by Nerys Jones
It was Hereford once more. The mountains to the west rose black against the night, winds howled and rain slashed the faces of fugitives. Words were screamed out in English and Welsh, and then in French. Gruffydd ap Llywelyn was coming to take back the lands of his ancestors. Alfgar – Lovric’s beloved son Alfgar – sought out the Welsh prince. They could make terms, he said. The Welshman laughed at the thought and waved him away. No, said Alfgar – either they would come to terms, or the Normans would come in and vanquish them all. There would be castles everywhere, bristling with garrisons at the ready, just as there were already in the Vexin, the borderland of Normandy, which Ralph of Mantes had brought to heel. Now Ralph is starting to get a grip on the Welsh borders. Soon he will get reinforcements from Normandy and come after them all, Welsh and English, with equal venom. And then they could all forget forever what justice and freedom had been like.
Gruffydd stopped laughing, embraced Alfgar like a brother and took him far up the winding valley of the Wye to a secret fortress that Alfgar had never heard of and whose name no one would tell. There they had talked for days and nights with no fear of King Edward’s spies, all of them talking in Welsh, for Alfgar knew the language from his childhood days with Gwen in Hereford. We are Britons, they agreed, enemies but Britons. Ralph of Mantes is a foreigner, and though he speaks French he is as bad as any Dane or Norwegian or any other Viking. Men like him are finding footholds all over England and, piecemeal and unopposed, with the backing of the despicable King Edward they will carve up these islands between them, just as other Northmen did before, with fire, axe and longboat.
‘But you see, Eva, Ralph of Mantes is the king’s sworn man.’
Godiva opened her eyes to find Lovric pacing the room and clenching his fists.
‘And so Alfgar is being accused of treason.’
She felt the breath leave her body as if from a blow. Alfgar was her stepson, and the eldest and most turbulent of the children – her favourite – the one who made her laugh most, the one who went riding with her whenever he could and who taught her to use a sword. Where Milly aroused her sense of obligation, and the memory of Harry stirred up tenderness, the thought of Alfgar filled her with joy.
‘There must be a mistake,’ she said at last.
‘No. Edward has decided to make an example of him. Plotting against Ralph is now held to be treason against the king. I’ve got this,’ Lovric said, holding up a scrolled letter. ‘I’ve been summoned to Winchester to defend Alfgar.’
‘But where is he now?’ she asked, her words muffled by the great fear that had taken her by the throat.
‘In hiding. But he is reckless and likes to pick fights. He might break cover and then anything could happen.’
‘Then you must go to Winchester at once, Lovric, before matters get worse for him.’
‘Yes,’ he said. Then his voice trailed off uncertainly.
‘What else is wrong?’
‘You must come too, Godiva. You must come with me.’
‘What? I can’t. I am desperately needed here, and I could do nothing to help in Winchester. Just go and come back as quickly as possible, Lovric.’
‘But I need you with me. You’re coming. I’ve decided.’
Godiva stepped away from him and put her hands angrily on her hips.
‘Don’t talk to me like that, Lovric. You know I have responsibilities in Coventry. And you know that Edward does not like me. It would irritate him to see me at Winchester.’
‘No.’
He turned away to pace the room, but she pursued him, insisting that he listen to her. ‘I have too much on my hands to be able to leave. Milly’s wedding is overdue. And there’s the priory. Prior Edwin is wilful and lazy. As for Coventry, I may have to feed the townspeople from my own barns. The wheat harvest is probably going to fail and the dull weather is holding back the fruit and vegetables, too. And now, making everything ten times worse, there’s cattle plague, cutting into people’s milk supply. God knows where it will all end. I’ve noticed some of the townspeople already looking pinched and pallid. If this goes on much longer they’ll fall ill . . .’
‘They will not, Godiva. Not so quickly. We won’t be away much more than a month. People can stand a little bit of hardship until then.’
‘Lovric, that’s callous.’
‘No, it’s realistic. They have greater reserves than they let on. Every year folk say they are going to die of famine before the end of summer, and they hardly ever do. You worry too much.’
‘But so do they. They need me here, if only to reassure them.’
‘But I need you more.’
