by Jayne Castel
Chapter Six
Innocence Lost
Ecgfrith left Aelfwyn’s alcove shortly before dawn.
She lay still as he slipped from the furs. He fastened his breeches and crawled out of the alcove, the hanging falling softly behind him. Scarcely breathing, Aelfwyn listened to the padding of his bare feet as he returned to his quarters next door. Around them, the Great Hall slumbered—oblivious to what had transpired just feet away overnight.
Not that any of them could have done anything to prevent it—even if they had cared. Ecgfrith was the king, and his word was law.
When Aelfwyn was sure the king had indeed returned to his quarters, she finally stirred. She gingerly sat up, wincing at the burning between her thighs, and reached for her clothing. She had worn a light shift to bed, as she usually did in case she had to venture outdoors to use the privy, but Ecgfrith had ripped it off her.
Shivering, Aelfwyn fumbled in the darkness before locating a linen under-tunic and a woolen over-dress. She pulled them on; her breathing coming in short, ragged bursts. Then she pulled on her rabbit-skin boots and the fur cloak her father had gifted her.
Finally dressed, Aelfwyn crawled to the edge of her alcove. She slipped out onto the narrow platform that ran around the edge of the hall. A carpet of slumbering bodies stretched across the floor—it was still early, dawn had not yet broken.
Aelfwyn skirted the perimeter of the space, past the guttering cressets at the entrance, and into the entranceway with corridors leading off it to the storerooms. She did not tarry here either; instead she made her way outside into the stable yard beyond.
Every step was agony. It hurt to move, to breathe—to think. She felt as if she was somehow outside her body, looking down on the small, hunched, cloaked figure that hobbled across the shadowed yard.
The sky was beginning to lighten in the east. A warm wind tore at her cloak, and she pulled up her hood to shield herself from it. The high gate was closed, but one of the warriors guarding let her through when she mumbled an excuse about needing to visit a healer.
Only she no such intention.
Free of the inner palisade, she walked, wincing with every step, down the King’s Way toward the low gate. She knew the gate would not open before dawn but she wanted to be there when it did. The wind pushed against her, whipping tendrils of hair in her face. Her braids had come loose during the night, and her hair was in disarray underneath her hood.
Before the gates a crowd of folk had gathered: merchants and farmers keen to be off at first light. Aelfwyn joined them, standing on the edge of the group. A few curious looks flicked her way but she ignored them; instead keeping her gaze fixed upon the roughly cobbled ground beneath her feet. Let them stare—she cared not.
Eventually the gates creaked open. The jostling crowd poured through. Aelfwyn followed them down the pebbly causeway to the road below. At the bottom, instead of following the others, she veered east onto the reed-covered dunes. The sun was rising over the sea, a glowing coal that turned the indigo sky deep blue.
Aelfwyn slid and stumbled down the dunes, whimpering under her breath as she moved, to the stretch of sandy beach at the bottom. The tide was high, and the wind had whipped the North Sea into a fury.
Huge waves crashed upon the shore, creating a briny spindrift that misted over the beach. Crying softly, Aelfwyn stumbled toward the churning surf. She wished she could erase the previous night from her memory, obliterate it forever.
Ecgfrith had used her repeatedly. He had taken her maidenhead without a shred of gentleness, his hands squeezing and pummeling her body as he ground into her. All the while, he had kept a hand clamped hard over Aelfwyn’s mouth, almost suffocating her.
She had thought she was going to die.
Aelfwyn had fought him initially but then terror and pain had taken over, paralyzing her. After that she had lain prone and unmoving—corpse-like—as he had done what he wanted with her for the rest of the night.
Now all she wanted was to remove any trace of him from her body. To wash herself clean, to erase the bruises his rough hands had left. To scrub away the blood that was drying on her thighs and the seed he had spilled inside her.
Aelfwyn choked back a sob. He had broken her from the inside out, shattered her happiness and soiled her innocence. Nothing mattered anymore.
