The Medieval Murderers: The False Virgin

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.