CHAPTER FOUR

That jolt, that blinding flash of lightning, were these things meant to happen when one kissed a man for the first time? Her knees sagging too? As for the ground seeming to open up? Well, she had heard of such things of course. The girls talked about it often. She had just never thought to experience it for herself. Quite so extremely too. But perhaps she was special in some strange way? What was it Aunt Carter had said she was when Malice had rebelled about playing with the local children and still been told she couldn’t. Yes.

‘Gifted.’

Malice was less certain about what pinched her nose and choked her throat. Not so much the experiencing—Agnes, her scullery maid was incapable of boiling a kettle without burning it—but the acrid smell of burning timber was not something any of the girls had mentioned. She really thought they would have because she could hardly stop coughing and it was so distracting, her eyes watered. And why did so much screeching cut into her senses like a knife? Were there other women here? And was Cyril kissing them with his hungry lips? Somewhere, in the distance waves lapped.

She staggered, unable to see a thing for the tears blinding her vision.

“Hurry,” a voice said. A female voice. Cyril did have a woman in here with her. And, as if that was not bad enough, she was telling Malice to get on with things? When she was doing her level best? Well she was not having it. If he was not satisfied with Strictly’s services, he should have gone elsewhere. She forced one eye open and straightened, difficult when a flaming ball whizzed over her head.

“Quickly. Hurry . . . hurry! This way.”

She froze. Not just one woman. Several women. Every one of them ducking, striving to keep their footing in an unholy crimson glow that was as bright, as it was unexpected, except for the woman who had wrapped bony talons around Malice’s wrist. Every one of them dressed strangely, in baggy robes she marvelled they were able to run in. And not just run. What was that animal thing one held clutched to her enormous bosom? A sheep? What were all these women and a sheep doing in Cyril’s flat? Why, these women were even less his type than she was. He had never gone for nuns. And that was what they were, wasn’t it? Why wear sackcloth, these awful looking veils if they weren’t?

“The infirmary. Run, Sister! Are you so dazed you cannot hear? They are coming.”

Sister? Malice coughed, wiping her hand across her mouth. Just because she was also wearing a veil it did not make her a sister. She closed her fingers around the woman’s in a bid to remove them from her arm. Run? In these shoes? They would be ruined on this hard ground.

And if they were coming—whoever they were—weren’t they the lucky ones? She wasn’t anything . . . except . . . just possibly . . . . Oh God, wait a minute, she hadn’t just collapsed, hadn’t just died in Cyril’s arms. She’d just possibly gone straight to hell. Hell, where Aunt Carter always said she’d end up given all these lies she told. Malice’s throat dried, her breath retreating into the furthest corners of her lungs. And not just the lies. Look at all these marriages she’d wrecked.

Not just gone to hell either. Arrived in a puff of smoke, a lightning flash. It couldn’t be. Cyril couldn’t be gone. No. He’d done something. Hit her on the head or drugged her or something, because he knew she ran Strictly and wasn’t going to give him that divorce. Or she’d fainted, swooned with desire. Yes. That was it. Hell was just somewhere Aunt Carter liked to frighten her with. If she waited for a moment, she’d come to herself.

“Do not make me leave you here. Mother Bede will kill me, sister. Hurry!” Had Aunt Carter lied though, when her companion screeched like this in her throbbing ears? When acrid smoke reached hands down her throat and into her lungs, threatening to strangle the life from them? When she couldn’t see for the heat that stung her eyes like a thousand bees? Had she kissed Cyril and died? He wasn’t here, was he? Not in so far as she could tell. If he’d died he’d be sure to be. And he wasn’t. Was he weeping copious buckets over her corpse? Or, having ripped that veil off that same corpse’s face, dancing with joy that he didn’t need a divorce?

“Where?” The cough wracking her lungs almost ripped them apart. She tried peering through the thick grey cloud of smoke. “Where do you want me to go?”

“The infirmary. Quickly. Mother Bede says. She says we must all gather there to do what needs to be done. Our only choice now this day is here.”

What day? They had Judgement Day in hell? Aunt Carter had never said. Trying to mentally unclasp what fisted her lungs so she could stop coughing, Malice grasped her skirts. Maybe this was hell and maybe there was no choice, she didn’t want her dress drenched in this quagmire. As for the shoes, the lovely silver shoes with their pearl beading that had cost all these guineas? Tears stung her eyes.

