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Sixth century Lady Mildryth is called to attend a stranger’s imprisonment in the lock-up and has memories of the 20th century
535 AD
Aelfric was quickly at her side, and the guard held the flaming torch even higher, up towards the roof.
“Take care!” she snapped. “We do not want to set fire to the building.”
“My lady, the prisoner seemed familiar to you?” Aelfric’s voice was unsteady.
Mildryth looked across the lock-up to the creature who stood there against the wall. His eyes bore into her soul. Was that a plea? Or a sneer?
“I have never seen this man before,” said Mildryth, but behind her back, her fingers were crossed against the lie…
Mildryth slowly uncrossed her fingers behind her back and brought them to clasp in front of her kirtle. Yes, she knew this man. But she also knew that she could never tell anyone how and where she knew him. Nor indeed, that she knew him. And yet knew him she did. She hardly understood it herself. Those times when she seemed to be someone else, no longer herself, for those brief moments of time. His clothes then had not been filthy and torn as his tunic was now, although they were strange to her eyes. His hair and beard were not matted and his skin not red and sore. In truth, he had seemed to her like a god, something unworldly – no, more out of this world.
But what was she to do with him now? He looked a poor and pitiful creature, cowering there against the damp mud walls of the lock-up. No longer the strong muscular warrior of her dreams, those visions of a mysterious place, a hall so bright and filled with light and manuscripts … dear lord, those manuscripts, she had never seen so many before. Piled up, stacked above each other on wooden planks as high as the roof. And that table laden with parchments as thin as a goat’s whisker …
She could not share that place with anyone else. Nor that person she had for a short moment become. Who was she, that other person?
His hard eyes softened as she looked across at him, pleading with her. He did not need to speak the words; his eyes spoke for him. And yet he struggled, pushing himself away from the wall to stand tall before her. And in that moment she remembered more. She remembered those eyes flashing hard, angry, and unyielding one moment, a warrior true, a thegn, making her heart quiver with fear. But the next, gentle and tender, smiling for her alone it seemed, making her heart strain against the bonds of her heritage, her restraint. So, which one was he truly? The devil or the lover? Who was he really?
“Cūning,” he murmured again, hesitantly, peering across at her, “Mil …dryth.” And she did not know whether he was savouring her name slowly on his tongue, or whether he was trying it out for the first time.
So, had the gods sent him to her like this? And for what purpose? In this place this time; her own village. His eyes bore into her as if he saw into her soul.
What happened to you? Her soul silently appealed to him. But of course there was no answer.
She could not share him with anyone else. She must take him into her protection. If only to prevent him from speaking to anyone else. For how could she explain it all? This bending of time itself.
“Aelfric,” she said sharply as she turned to her ceorl. “See to this man. Have him cleaned and dressed in thegns’ clothes.”
“Thegns’ clothes, my lady?”
“Indeed. You heard me.”
“But … but my lady … he is a prisoner!”
“Aelfric, you said yourself that he came dressed like a warrior thegn. We agreed that he might be a Saxon. We do not wish to anger the Saxons nor cause them any opportunity to seek revenge for so little. We are Angeln and proud, but we are also prudent. We will pick our battles when they can be fruitful. When he is ready, bring him to my hall.”
She felt a tug on her mantle and swivelled round to see Edythflaed, pale-faced and trembling, cowering behind her. “My lady, does he have the plague?”
Mildryth swiped her maid’s hand from her kirtle. “I believe he does not. There is no sign of fever nor swelling nor coughing of phlegm, as far as I can see in this dim light. What say you, Aelfric?”
“No, my lady,” he conceded hesitantly, “I see no signs. I have examined him after the sickness-ceorl gave me the nod – although I feared to touch him or be too close in case of pestilence. But there was nothing upon him when the serf took his travelling clothes and burned them to make certain, and I saw his naked flesh. Yet we surely must still take care. He may have been touched by it on his journey – or before – how can we tell? I have heard that some may carry it without bearing outward signs. We must trust no man from outside our region.”
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THANK YOU!
Thanks so much for hosting Julia Ibbotson today, with an enticing excerpt and such a lovely review of her fabulous new novel, Daughter of Mercia.
ReplyDeleteTake care,
Cathie xx
The Coffee Pot Book Club
Thank you for featuring my book today. Much appreciated.
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