The instinct that had driven her from her bed and out of Bebbanburg ebbed. The numbness seeped away leaving agony in its place. She bent double as it hit her like a punch in the belly.
Regaining control, Aelfwyn eventually straightened up, tears streaming down her face. She unfastened her fur cloak, letting it fall onto the wet sand, and kicked off her boots. Then she stumbled forward into the foaming sea.
Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries mocking her. Her mistress had been right; there was nothing fair about the world of men. She had been a fool to believe so.
The waves crashed against her, nearly knocking Aelfwyn off her feet. Somehow, she managed to stay upright and plow on. The chill of the water made her gasp but did it not lessen her resolve. She had to get free of Ecgfrith, to cleanse herself of him.
The sea would embrace her.
Chapter Seven
The Girl on the Shore
Deorwine struggled to keep pace with his friend’s long stride, his cheeks pink from the wind that buffeted the island. “We should go back, Leo. We’ll be late for None.”
Leofric cast him an irritated look. “We’re not far away from the monastery. We’ll hear the bell ring for prayers.”
“But if you’re late again—”
“For the love of Christ, Deorwine will you stop nagging.”
Deorwine’s face hardened. “If the prior hears you speaking like that, he’ll wash your mouth out with lye.”
The two young men walked along the southern edge of the island, past Pilgrims’ Way—the tidal pathway that linked it with the mainland. It was mid-afternoon, and the tide was rising fast. Leofric looked out across the swirling water and marveled at how just how quickly the tide came in here. When they had emerged from the monastery a short while earlier, there had been nothing but an expanse of glittering sand and mud.
When Leofric made his escape from this place, he would have to time it carefully.
Even the threat of death at the hands of Godwine of Eoforwic was not enough to keep him on Lindisfarena. Leofric would leave here and travel far away to a place the ealdorman would never find him. If he got desperate, he could always venture up into the wilds of Pictland or to the Kingdom of the Franks across the sea, south of Britannia.
Wherever he ultimately went, one thing was certain: his days upon this foul rock were numbered.
Leofric planned to take a walk along this path often, at different times of day, so that he could track the ebb and flow of the tides. It appeared the mornings and evenings were the safest times to cross to the mainland, although he needed to watch the tides for another couple of days to be sure.
Of course he had not shared his plans with Deorwine—and nor would he. They had become as close as brothers of late, but he knew his friend would try to stop him, or would go to the prior.
Leofric took in his surroundings: the rough track, worn smooth by monks’ feet; and the windswept hill studded with a few stunted trees that rose to his right, blocking his view of the sea to the north. Then his gaze shifted south out across the water to the outline of the great rock of Bebbanburg in the distance. He could see the palisades outlined against the pale sky, smoke drifting up from the roof of the Great Tower rising above it. The fortress fascinated Leofric; he wondered what it was like up close.
Deorwine suddenly stopped, catching hold of Leofric’s sleeve. “There’s something up ahead—look!”
Leofric reluctantly turned away from Bebbanburg and looked north, up the shore to where Deorwine was pointing. His friend was right, it was still some way off and at first looked like a rumpled pile of sacking laying upon the smooth sand. However, as he stared at it, Leofric realized
that it was not sacking at all.
It looks like … a body.
Without uttering a word, he set off at a run down the narrow track with Deorwine close at his heels. The nearer he got, the surer he became that a corpse had washed up on the beach. He saw a glimmer of pale blonde hair. The figure was small and laying face down on the sand. At first he thought it was a child, but as he drew closer he changed his mind. The figure, although small, had too many curves to be that of a child.
Behind him, he heard Deorwine mutter a prayer, for he too had realized what had washed up on the shore: a young woman.
Leofric reached the prone figure and knelt at her side. The girl lay above the rising water, and Leofric wondered if she had been all morning, since the last high tide. She wore a sodden woolen dress, which had tangled around her slim legs, and her feet were bare. Her hair, the color of sea-foam, was plastered against her skull.
