the abbess.

  Mildryth added another log to the fire in the pit before scrubbing her hands in the pail of water she had set ready, using a frayed twig to lift the ingrained dirt. Then she crossed to the chest and drew out a flat package wrapped in wool cloth. Sitting on the bed, she carefully unwrapped it and withdrew the long length of fine linen and the skeins of red, green, blue, silver and gold threads. The altar cloth was three-quarters finished, embroidered with an intricate design of foliage, fruit and beasts which framed the central panel depicting the slaying of St Oswald by the pagan king of Mercia. His severed limbs and head hung on stakes. Christ on His throne looked down on the dismembered corpse with sad and wondering eyes. His hand was raised in blessing over the saint, whose face even in death was cast up to heaven, praying not for himself, but for the souls of those slain with him.

  Beornwyn had begun the altar cloth some months ago, though of late, her vigils at the church had left her no time to work on it. Mildryth had carried on the work in secret while she waited for her mistress through those long evenings, so that no questions would be asked. Badanoth would never approve of his virgin daughter being alone, even while praying in a church, still less now that there was the danger of attack.

  Mildryth stitched steadily, glancing now and then at the door, straining her ears for any sound of Beornwyn returning, and fighting the soporific effect of that warm, smoky room. But like every bondmaid she’d been up since first light fetching wood and water, cooking, cleaning, milking and tending the crops, and not even such devotion as Mildryth had for her young mistress could keep her awake. Her eyes began to close.

  ‘Who passes?’ the guard bellowed over the roar of the strengthening wind.

  He stepped out of the bushes, planting himself full-square in the narrow track, an arrow raised in his bow, ready to be loosed in an instant. He peered suspiciously through the darkness at the two riders on their small stocky horses.

  ‘A friend,’ Wulfred called over, holding up his free hand to show he had drawn no weapon. But he knew his brother Cynwulf’s hand was grasping the hilt of his knife in his belt in readiness. Cynwulf could throw a knife as rapidly as this man could fire an arrow and just as accurately. Each man would surely end up killing the other. He prayed his brother wouldn’t act in haste, as he so often did.

  ‘Name yourselves,’ the guard demanded, peering into the darkness. He hadn’t lowered his bow an inch.

  ‘Alfred and Egbert, sons of Alcuin,’ Wulfred said hastily, before Cynwulf could blurt out the truth. ‘Our father’s lands lie to the west of the hills beyond the great river.’

  The guard took a step forward, trying to catch the words, which were being blown away on the wind.

  ‘Never heard of him, but you sound like Saxons, I suppose,’ he said grudgingly. ‘What are you doing here and why are you abroad so late?’

  ‘My father sought news about the Viking raids. We must return in haste to tell him of the attacks.’

  The guard finally lowered his bow. ‘Aye, there’s been attacks all right. My master, Badanoth, has doubled the guard, which is all very well for him, but he doesn’t have to stand out here on a wild night like this, freezing his backside off. Still, I suppose better a master who is prepared to fight for his land than a coward like Oswy, who turns tail and runs away.’

  Wulfred sensed the movement of his brother, and knew he’d pulled his knife from his belt, furious at the insult to their father. Fortunately the wind was tugging their mantles and causing their horses to skip sideways so the guard seemed not to notice. Wulfred kicked his beast to bring him alongside his brother and grasped his arm.

  ‘Keep your temper, boy!’ he whispered fiercely. ‘Do you want to die here?’

  He leaned forward to address the guard. ‘Send our greetings to your master. We must press on. We’ve a long ride ahead.’

  The guard nodded and stepped respectfully to one side. The brothers nudged their horses to walk on, but just as they drew level with the guard, a sudden flash of lightning lit up the sky. Wulfred clearly saw his face and knew he had seen theirs.

  ‘Wait,’ the guard yelled, trying to step in front of them again. ‘I’ve seen you before. Aren’t you—’

  But the two brothers dug their spurs into their horses and lunged forward, forcing the guard to leap aside ou
t of their way. They galloped off into the darkness, as the shouts of outrage behind were muffled by a distant rumble of thunder.

