Godiva

by Nerys Jones

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  One

  A marsh mist had drifted in overnight and settled on the Sherbourne, clinging to the frayed riverbanks and tingeing the early morning air with a dank, sulphurous mustiness. Above the banks, low ridges of drier earth lay listless in the weak light of the breaking dawn, like drunks still debilitated by the excesses of the previous night. As a weak shaft of sunlight broke through the mist, the dawn chorus, excitedly feasting on sluggish worms, fell suddenly silent, as if resolving this day would repay no further effort. Only the horse-flies and wasps continued to rise through the brightening daylight in venomous, buzzing joy from the rubbish on the unpaved streets that led across town and up to the market place. There, at the summit of a low hill, two old churches and a new stone-built Benedictine priory jostled each other for holy precedence. In their midst stood the brightly painted town cross, whose tall outline and clear-cut shadow symbolized the harmony of the market as money changed hands below. Men, women and children swatted their foreheads, cursed and braced themselves for a morning of irritation and effort. The more forbearing raised their eyes, gazed at the churches and signed the cross in hope of an answer to a forgotten prayer. Then they too steeled themselves for the labours that lay ahead. A day that seemed like any other in that sullen summer of 1045 was getting under way in the new town of Coventry.

  Less than half a mile to the south, the lane that ran from the town took a sharp turn and led directly into the yard of the manor of Cheylesmore. A stranger arriving here might have taken this to be another country, far from Coventry, for there was nothing languid about the scene now taking place in the manor. In the centre of the yard a small, wizened woman in a long hemp apron stood on a mounting block beside the stable and issued a stream of commands to whoever came her way. Boys were sent off with long poles to fish the shallow rivers that threaded through the bogs that lay south of the manor; slaves were ordered to sweep the dung from the yard and fill the potholes and cart ruts with fresh clay and gravel; men from the hall were told to appraise the supplies for the coming night’s feast and report any shortages; and the women who cooked and served food were informed of the menu and the order in which their day’s work would unfold.

  Her instructions delivered, the old woman, Gwen – not really old, but work-worn and snappy, and therefore nicknamed ‘the corgi’ – trudged off towards the far end of the yard and the large wattle-and-daub hut where the sick and injured of the manor were sent to recuperate. With everyone now at work, she felt once more the emptiness that prevailed during the absence of the rulers of the household. It recalled the desolation of other houses she had known – set alight, overgrown and finally abandoned. She shuddered, then squeezed her eyes shut and sent up a sudden, informal prayer: please, Mary, bring Godiva home in good time this evening; protect Earl Lovric from all enemies and may the wounded be few tonight; please, Mary, bring my darling Alfgar home with his father, and let Milly marry and go away soon. Amen. Oh, and keep an eye on Harry, far away with Earl Siward. And may the rain stop and the cows get well. God help us and give us a good feast tonight and keep famine away this year. Mother Mary, pray for us sinners down here on this Earth. Amen again.

  By evening, their work done, the servants reassembled in the yard of the manor house. Men and women who rarely had time to worry about their appearance now fidgeted with belts and hoods, straightened their wrinkly hose and twisted skirts and tidied away loose wisps of hair. At last, having satisfied Gwen’s unsparing scrutiny, they straightened up and settled down to stare intently at the lane that led out through the manor’s entrance towards the town, the abbey and the low, rolling woodlands of Mercia.

  A prolonged moment of silence occupied the crowded yard until, hesitantly at first, a murmur started amongst those nearest the entrance, and then a loud cheer went up. Someone had spotted the small pennant that fluttered on the tip of the spear that the earl’s outrider carried above his head. Moments later the outrider came trotting into the yard and the crowd erupted in cries of welcome, so rowdy that his brightly caparisoned horse reared up and bared his teeth as if about to enter battle. The outrider let his stallion continue rearing, performing ‘the dance of the drums’ on his hind legs and impressing on the people of the manor the glory and strangeness of the world of warfare. Soon the herald arrived, displaying a banner emblazoned with the black eagle of the Earls of Mercia, hanging from a trumpet which the herald raised to his lips and blew repeatedly, making a harsh sound like the screech of a battlefield crow protecting its carrion. Brown war-dogs surged into the yard, baying, frothing and yelping, straining at the leashes and tugging their handlers. Next came the battle stallions, clattering over the stones at the yard’s entrance, snorting and whinnying as they recognized the scents of home.