Deorwine crouched next to Leofric, his sensitive face creased in concern. “Is she dead?”
“I don’t know—help me roll her over.”
Together, they shifted the girl over onto her back. Her eyes were closed, and her skin chalk-white. For a moment Leofric feared the worst. Then he leaned over her, placing his cheek just above her nose and slightly parted lips—and felt her breath feather against his skin.
“She’s alive!”
Deorwine gasped. “She is?”
“Aye,” Leofric murmured, “although she won’t keep breathing for much longer if we don’t get her inside and warm. Help me carry her.”
Deorwine rose to his feet, his expression perturbed. “Shouldn’t we go and get help instead. We shouldn’t really touch a woman … we’re monks.”
“Not yet, we’re not,” Leofric reminded him, “and the prior won’t think highly of a postulant who lets a woman die on the shore because he was loath to touch her.”
That settled it. Deorwine lived in fear of disappointing Father Cuthbert. Reluctantly Deorwine stepped forward and took hold of the girl by the calves, while Leofric lifted her by her shoulders. Together, they turned and started back along the path toward the monastery.
Although she was small, the girl was a dead weight in their arms, and both men were out of breath by the time they reached the final incline to the complex. As they struggled up the hill, the bell for None—afternoon prayers—sounded; a hollow clanging that echoed across the island.
“We’ll be late!” Deorwine sounded panicked and for a moment, Leofric thought his friend was going to drop the girl and flee; such was his terror of tardiness. However, Deorwine merely hurried his pace, jogging up the last stretch to the first of the buildings.
“Where should we put the girl?” Deorwine panted. “Should we take her straight to Cuthbert?”
“Not yet,” Leofric replied. “One of the store huts isn’t being used at the moment—we’ll put her in there.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue with me, you’ll only make us later.”
They carried the girl into the store hut, a small, ramshackle building on the edge of the complex. The air smelled of barley and onions, the last things to be stored in here. Leofric laid the girl down on some sacking. There was no time for anything else at present. Still, he hesitated—Leofric did not like to leave her here alone when she was clearly in need of help.
Despite his concern, Leofric found himself silently admiring her. The girl was lovely. She had a sweet, heart-shaped face; full and beautifully molded lips—and although he could not see her eyes, her dark blonde eyelashes lay against her smooth skin like butterfly wings. His gaze traveled down her body then, appreciating the lush swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, and curve of her hips—made evident due to the wet wool of her clothing that clung to her like a second skin.
Nothing the direction of Leofric’s gaze, Deorwine scowled at him. He shoved Leofric toward the door. “Enough. We’d better get to prayers.”
They hurried across the deserted yard toward the church; all the other monks were already inside and the low chant of male voices reached them as they neared the entrance. They were just about to go in when Leofric pulled Deorwine up short.
“Don’t say anything to Cuthbert for now,” Leofric warned his friend.
Deorwine’s eyes grew huge. “We can’t hide this from him!”
Leofric set his jaw stubbornly and pinned Deorwine with a hard stare. “Yes we can. Best not to bother the prior. Don’t worry—I’ll take full responsibility for it.”
Deorwine stared at him a moment before reluctantly nodding. “I’ll do what you say for now—but I think you’re being a fool.”
Leofric grinned at him. “That’s never stopped me before.”
“Late again?” The disappointment in the prior’s voice made Leofric cringe inside.
He and Deorwine stood before Cuthbert in the empty church. The None prayers had ended and the other monks had returned to their chores.
Cuthbert’s gaze shifted to Deorwine and his pursed mouth puckered further. “Only this time you are not alone.”
“It’s not Brother Deorwine’s fault,” Leofric interjected. “I insisted we take a walk along the shore after our chores. He didn’t want to go far but I told him we could easily get back to the church for prayers … I was wrong.”
