She was aware of Sigrun’s arms slipping about her waist and that she had been lost in a reverie for too long.
‘Poor Aelfhild, you must have nearly died with terror. I know I would have done in your place.’ Sigrun’s blue eyes were full of distress. She, no doubt, would have fainted and drowned.
Aelfhild shook her head thoughtfully. She had been scared at first but that had given way to fury as he had laughed at her. She’d wanted to fight him, not run, to be one of the women of legend who drove attackers from her home, a shieldmaiden like the traders who came to York laughed about as they boasted how they would best and bed such women.
If Aelfhild were such a woman no one would easily bed her without her consent! She remembered the flush of satisfaction as the Norman had wiped away the blood she had drawn, but that thought turned to sorrow. She twisted to look at Sigrun. Tears filled her eyes as she admitted what she had done.
‘I lost the brooch Torwald gave me before he left to join the rebellion in York.’
Sigrun’s mouth twisted and she pulled Aelfhild closer. The two women embraced silently. They both grieved for Sigrun’s brother, but for different reasons: Sigrun with the natural sorrow anyone would feel at her brother’s death and Aelfhild for the additional loss of the first man who had touched her heart. The difference in their status meant he would never have married her, she was realistic enough to understand that, but she had treasured the hours they spent together.
‘I’ll go back for it.’
Sigrun shook her head with a violence she rarely exhibited.
‘No! You mustn’t leave the priory again. You could have been killed, or worse! We’re safe here as my mother wanted. No one can touch us within these walls. No man.’
Sigrun’s voice was full of terror and her body convulsed. She had been in York itself when William’s army retaliated and had narrowly escaped rape. To her, sex was a thing of horror to be endured.
Aelfhild looked on with mingling pity and interest that something she craved could cause such a reaction in her friend. ‘I won’t, I promise.’
And there was the difference between them, Aelfhild mused as Sigrun continued the heroic task of de-knotting Aelfhild’s hair. Sigrun shrank from the idea of ever leaving the priory, whereas Aelfhild burned to escape even if it meant facing dangers such as she had encountered today.
If she ever left the safety of the priory she would have to learn to fight. She had been victorious today, but a scratch on the arm would not stop most men. She also suspected, from the way he pinned her to his body and lifted her from beneath the water with such ease, that if the man in the river had wanted to take her, she would have been powerless to prevent it.
She ground her teeth, hating the small flame between her legs that flickered disloyally into life at the memory of his hands on her. No man would take her in the manner the men of York had joked about heroes taking the warrior women of legend. The Normans had taken England, but no one would conquer her.
* * *
By the time the women made their way to the refectory for the early evening meal, Sigrun had recovered her composure and Aelfhild showed no signs that she had spent the day doing anything out of the ordinary.
They crossed the cloister side by side in a silent procession with the other inmates. The women ranged in age from their teens to their mid-forties. Some had chosen the life of the veil either through a sincere devotion or in preference to what life intended for them otherwise. Others like Aelfhild and Sigrun had been placed there by guardians to safeguard them. At least one to Aelfhild’s knowledge had arrived with a swelling belly and now wandered the cloisters red eyed, grieving for the child she had given up. No spoke of how they viewed their home. Only Sigrun knew that to Aelfhild the place was a prison rather than a sanctuary.
The bell tolled for the second time. The women quickened their pace. Hilde, the prioress, disliked lateness. She ran her establishment with an iron hand, perhaps hoping one day to be spoken of with the same reverence as her namesake at Whitby was.
Midreth, leading the procession, reached the heavy wooden door to the refectory and pushed it open. Instead of the oppressive silence that usually greeted them a male voice boomed out.
‘I have not travelled all this way to be thwarted at the last! I respectfully ask, again, that you bring her to my presence at once!’
Aelfhild reeled. Her limbs became water. The voice was unmistakable, the tone of exasperation equally familiar, the demand for her to be brought more dreadful than any other utterance she had heard. The Norman was here and he was looking for her.
How had he discovered where she was? More than that, why? The small injury she had caused him with her pin could not have been enough to warrant seeking her out to demand vengeance. Vomit rose in her throat. She should run. Leave the priory and hide somewhere where he could not mete out a punishment. Possible places to shelter filled her thoughts, but she knew as she thought it that such an idea was impossible.
Midreth turned and looked back at her companions in alarm. ‘What should we do?’
Seeing that she was not the only one startled by the unexpected male invasion of their female domain gave Aelfhild the courage she had briefly lacked, and her legs regained some of their solidity. Now she was furious that her first impulse had been to escape rather than to confront her adversary. She had been tested and found wanting.
Straightening her back, she slid a glance to Sigrun to see if she had noticed Aelfhild’s reaction, but she was whispering with the two novices and had seemingly not seen anything untoward in Aelfhild’s behaviour. No one had.
The prioress was replying to the visitor’s unsettling demand in her low, firm voice. Aelfhild couldn’t make out her words, but her tone was decisive.
‘We should go in,’ the woman standing behind Aelfhild whispered.
There were murmurs of agreement. Everyone apart from Aelfhild was curious to discover the owner of the voice.
‘Why hasn’t the message arrived? A letter bearing news of my arrival should have been sent a week ago!’ the Norman replied angrily. ‘Why are you not expecting me?’
Aelfhild’s shoulders sagged with relief and she almost laughed aloud. When they had met, he had mentioned that he was travelling. He was not here for her and their meeting had been coincidental. She would slip away and he would never know she was here at all. She turned to go, but Sigrun seized her arm and pulled her towards the doorway. Reluctantly Aelfhild followed.
The women crept into the refectory and made their way on silent feet to the back of the long, high-ceilinged room. The Norman was standing in front of the fire with Hilde. That he had succeeded in gaining entry this far into the building was notable in itself. Most visitors were admitted no further than the porch. Hilde protected her domain fiercely—an elderly, tiny woman whose size belied her strength of will and strength of arm. She came barely up to the Norman’s chest. Her head was tilted back, his forward as they stood face to face in a manner that reminded Aelfhild of pieces on a hnefatafl board. Which player would withdraw first was anyone’s guess.
Aelfhild bowed her head in what she hoped would pass as modesty and peeked out at him from under her veil. Three more novices whose turn it was that day to prepare the meals had been carrying food to the tables, but now gave up all pretence that they were ignoring the spectacle and joined Aelfhild’s group. Aelfhild followed the cluster and stood in the corner of the room behind the others, hoping to remain unnoticed.
‘I receive many messages. Until I know who you claim to be from, how should I know if you speak the truth?’ the prioress said calmly. ‘I most certainly will not release any woman from my care other than to the designated person.’
The Norman gave a cold laugh. He delved inside his cloak and brought out a leather pouch on a long cord. He tipped the contents into his left