He had never entreated her so stubbornly before and she wondered what was worrying him. Perhaps it was his advancing age. He should be handing over the affairs of the earldom to Alfgar soon, if only Alfgar were ready for such responsibilities. But no, it couldn’t be that: Lovric was still fit and strong and looked every inch the Earl of Mercia.
‘My dear,’ she began softly, ‘You’re hiding something from me. If you want me to come to Winchester, tell me what it is.’
‘What?’
‘What you’re hiding.’
‘I’m not . . .’
‘For God’s sake, Lovric! Tell me what the matter is. Otherwise I won’t even think of coming with you.’
His instinct when confronted by anyone – whether king, common soldier or his own wife – was to conceal, to bluff or lie, or even to bully. This instinct was all the stronger when he wanted to protect someone he loved. Forced into revelations, he grew clumsy.
‘You must tell me,’ she said softly, knowing how he was struggling with himself.
‘I wanted to wait. I didn’t want you wringing your hands and weeping all the way to Winchester.’
In the silence that followed, Godiva gazed at her husband’s bowed head. His hair, though shot with grey and silver, was still thick and strong, and his neck retained the suppleness of a much younger man, so that his head drooped like the stem of a wilting flower whenever he was worried. How strange, she thought, that such a subtle stamp of uniqueness should pass from father to son, and that a whole family of soldiers should exhibit this hint of vulnerability. His father had this neck droop, so did Alfgar, and even Harry bowed his neck like this when he was only eight. Suddenly her heart lurched and she seized his hand.
Lovric said nothing. He is remembering, Godiva thought, how I cried and wrung my hands when Harry went north to Siward. I lamented for days, as though my little boy was being led to his death and not to a loving upbringing with good foster-parents, an arrangement that was not just normal, but deeply honourable. Yet to me it was a tragedy.
Now she tried to remain composed. ‘This is about Harry, isn’t it? You must tell me, my love.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered back. Then, seeing the horror on her face, he rushed on. ‘No. Don’t misunderstand. The boy is well . . .’
‘Then what is the matter?’
‘Harry is well, but I have bad news about him: the king has ordered Siward to bring Harry to Winchester.’ He paused, gripped the hilt of his sword and blurted out the rest of it. ‘Harry is to be held hostage for Alfgar’s good conduct.’
‘What?’ she whispered furiously, keeping her voice down in case there were servants nearby. ‘Our son a hostage? Hostages are what kings take from defeated enemies, not from allies. And hostages are those they kill or blind and castrate when they are displeased in any way. Nobody can guarantee peace on the Welsh border – not the king, not you, not anyone. What will Edward do if there is a Welsh raid? Blame Alfgar and hang Harry? Oh dear God, what will you do, Lovric?’
He took a deep breath and seemed to calm down. ‘Edward won’t harm Harry just because of a border raid. This is a gesture, to show others – his Norman friends in Hereford – that he can bring the English earls and their sons to heel, and frighten their wives as well.’
Godiva leaped up from her seat and slammed her hand on the wall beside him. ‘Damn this king!’ she
hissed. ‘Damn this Norman whore’s bastard son!’
‘Hush! Take heart,’ he said, putting his arms around her. ‘Edward bluffs all the time. He won’t know what to do next and then he will tire of the situation. It’s happened before, even with his mother.’ He paused and wiped away her tears. ‘Remember when he imprisoned old Queen Emma?’
‘Yes.’
‘She cursed the whole nation of the English in French. Everyone thought we’d seen the last of her, but just a year later she was back at court, as arrogant as ever and scolding everyone. It will be the same with Harry – just a short spell as a hostage and then Siward and I will have the boy out of court and back with us, safe and sound. You’ll see.’
‘Better by far never to put him in harm’s way.’
‘Yes, but I have no choice in this matter.’
‘And, obviously, neither do I.’
‘Then you’ll come to Winchester with me?’
‘Yes. I’ll come.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘What else could I do? I want to see Harry before he is handed over to the king. I want to hold him and kiss him again. I want to show him I have not forgotten him after these nine long years apart.’