  Mildryth woke with a start, thinking the door had opened and her mistress had returned, but the room was empty. A gust of wind again rattled the door and shutters, and she realised it was that which had woken her. The fire had burned so low it was little more than glowing embers. She hastened to put more kindling on it and blow it into life. Beornwyn should surely have been back by now, especially with a storm rising. If the wind was this strong down in the valley in the lee of the hill, it would be a hundred times worse where St Oswald’s church was perched, on the highest spot above the sea.

  Mildryth laid the altar cloth aside and crossed to the door. She opened it a little trying to peer out into the darkness, but the wind snatched it from her hand and flung it wide. Putting her weight against it, the bondmaid forced it shut. She stood with her back against the door, gnawing her lip. Her mistress couldn’t struggle home alone in this wind. Suppose she slipped and hurt herself, or a tree came crashing down?

  She hesitated. Beornwyn had given strict instructions she wasn’t to be interrupted. She needed absolute peace and solitude to draw close to God. Mildryth had heard tales of men and women who’d been disturbed while they were sending their souls out among the spirits, and their souls had not been able to return to their bodies. They had woken from their meditations as the walking dead, never to return to life.

  But surely the noise of the wind in the trees would have already disturbed Beornwyn’s meditations. A long low rumble of thunder banished any uncertainty in Mildryth’s mind. Her mistress hadn’t even taken a lantern to guide her way home on such a dark night. She must go and help her.

  Mildryth swiftly rewrapped the altar cloth and replaced it in the chest before lighting a horned lantern with a taper from the fire. She picked up a long sharp hunting knife and slipped it into her belt. If the Vikings came, she would feel better knowing she had something she could use to defend herself. She swaddled herself in an old patched mantle and once again wrestled with the door, having to set the lantern down and drag the door with both hands to close it against the wind.

  There was no one about at this late hour. Even the hounds had taken shelter, and besides, they knew the villagers too well to bark at any with a familiar scent. The main gate in the high fence around the village would be barred now, and the watchman hunkered down behind it, trying to keep warm. But Beornwyn always came and went at night using a place in the fence behind the mead hall where several planks had been worked loose by some of the village boys who used that route to sneak in and out in defiance of their elders. It was invisible unless you knew where to find it. Mildryth found the spot and crawled through.

  As she laboured up the track to St Oswald’s church, the trees were bending low and the night was so dark it made her eyes ache trying to peer into it. Twigs and last year’s dried leaves were dashed against her face, stinging her skin. Several times her heart thudded in her throat as she thought she saw men running towards her between the trunks, but it was only the shadows of branches whipping back and forth in the dim yellow glow of the lantern. She drew the mantle tighter about her face and struggled on up the hill, though the wind was pushing her back with every step. Every so often she stopped and cast about with the lantern in case her mistress was lying hurt somewhere. But soon she realised it was futile. First find out if Beornwyn was still in the church, then if she was not, Mildryth could make a thorough search.

  The wind was gusting even more fiercely on the top of the rise. The church reared up in front of her and she struggled into the shelter of it. In the lee of its walls, the wind was considerably lighter, though as it tore through the branches of the trees on either side, the noise was so loud that an army might have been marching within feet of her and Mildryth would not have heard them.

  She hesitated, then lifted the latch on the door and pushed it open, shutting it quickly behind her. The shutters of the church rattled and the flame of a single fat candle on the altar guttered wildly, then righted itself as the draught died away.

  Mildryth edged forward, keeping the lantern low to the floor for fear that the light might startle her mistress from her meditation and cause her harm. As she did so, she thought she saw something long and pale lying in front of the stone altar. She stopped and slowly raised the lantern. A wolfskin was stretched out on the ground, next to a basket of meats, bread and cheese, and a flagon with two gold-rimmed horn beakers placed next to it. A woman was lying on the wolfskin. She was naked. Her long mousy-brown hair had been loosened from her plaits and fell in waves over her breast. Her face was half hidden, cradled on her bare arm and, judging by the steady rise and fall of her ribs beneath the milky skin, she was sleeping soundly.

  Mildryth was so dumbfounded she could scarcely take in the scene. She stood swaying back and forth on her heels until at last a single word forced its way from her mouth.

  ‘Beornwyn!’

  The girl gave a slight wriggle and sleepily opened her eyes. For a moment she stared up at Mildryth, almost lazily as if she thought she was someone else. Then she gave a stifled cry of recognition and sat upright.

  ‘I . . . I gave orders I was on no account to be disturbed. How dare you follow me here?’ She scrambled to her feet, her face flushed.

