The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘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 out of their way. They galloped off into the darkness, as the shouts of outrage behind were muffled by a distant rumble of thunder.