“For the love of our Lord now. Hurry . . .”

What did the woman think she was doing? Standing like a statue for the good of her health? She tossed back her veil, not caring it flew off her head, landing in the mud. Why should she care about that when her shoes were not made for tramping fields and ditches. If she did not remove them they’d be ruined. The devil might be a gentleman. He might like these shoes for one of his . . . well, he was sure to have lady friends, wasn’t he? Maybe even for that matter, a marriage that needed wrecking? A pity her reticule had fallen on Cyril’s floor. She could have offered him a Strictly card.

“I am hurrying.” She tried hopping on one foot. How on earth had she managed to get her feet in these shoes when they wouldn’t come off? “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

Obviously not although it was a valid question with fireballs whizzing about her ears, scorching the grass beside her toes.

Did the devil attack his own? Play games where they had to hide? Then, when he caught them he roasted them in a fiery pit? Or was this just a nightmare? A ghastly one she would wake up from in a moment to find herself on Cyril’s floor?

Malice peered down the grassy slope. At the foot a huddle of crude stone buildings nestled like fledglings around their mother, in this case, a squat construction with tufts of grass sprouting from the roof.

She could keep tugging the shoe but it might be better to forget about removing them and run. Any monster wreaking this kind of hell on his subjects was hardly likely to be interested in a pair of shoes.

“In here.” The woman waved her towards the open door. “Mother Bede has something to say to us all.”

“That’s good, because I have something to say to her.”

She did, didn’t she? And she would once she’d staggered down this slope through these giant, smoldering, grass clumps. Look at her shoes. Even as she grasped her skirt and lurched beneath the wooden lintel, she did. And what she saw brought tears to her eyes. Oh, this was a nightmare, wasn’t it? Her shoe, her beautiful silk shoe had lost its heel. How else could she be walking on the curve of the sole like this? And what was that filthy mess engulfing the toe? She wrinkled her nose. My God. Cow dung. On Madam Faro’s shoes.

And this place offered no solace. A musty smelling room, lit only by the most deficient fire hissing and spitting in the stone hearth, as if someone had already flung water on it to try and douse it. The tiny windows, not just shuttered but barred by wooden bolts. And crammed into every space around her, women all as badly dressed as the one who had waved her in here.

These details she gathered in a few seconds while looking round intently for a place to sit down and not just regain her breath, examine her shoes. They had cost her all of ten guineas. Suppose Lady Grace wanted that money back because Malice hadn’t kept her end of the bargain? And she was out of pocket for something that was ruined? The main detail she gathered had nothing to do with that though. The main detail was the scent that snaked beneath the low beamed roof, crept like a spider across the floor rushes. Fear.

Her throat constricted. This really wasn’t a dream, was it? And Cyril wouldn’t go to all this trouble to get rid of her either, would he? Unless he had forked out a veritable fortune. No. really. This was hell. It had to be. And any minute now the devil was going to burst through the door there, the one the sisters were going to such a trouble to bolt and bar.

“Sisters, sisters, listen. We must all be brave. No, no, Sister Aegathe, crying like that won’t help. Wailing neither, Sister Hildelith. There is only one thing we can do.”

Malice’s heart sunk lower. Aegathe? Hildelith? The names confirmed it. This was hell. Still, her own name should do very well here. At least she wouldn’t need to change it. Maybe it would even take a trick. Maybe the devil would make her a demoness.

“But Mother Bede, how will the good Lord recognize us on Judgement Day if we do this?” The cry, like the fear, wound a serpent’s path around the dank, dark walls.

“By our deeds and our chastity, good sister. Be assured. He will know each and every one.”

Malice fidgeted uncomfortably, feeling heat prickle along the nape of her neck. Deeds? And chastity? What a contradiction in terms. After all, Cyril had found out. Well? If this was hell, why would Mother Bede be talking in this way? No. Cyril knew all about the dirty operation she had run for years. And probably, because she wouldn’t cut him in on it, he wanted his revenge. Wanted his divorce too, that thing she had sworn not to give him. Ever. Well, she wouldn’t give him that divorce. As for chastity no-one was more chaste.