  Tension mounted as the servants awaited the entrance of the housecarls – Earl Lovric’s nucleus of fully armed men who stayed at his side when his other soldiers became farmers again and decamped to their own villages. They could hear them approaching, their voices thundering a marching song that boasted of their courage in combat and the glory of their lord. As the singing grew louder the hall-master, Odo, picked up the refrain and everyone else joined in. The housecarls tramped into the manor yard with their blood-stained spears and battered shields at their sides, grim-faced men who kept up a stony front while their eyes searched the crowd for the one particular face that meant home. Some in the crowd searched too, wondering who would come limping in last, or arrive on a stretcher, and who would not be coming home at all this time. But most eyes followed the swinging stride of the housecarls’ captain, who flourished a tall pike on which was fixed the old trophy skull of a Viking, contemptuously crowned with his own battered helmet. As they came to a full stop before the line of servants, the herald produced his drum and began the tattoo that announced the ritual of homecoming.

  ‘Out,’ shouted the captain, pointing at the Viking skull. The housecarls pointed their spears at the skull and shouted in unison, ‘Out! Out! Out!’

  The servants then took up the shout, and the war-dogs, thrilled at the sound of so many throats in full cry like a pack of hounds, howled along with them. Some of the smaller children took fright and were hurried away, while older boys thought longingly of dropping their spades and taking up arms, and girls wondered whether they would ever see anything more distant than the parish church.

  Once things had settled down again, Odo and his hall-men rushed to clear the yard of dogs and horses, and the assembly of servants and soldiers regrouped to greet the last arrival in the yard. As always, the Earl of Mercia waited until there was silence before making his entrance. He rode in alone at a walking pace on the biggest stallion of all, his mailed gloves still on his hands, his shield and sword at his side, his ceremonial cape with its feathery black eagle about his shoulders, and his helmet pulled down over his face. All could now see what he looked like when he was away from the manor and carrying out his duties as a commander. He rode once round the circle of servants with his helmet closed, and then once more with his visor up, and then brought his horse to a halt. Slowly he unbuckled his helmet, rubbed his chin and dismounted.

  He stared round at the yard of the manor, and felt his heart suddenly quicken. Godiva would appear at any moment now – radiant, serene, the lady of the manor in her best godweb mantle, offering mead from the old horn first to him and then to his second in co
mmand. This was the high point of the homecoming, all the more intense for its unvarying ceremony: something he could dream about when he was away because he could count on it being always the same, and she too always the same.

  Still, as he waited, he could not help but take stock of the details of his surroundings, as though he was still on campaign and alert to hidden dangers. The yard was neater than he remembered, and more prosperous. A weak part of the palisade had been patched with new, pale timber and the entrance to the courtyard was paved with smooth river stones that kept the mud down more effectively than the broken old bricks that had been there before. He remembered those bricks from the time he lamed a horse on them and he was glad they were gone. Then he noticed the windows and gritted his teeth. So, she had done it after all – put in glass despite his objections that windowpanes were too expensive and hard to repair. What else had she done that he wouldn’t like? He started to sweep the courtyard with his glittering blue eyes that could still, after five decades, count the number of horsemen in a column half a mile away. Then, tearing into his concentration, there came a shriek.

  ‘Papa!’

  ‘Milly!’

  He spun round as a daintily dressed girl gathered up her skirts and raced across the yard to throw herself into his arms. The earl embraced his stepdaughter, then pushed her to arm’s length and looked at her appraisingly.

