The False Virgin (3 page)

‘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 out 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-master 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.’

‘You may as well ask a man why he won’t settle for copper when you’re dangling a bag of gold in front of him. Our girls are pretty enough, but next to Beornwyn, they’re
as plain and charmless as mules are compared to the finest horse.’

‘And have you told fair Beornwyn you think of her as a horse?’ Wulfred said drily. ‘I’m sure she’ll be most flattered.’

By way of reply Cynwulf swung himself down from his horse and punched his brother on his arm. ‘She’s a jewel, an angel, the fairest swan and the purest rose dropped from Heaven
itself. Satisfied? Now you wait here and keep watch. If that guard did recognise us, he might have summoned help and had us followed. So you make sure you keep awake.’

‘Not much chance of sleeping in this wind,’ Wulfred grumbled, as a distant rumble of thunder rolled through the darkness. ‘Be quick. I don’t want to be caught out in this
when the storm breaks.’

Wulfred settled himself with his back to the wall of the church, drawing his mantle over his face. He watched the track intently, though unless the guard was carrying a flaming torch, on a night
like this Wulfred would have been hard-pressed to spot anyone creeping up on them out of the writhing trees and bushes.

He had resigned himself to a long, cold wait, but he’d scarcely settled when he heard a shriek behind him, so loud it carried over the roar of the sea and wind. He sprang to his feet and
raced up towards the church, dragging his sword from its sheath as he ran. He was about to hurl himself at the door when Cynwulf came staggering through it and collapsed into his brother’s
arms.