“But Mother Bede. Please—” Other voices cut in. A babble of them all squawking like parrots so Malice could barely determine a single word.

“Hush! The Vikings are upon us. Would you bring them here before we can do this? Ruin our only chance of salvation?”

The what?

“As it is they will fall upon us. Rape us good sisters, forever destroying our chastity. Making us unfit in the eyes of our Lord, so when Judgement Day is upon us, we will be cast down forever into the fiery pits of hell.”

Malice fought not to edge her gaze sideways but it went anyway. Vikings? She had heard of Vikings. Who hadn’t heard of Vikings? Just not in nineteenth century London. What were they doing here? Unless this wasn’t nineteenth century London?

A muffled sound escaped her, a disbelieving huff designed purely to reassure herself. That wasn’t possible. For a start if this was something like 897 AD, whatever AD, how on earth would she understand these women as well as she had? Wouldn’t they be speaking some kind of gibberish?

She would have to possess special powers for that. To be in another era at all, come to that. And if Cyril wasn’t here, well, that would mean she’d disappeared . . . a little like her mother had. She gulped—not the best idea when her blue diamante dress didn’t remotely resemble her companions and now those on either side fastened their gazes on her. The pores of her skin tightened. Feeling various pulses flicker in her throat, she dutifully fixed her eyes on Mother Bede in the hope of avoiding their sharp eyes. Tried to anyway.

Vikings though? Didn’t they do things like raping and pillaging? She was not about to be pillaged, was she?

Again her throat made a muffled sound. How interesting.

“So, we will do this.” Fortunately the determination that laced Mother Bede’s voice, meant everyone stared transfixed at her and allowed Malice to smooth her skirt and hair. “Take the knife as once we took the cloth. I will go first good sisters. One cut for my nose. One cut for my lips. I do it now. Willingly. Knowing I will be preserved in my purity for our dear Lord on Judgement Day.”

What? One cut for a nose? One cut for a mouth? Malice smothered another gulp. Did the woman have a very sad life or something? No, plainly not because the air wasn’t just brittle enough to snap, it squelched sufficiently to send Malice's gorge spinning up her ribcage as that life was made sadder still. Only with the greatest of difficulties did she hold onto the contents of her stomach.

“Sister.” The woman whose fault it was she was here, turned her dark eyes on her.

Quite why she persisted in calling Malice a sister when she wasn’t was beyond her, unless she was charitable that way. “We can do this. Let us do this together. I will not be afraid. Here. Take the knife.”

Malice stared at the blade glinting beneath her nose. What? Hack off her mouth and nose? What a horrible proposition. Of course she appreciated the Vikings were coming—they must be, for the women at the front of the crowd to gouge at their faces like that—but she would sooner swallow a crocodile, its Aunt Sally and its aged grandmother, plus its aged grandmother’s reticule. And all its contents.

An image drifted into her mind from an engraving she had seen in one of Aunt Carter’s library of books. A spot of pillage wouldn’t go amiss, would it, with a man as nicely formed as that—taut biceps, fair hair blowing about his chiseled face. If she did something silly, like hacking off her own face, he wouldn’t exactly find her very attractive. As it was she struggled to get men. Why make it harder? She shook her head.

“No. If you don’t mind . . .”

“Mind?” The woman nearly nicked the tip of Malice’s nose. “Take it. Sister, I cannot do this alone.”

Really? Well Malice couldn’t do it at all. A step backwards was in order, only her heel rested against something. Something . . . hard. Something . . . large. Someone’s toes. Her sole trod on them too.

“Viking!” The ragged shriek assaulted her ears. A Viking, like the one in the picture would be nice, only she had a horrible prescience there wasn’t one in here. That people somehow thought she was a Viking. Why hadn’t she at least paid lip-service to taking the knife? It was an awful lot better than being murdered.

“No.” She tried to squirm sideways. “I’m not. I’m a woman, just like you are.”

“Well, you don’t look like no woman I’ve ever seen.”

A beast of a woman, a woman who should have no fear whatsoever of any Viking touching her unless he was a blind Viking, breathed such rancid ale fumes over her, Malice thought she would collapse. Weren’t nuns from good families? This ox was rougher looking than an Irish navvy. As for her cheek in asserting Malice didn’t look like any woman she’d ever seen, how could she? What this behemoth must mainly have seen in mirrors was herself?