  ‘Little Mill, you’re blooming! You were just a big child when I left and now, suddenly, you’re all grown-up.’

  ‘Thank you, papa.’

  ‘That means you must have your wedding feast with no delay. It’s long overdue. But I promise on my oath we’ll do it before summer ends.’

  ‘Ends?’

  ‘Yes. That’ll give your mother and Gwen enough time to prepare. It’s not so far off – so you can stop frowning, my girl. Come, Milly, won’t you forgive me for having made you wait? I came home as soon as I could.’

  ‘Papa, I’d forgive you anything,’ said Milly with a forced smile, vowing silently to have her feast sooner than September, no matter what her stepfather said now.

  ‘Well then, forgive me this. I’m going to have to talk with you later. A good long talk about your wedding and the lands we will give you. But first I need to talk alone with your mother. At once.’

  He scanned the crowd in the yard, looking for Godiva’s face.

  ‘Where is she?’ he said, his throat suddenly tightening. ‘She’s supposed to be here when the men come home.’

  ‘I can’t say, father,’ Milly said uncertainly. It worried her when her parents quarrelled, as they seemed to do more often since leaving Hereford and coming to Coventry. ‘There’s cattle sickness all about. Perhaps she had to go and look.’ But Lovric’s scowl only deepened and Milly clammed up.

  Just then fresh noises came from the entrance to the yard and everyone turned to look that way. Godiva’s outrider, blowing a horn, came trotting in, followed immediately by her liveried herald. Lovric swore into his beard at this ostentation and turned away from his waiting soldiers in embarrassment.

  But then Godiva appeared, riding high on a tall palomino mare, horse and rider a swirl of chestnut, cream and pale gold, and his anger faded like an enemy that had briefly raised his flag, but passed on to another destination. She saw him and gave her broad smile, the smile that raised her cheeks like the curtains on a new morning and brought light into eyes so soft and grey that he always wanted to pull her close, no matter how much she maddened him. Dressed in men’s riding leggings and a long, divided tunic, she stayed up on her horse and shouted instructions to the stable hands. With arms folded, Lovric stared at her, noting how flushed she was and guessing that she had sped home from some mission. Anxiously his men watched him assess his beautiful wife. The manor was their haven; no one wanted the earl to be angry at home. Stillness settled on the yard again as Godiva finished her tasks and rode up to Lovric. Smiling, she dismounted.

  ‘Welcome home, Lord Lovric,’ she said formally, bowing and pulling off her leather riding cap. Her bright-yellow hair tumbled out and swept the straw-covered ground before he had a chance to raise her face to receive his kiss.

  ‘Eva, my love,’ he murmured, so softly that only Godiva heard, and then he wrapped her in his arms.

  A sigh of relief escaped from the crowd. The horn was found and filled with mead. Godiva took it and raised it to Lovric’s lips. He passed it to his second in command, and then it was refilled and put into the hands of every hero who had shed the blood of an enemy during the months away from home, the months during which the flowers had blossomed in the manor’s gardens, the honey gathered and the nectar fermented. The sweet mead was time-distilled, a homage to home.

  In the bedchamber of the manor house Lovric shut the oaken door firmly behind him and turned to face Godiva. His anger, though much diminished, hadn’t entirely gone, and Godiva, after eighteen years of marriage, was quite prepared to deal with it.

  ‘I know you wanted me in the yard for your arrival,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m always there for you. But this time was different. It was a matter of law and order. That’s why I took the herald and the flag. People are nervous, what with the food supply dwindling and the cows sickening, and now there’s been an unexpected death. I had to show them I cared.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Lovric answered, ignoring her explanation. ‘But it looked disrespectful, not being in the yard for the homecoming.’ He knew he was being unfair. An unexplained death had to be investigated at once, and that would take the best part of a day. He was finding fault only because his disappointment, though short-lived, had taken his breath away. ‘Well, what did you manage to find out?’

  ‘The dead man came from another lordship. Elfthryth and her daughter believe it was a suicide.’

