The False Virgin (2 page)

Of course, Mildryth knew that all men exaggerate the strength of the enemy, especially when they’ve been defeated, but she had spoken to enough travellers who had seen the horribly
mutilated bodies and smoking ruins of abbeys and villages to shudder whenever she heard the name.

She glanced up again at the long table where Badanoth was growling orders for the daily training of all the men, more watches to be posted along the coast, additional traps to be dug and new
weapons forged. The thanes and freeborn ceorls around him looked sulky and resentful, as well they might. Trying to wrest a living from the land and sea was hard enough without squandering precious
daylight hours on this.

The women shook their heads at the folly of all men. Mildryth knew many privately thought that thane Oswy had chosen the wiser path. Bury the valuables and take the families to safety. Wattle
and daub houses could quickly be rebuilt, even a church could be replaced, not so people. Though Christ promised the resurrection of the dead, there were few who were so eager to reach Heaven they
wanted to be sent there in pieces, hacked down by a Viking axe.

Beornwyn, with a glance over at her father, who was deep in discussion with the men around him, rose gracefully and weaved her way through the women towards the door at the far end of the hall.
Mildryth followed her. She was grateful for this growing rift between Beornwyn and her father. It meant that the girl was more determined than ever to enter the religious life as Mildryth had long
prayed that she would.

Outside, the evening air felt chill in contrast to the hot smoky fug of the hall. The roasting pit in the clearing in front of the cluster of long houses glowed a deep garnet red. Two sweating
men, stripped to the waist, were turning a spitted sheep over the fire, while a third basted it with a long iron ladle. They barely glanced up as Mildryth hurried by.

Ahead of her, she saw Beornwyn entering the small house that her father had reluctantly granted her after the death of her mother. The bondmaid followed swiftly, closing the door behind her. Her
young mistress was already kneeling before the wooden cross set upon one of the stout chests that lined the single room. Beornwyn’s dwelling was plain and simple compared to the great mead
hall. There was no gold leaf on the wooden carvings round the door. There were no tapestries hanging from the walls, no hunting trophies or weapons arranged above the simple bed, just plain white
lime-washed walls and a fire pit in the centre of the floor. In fact, it was no grander than any of the humble ceorls’ houses round about, save for the fact that, unlike their crowded homes,
only she and her bondmaid occupied this one.

Mildryth sank quietly to her knees, praying, as she imagined Beornwyn was doing, for Christ and His saints to turn back the longships or hide Lythe in such a thick sea fret that the Vikings
would never see the little church of St Oswald’s perched high on the cliffs, and sail on by. She felt a little guilty at this last petition, as if she were sending the sea-wolves to murder
others instead, but Christ would surely spare their village, if for no other reason than Beornwyn.

Mildryth opened her eyes and gazed in undisguised adoration at the beautiful face tilted up in rapture at the cross. Her mistress’s long elegant hands were lifted to heaven. Her green
tunic and girdle were draped in graceful folds, accentuating the rounded breasts and narrow waist. Her flaxen hair was covered by a white veil, held in place by a circlet of bronze engraved with
scenes from the life of St Oswald.

If Mildryth was being completely honest, Beornwyn’s hair was more a mousy brown than flaxen, but her mistress was so seldom seen without her veil, even in private, that her bondmaid always
imagined her hair to be fairer than it was. Besides, no matter what the colour, each day her mistress grew more like the Blessed Virgin Mary herself. And that holiness infused every feature with a
heavenly radiance for those who had the eyes of faith to see it, which Mildryth did.

Beornwyn, with a final gracious bow of her head, finished her prayers and Mildryth scrambled to her feet to help her rise. Beornwyn had evidently been so absorbed in her devotions she had not
heard Mildryth enter, for she looked surprised to find her bondmaid close to her. She smiled her thanks and sank down on the bed.

‘You look troubled, my lady.’ Mildryth kneeled to remove her shoes, but her mistress gently pushed her hand away.

‘No, fetch me your mantle. I shall need it again tonight.’

Mildryth’s brow furrowed in concern. ‘Please, my lady, don’t go again tonight. You must rest. You’ve had no sleep these past three nights. You’ll fall
sick.’

Her mistress gave a fragile smile and patted the young girl on her cheek. ‘Our Blessed Lord will sustain me. I must go to the church to spend the night in vigil. After the news the
messenger brought today, it’s more important than ever that I offer my prayers.’

Mildryth gnawed her lip. ‘They say many churches and abbeys have been attacked and the monks and nuns slaughtered. I know that the villagers are sinful, but priests . . . nuns . . . they
pray all the time. Why doesn’t Christ protect them?’

‘They don’t pray for protection. They pray that they might be taken to be with Christ and He grants them their desire because of their faith.’ Beornwyn cupped the kneeling
maid’s chin, raising her face so their eyes met. ‘Have courage. Why should we fear death, knowing that it is but a gateway to the eternal bliss of Heaven?’

Mildryth tried hard to match her steady gaze, but even the prospect of Heaven did not take away the fear of the agony she might have to endure first. She’d heard that it took some people
hours or even days to die of the terrible wounds the Vikings inflicted, and suppose she was taken as their slave – what might she have to endure then? An icy sweat crawled down her skin.
‘Is that what you pray for, my lady – death?’

Beornwyn rose and crossed to the fire pit, spreading her hands over the glowing embers.

‘I pray that my father will allow me to remain a virgin, dedicated to Christ.’

Her bondmaid stared aghast at her. ‘But Badanoth has already agreed to that. It is settled! You are to be abbess when the old abbey is rebuilt. They’ve started digging out the
foundations of the old ruins. You could be installed as early as next year, at least in name.’

Beornwyn grunted. ‘I went to the ruins this morning. The work had already stopped, even before the messenger arrived. My father says all the wood and stone will be needed for defences and
he cannot spare a single man or boy to build abbeys when we could be attacked at any time.’

‘But the longboats don’t come in winter. When the days grow shorter, he’ll surely start to build again,’ the bondmaid said anxiously.

Beornwyn shook her head. ‘When the storms are too rough for the sea-wolves to come, then it’s too wet and windy for any men to dig foundations or erect buildings.

Both warriors and abbesses need fine weather.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Besides, it may be too late by then. If my father fears thanes such as Oswy are failing him, he’ll seek to
make alliances with other nobles to defend the coast. That will make him more determined than ever to use me as a peace-weaver, to marry me off to that vicious snake Aethelbald.’

She turned. The expression in her eyes was one of fear, like a deer surrounded by baying hounds. ‘Pray for me, Mildryth. Pray that they will not marry me to that loathsome man.’

Mildryth understood her fear only too well, for her own fate, if Beornwyn married, would be far worse than her mistress’s. A bondmaid would never be used as a peace-weaver, but Mildryth
had been sold into bondage as soon as she was old enough to pick up kindling sticks, and knew she could be sold again or bestowed as a gift, like any cow or goat, to work or to be mated with any
drooling old lecher, as her new master pleased.

‘Your father would never force you into marriage. He knows you’ve given yourself as a bride to Christ. He wouldn’t dare take you from God and give you into the bed of
another.’ Mildryth wanted desperately to reassure her mistress and, not least, to convince herself. ‘I’m always telling those close to him of all the virtuous deeds you perform
for the Church. They all know you for a saint. They’d speak out against it.’

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.