  ‘The wind . . . it was strong . . . a storm’s coming,’ Mildryth said. ‘When you hadn’t returned I feared you were lying hurt somewhere.’

  Slowly, slowly the meaning of what she was seeing was beginning to take form in her mind. ‘I thought . . . I thought every night you’d been coming here to pray. You told me you were keeping vigil, praying that you might remain a virgin of Christ. But you’re not praying . . .’

  She stared at the two beakers arranged beside the flagon, at the meats, at the naked breasts of her mistress. ‘You’ve been with someone. Who? Who have you been meeting here?’

  Beornwyn came towards her, her chin lifted. ‘I don’t have to explain myself to you, a bondmaid. What business is it of yours who I meet?’

  ‘But you want to be a nun, that’s all you’ve ever wanted. You told me. You told me you didn’t want to be married to Aethelbald. It’s all been a lie!’ Mildryth wailed.

  ‘I can assure you, it most certainly is the truth that I don’t want to marry that snake Aethelbald, because . . . because I am in love with another. There, does that satisfy you?’

  ‘Who? Who are you in love with?’ Mildryth demanded furiously. ‘You are sworn to Christ!’

  Beornwyn hesitated. She had the grace to look a little abashed, but the expression stayed on her face only for a moment before she lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Cynwulf, son of the thane Oswy. He is the man I love. I cannot help myself.’

  ‘But his father is the man your father branded a traitor and coward.’

  Beornwyn nodded. ‘Now do you see why I must meet him in secret? Do you really think my father would accept Cynwulf as a son-in-law? What else could I do? I have to be with him. I cannot give him up.’

  Mildryth took a pace back, holding her hands up in front of her as if she were trying to push the knowledge away. ‘All this time I thought you were preparing to be a nun, all this time I thought you were so holy . . . and you’ve been meeting him . . . no, not just meeting him, you’ve been sleeping with him in this very church. I thought you were a virgin, but you’re nothing but a fornicator, a sinner, wicked, wicked—’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ Beornwyn stepped swiftly forward and slapped Mildryth hard across the cheek. ‘I love Cynwulf. I have always loved him and I will always be faithful to him, as if I was his true wife, which I am in all things but name.’

  ‘No!’ Mildryth sobbed. ‘You promised that we would be together in the abbey. You promised to take me with you . . .’

  Beornwyn put both hands on her shoulders and pushed her hard. ‘Get out. Go now! And if you dare breathe one word of this to anyone I will have you sold to the next slave-ma
ster who passes through the village. When you are entertaining a boatload of sailors then you’ll understand the meaning of fornication!’

  Beornwyn turned away and moved gracefully up the church towards the wolfskin lying before the altar. In the soft candlelight the smooth muscles of her bare back undulated beneath her skin as she walked away.

  ‘She’ll have grown tired of waiting and gone by now,’ Cynwulf said angrily, as he and his brother, Wulfred, led their horses up the rise towards the church.

  ‘It’s not my fault my horse got a stone in its shoe. Besides, it’s hardly likely she’d come all the way up here on such a night. Only a madman would venture out when he could be sitting by his own fire with a flagon of mead inside him. I don’t know why I let you drag me out here.’

  ‘Because I’m your little brother and you swore to look out for me,’ Cynwulf said.

  Although it was too dark to see the expression on his brother’s face, Wulfred knew this last remark was said with a disarming smile which, ever since he’d been a little boy, had been enough to turn away the wrath of any elder, no matter what mischief Cynwulf had been up to.

  When Wulfred had discovered what trouble his little brother was embroiled in this time, he’d tried in vain to talk him into giving up the girl. When Cynwulf stubbornly refused, he would gladly have left the young fool to take the consequences, or so he tried to convince himself. But with the Viking raids and the rumour that the old dragon Badanoth had redoubled the guards, someone had to watch the boy’s back. And ever since the young cub had been able to haul himself to his feet, it had always been Wulfred who’d had to make sure he didn’t fall down again.

  Wulfred clutched his mantle tightly about him against the wind, which threatened to drag it off. He tugged impatiently on the rein of his horse, urging the beast up the last steep rise.

  ‘Why couldn’t you have fallen for some girl of our own clan? Christ knows, you only have to glance at a girl for her to throw herself at you. You’re not exactly lacking in choice.’