  ‘How could they tell? You put too much trust in these so-called wise women.’

  Godiva ignored the jibe. ‘Elfthryth said that he made sure he would die when he jumped off the tree. Killers are not so careful. They wouldn’t care if they hanged a man twice or more.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Drovers stopped at the pool in Stivichall a few days ago. This man could have been with them, got into a fight perhaps or got too drunk and been left behind. Perhaps no one wanted him any more, and he decided to end it.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I came back as quickly as I could.’

  ‘I’m sure you did.’ Suddenly, as it always did, the last of his anger vanished abruptly. He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I’m sorry, Eva. You did the right thing. I shouldn’t have been so annoyed.’

  ‘You’re tired.’

  ‘And so are you.’

  She nodded and sighed. Though she was no stranger to death, the sight of the hanged man’s body had shaken her. He was prematurely aged, thin and toothless, and the illusion of a smile on his twisted, blackened mouth suggested he was grateful for any release from his wretched life. She had stood over him as the wise women finished their work, and then told her chaplain to lead everyone in prayer for the forgiveness of his soul. The servants were told to take the corpse to Coventry for burial and tell the monks of St Mary’s to say a mass for him at her expense. After that she talked with the men of the tithing and decided they should go ahead with a search for possible killers, in case the death was not a suicide. Finally, on her way home, she made a detour to see a family of lepers whose health had recently deteriorated. The woman of the family had come to the gate that barred the world from their infected home and in her arms there was a new, malnourished baby. Godiva gave her a coin and promised she would send more soon. Then, halfway to Cheylesmore, while crossing a shallow ford, the outrider had spotted the carcass of a cow lying in a stream that fed a drinking pool. It was a very recent death, for the flies had only just started work on the hide. The owner had to be found and brought to dispose of the animal’s remains, and messengers sent to the hamlet whose drinking water was now polluted. It took a while to find the owner, for no one would admit to possessing
a cow that had sickened to death and put other animals at risk. Hours later than she intended, Godiva had turned her horse’s head towards Coventry and ridden home at dangerous speed for her reunion with Lovric.

  She sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Lovric poured her a glass of red wine, sat beside her and held her hand in a silence that grew ever more companionable. He felt comfortable with her at last. He thanked God.

  ‘We’ve been apart so long, Eva,’ he said at last. ‘Let’s lie down and continue our talking later.’

  She closed her eyes and turned her face to take the kiss with which he always sought to repair whatever small injuries they had inflicted on each other since last they lay together. Then, softening, she put her arms around his neck, reclined and let him find his way slowly through the layers of her riding clothes.

  About an hour later she woke up to find him sitting near the window with an empty glass of wine in his hand.

  ‘Now, my love,’ he said, ‘there is something important I must discuss with you.’

  ‘Not now, Lovric – the feast is starting soon.’

  ‘I’m not attending. My men have seen enough of me. They won’t mind my absence as long as they get well fed.’

  ‘But my people will mind. They’ve worked so hard . . .’

  ‘Eva, I can’t feast and make plans with you at the same time.’

  She felt once more the weight of duty, a weight that seemed to have sat on her for as long as she could remember, crushing even minor pleasures. Inevitably, the manor and its routines took second place to the needs of the earldom and the kingdom. Lovric’s responsibilities kept them all enmeshed in chains of responsibility that ran upwards from the merest slave to the lonely pinnacle of the king himself. She knew that, she was resigned to it – and yet these days it irked her, as though her efforts in Coventry meant little in the scheme of things, and little to Lovric.

  She sent for Gwen to apologize for their absence from the feast and asked for more wine. Then she lit extra candles, locked the chamber door and settled down to listen. As Lovric started talking, with too much detail at first about troop movements and fords, supply lines and defended points, and then with growing urgency about deaths and rapes, betrayals and burning towns, she shut her eyes to concentrate. And gradually, behind her closed lids, a picture formed.