Cuthbert’s gaze shifted to Leofric, his expression hardening. “At least you no longer bother with insincere apologies.”
Next to Leofric, Deorwine blanched at the prior’s censure. “I … I am sorry—”
“Quiet.” The force of Cuthbert’s command choked off whatever Deorwine was about to say next. “You are too easily led, Brother Deorwine. You must not let Leofric tempt you from the path of piety, diligence, and obedience.”
Deorwine bowed his head in wordless apology while Leofric silently bristled at these words. Christ, the prior can be a sanctimonious prick.
As if reading his mind, Cuthbert’s gaze snapped back to him, his face suddenly hawkish.
“Tomorrow, you will both spend all morning and all afternoon in silent prayer at my side.”
Leofric nodded although he was silently fuming at the command. “Yes, Father.”
Outside, Leofric stalked across the yard, ignoring the stare of one of the monks who was scattering grains for fowl. The frequency with which Leofric got into trouble provided the only excitement to the monastery’s endless routine. He had begun to realize that many of the younger monks were in awe of him—something Leofric found disconcerting. He had never attracted so much attention in his life.
“We should have told the prior about the girl,” Deorwine hissed in Leofric’s ear as they made their way toward the store huts. “He’ll banish us both if he finds out.”
“Of course he won’t,” Leofric replied, gently elbowing his friend. “You worry too much.”
Deorwine’s answering frown spoke volumes. Sometimes it was hard to reconcile that they were both the same age—Deorwine often acted like a boring older brother. “And you don’t worry nearly enough.”
They were now out of earshot of the monks who worked in the monastery’s central yard. However, they still needed to be careful for there would be flapping ears—Cuthbert’s spies—everywhere.
Leofric stopped and turned to Deorwine, lowering his voice further. “Go to the kitchens and get yourself a cup of broth and piece of bread while I see if I can find some blankets and a dry robe for the girl.”
Deorwine blanched. “But it’s not yet supper; the brothers on kitchen duty won’t give me any food.”
Leofric’s gaze narrowed. “Tell them the prior asked for it, tell them whatever you must to get the food. She’ll die without it.”
Not waiting for his friend to make another feeble excuse, Leofric turned on his heel and stalked off to find some blankets.
Chapter Eight
Alive
Aelfwyn awoke to the feel of coarse cloth against her skin and the musty smell of grain and onions filling her nostrils. A heartbeat later, she realized that s
he ached all over and that her temples pounded cruelly.
She groaned, wondering if she was awaking from a fever. For a merciful moment, she did not remember anything—but then it all rushed back.
Ecgfrith on top of her, hurting her, smothering her.
The numbness.
The agony.
Running into the churning sea to escape it.
Her eyes snapped open, and she found herself staring at two young men, roughly her own age. They crouched in front of her, watching her intently. Fear spiraled up from Aelfwyn’s gut. Her recent ordeal made being alone with two men feel as if she had awoken into some living nightmare.
She was just about to let out an unearthly scream when she noticed that the men wore brown home-spun robes. Both men were handsome, with close-cropped hair—not a style that most men favored—one blond, the other red-haired. Aelfwyn realized they must be monks.
Her terror subsided; surely monks would not harm her?
Aelfwyn’s gaze shifted to her surroundings. She lay propped up against a pile of sacking in a dimly lit building that smelled like a store house. A small earthen cresset burned on one of the empty wooden shelves lining the cramped space, casting the store in pale, flickering gold.
The redhead, the most striking of the two monks, favored her with a slightly lopsided smile that made a dimple form on his left cheek. “Good to see you’re awake. We were beginning to worry.” He handed her a wooden cup. “Here—it’s just broth but it will do you good.”
Aelfwyn nodded mutely, taking the cup with trembling hands. Her throat was raw from swallowing salt water, and her tongue felt swollen and dry. She sipped gratefully, nearly whimpering in relief as the hot liquid, tasting of onions, carrots and mutton bones, slid down her burning throat.