“Look at her dress, your Holy Mothership,” she cried, grabbing a handful of the sleeve.

Malice tried tweaking her bodice back into place. “That’s because I am not from here.” My God, these lies she’d learned to tell years ago stood her in good stead now. “Because I came here to escape the Vikings. Because I, like you—”

“She’s one of them!” “No, no, no.” Her lies even allowed her to smile—sort of anyway—as she tried edging away.

“A Viking.”

“Not at all. Just because I wear these clothes, it doesn’t make me one of them. Gracious, no, Mothership, I have come all the way from London. From the court of the king himself.” It seemed wise not to mention what king this was. “Yes, he has sent you a—”

“My arse!”

Blessing was what she’d been about to say, but now, at the centre of this jostling, shrieking mob, the blessing was she stood upright, with the hair still intact on her head.

“Gentle . . . Gentle . . .”

It was a waste of an exhortation. At least Mother Bede waded into the melee. At least she didn’t just stand there letting Malice be torn to shreds by this savage pack of wolves, baying and howling in her ears, dragging at her clothes, clogging her nostrils with their damp, peaty smell. Nuns? She had seen tamer pit bull terriers.

“Let her go, Gentle. I am ashamed of you. We cannot harm the king’s servant.”

“Oh. And how’s he going to know? Look around you. He ain’t here, is he? Hang her I say.”

“Gentle . . .” Malice’s heart skidded across several beats. Gentle? The woman bawling in Mother Bede’s face, fine spraying it with spittle too, was called Gentle? Amazing. Aunt Carter had assured her that people in olden times were named for their virtues. A practice Malice had thanked God had stopped. At least she’d hoped it had stopped. Very well, her own name probably was indicative of her. She just . . . didn’t want to admit it. How could anyone have saddled her with a name like that? And worse than that, now Gentle’s finger stabbed into her collarbone sending her staggering backwards, she’d given this rhinoceros the advantage by thinking about it.

“No, Mothership. If she’s who she says, then she’ll do the same as the rest of us. Won’t she, ladies?” Not content with almost killing her with her fingertip, Gentle won a chorus of ayes by bellowing. “That’s chop off her nose. Now. If she won’t, I’ll do it for her.”

Oh God, what was she going to do here? Bolt for the door and throw her lot in with the Vikings? Why hadn’t she at least made pretence of taking the knife? Covering her nose with her gown or something? It wasn’t as if any of this could be real.

“But, it may be she isn’t a sister, Gentle.” Mother Bede’s voice washed over her. “Would you have her disfigure herself to remain chaste?”

Malice shook her head fervently. “I have a husband.” It was true, wasn’t it? Even if that husband was Cyril and he wasn’t up to much.

Vikings? If indeed they were about, couldn’t they hurry up and save her from this?

“Then where is he?”

“Well—” A good question. One she hadn’t considered. She was the first to admit Cyril and the Vikings wouldn’t be a good idea. He’d be sure to offer them a drink and her knowledge of them was it was the worst thing to offer a Viking—short of offering them a woman anyway. But just suppose he was about? Was she meant to believe she was the only one blighted by the intensity of that kiss? That he wasn’t about somewhere? Again, her mother crept into her head. It had been very strange behaviour for someone on their death bed. And now, she came to think of it, there hadn’t actually been a funeral, more a sort of memory planted by Aunt Carter eventually. Suppose—oh God—it was a family thing?

“See! She don’t have no husband because she’s one of them. Liar! Liar!”

Malice’s throat constricted. Once again she was the object of ridicule, the unloved child, the freak other children called names, pointed at because she was that tiny bit different and the world she inhabited was one they didn’t understand.

She would rather face the Vikings than this. Only that wasn’t an option. As for Cyril, he wasn’t an option either, whether he was here, or not. Nor could he very well raise any alarm about her disappearance when he didn’t even know it was her in that bedroom? There was only one thing she could do with her back against the wall like this even if she’d sooner swallow a crocodile, its Aunt Sally, its aged grandmother and the aged grandmother’s Uncle Herbert. It would be a hideous disfigurement. What other choice did she have? If she didn’t they would kill her.

“Very well.” She extended her hand. “Give me that knife.”