She stopped to control herself and wipe away the tears that had gathered. When she resumed she sounded like the practical woman she was – the woman who, on her own, had planned and financed the building of a splendid abbey, who had supervised builders and interviewed traders before licensing them to settle in her town. She spoke in a voice that she recognized as her own, but it was not the one in which she had said goodbye to Harry. She had changed so much, and he must have changed even more. She was unsure what she feared most: his forthcoming imprisonment or her own encounter with a son who had grown up without her.
‘Lovric, we must ensure he gets well treated – not put in prison, or kept in chains. And I must find someone to take care of his food and bedding and clothing. Perhaps I could plead for him with Queen Edith – she has no children, but she is a woman and she might have more compassion than the king . . .’
She talked on, running through all the things she might be able to do to help her youngest child. Lovric saw that her spirits were rising and did not interrupt. He himself was so full of foreboding about the king’s intentions that the less he said now, the better. Gradually she talked herself into a mood of confidence. She had faced many difficulties before, on her own and with Lovric. They would prevail again, she was sure. Lovric would make Alfgar’s peace with the king, and then there would be no reason for Harry to remain a hostage. As for Coventry, the weather might well improve, and as Lovric said, her fears were probably exaggerated. The abbey was an urgent matter, but Prior Edwin could be dealt with quickly, in one decisive conversation. Her problems were far smaller than they had seemed only an hour ago. She put her arms round Lovric and kissed him tenderly as though forgiving him for some misdeed, some guilt that had yet to be discovered. Awkwardly he briefly returned her kiss.
Godiva usually awoke at the second crowing of the rooster that ruled the dung heap on the north side of the palisade. But this morning, just when she needed her full share of sleep for the busy day ahead, her eyes sprang open before the first sliver of pink cut through the clouded sky. Beside her Lovric was snoring and, though they were only soft snores, they were too loud for a woman used to sleeping on her own. She thought of taking a candle and going to the room downstairs where Gwen and Milly slept together on low pallets beside the hearth. She could slip in beside them and get another hour or two of rest. Then the reason for her abrupt awakening came to her. It was Edwin, her unsatisfactory prior. She had to talk to him before leaving Coventry, and to catch him in his quarters she had to confront him at dawn.
Edwin, a man distinguished only by his passion for angling, had been elected prior of St Mary’s because he was Lovric’s second cousin, and Lovric had insisted that Godiva appoint a relative to head her new priory. Otherwise, he argued, the priory lands would drift out of their control. In their circle of kin only Edwin was available, and this became the chief argument for his suitability. As a result, Godiva found herself putting up with a brazen unscrupulousness she had never had to deal with before. When eyebrows were raised, for instance, at Edwin’s frequent absences from St Mary’s, he would point out that he merely followed in the footsteps of the great apostle, Peter the Fisherman, whose altar stood in the priory. The people of the town, used to the riddling of churchmen, nodded in agreement, smiled to his face and laughed with scorn behind his back. Godiva, meanwhile, busy with other matters and anxious to avoid having to replace him, left Edwin undisturbed.
First light was dawning as the low side-door of St Mary’s resounded to the loud banging of the iron door-knocker. Behind the door the chanting of dawn prayers continued undisturbed. Minutes passed and Godiva’s attendant began to hit the door angrily until she whispered that the monks were not answering for their own reasons. In the silence that followed a light appeared, flickering in a small casement window above the door. Then shuffling footsteps could be heard, low voices conferring and finally the grating of a key turning in the lock.
‘My lady!’ a reedy voice gasped from the crack that now appeared beside the door.
‘Let me in, and go and get Prior Edwin.’
More time went by and Godiva was growing enraged, when Edwin came hurrying around a corner in the company of a freckled blond boy, known to everyone in Coventry as Cherub. The prior was flustered and the boy looked unhappy.
‘My beloved daughter in Christ . . .’ Edwin began.
‘Take me somewhere private. I must talk to you,’ she said, looking past him.
Edwin, noticing the asperity of her tone, signed the cross and led the way towards the refectory, near which there was a small room set aside for private meetings and emergencies.
‘Whatever is troubling your soul, beloved in Christ?’ he began again, as disarmingly as possible.
‘My soul is in good health, but not my priory. There are several matters that I committed to your attention weeks ago, and they remain unattended. I must leave today on an unexpected journey to Winchester with the earl. I do not need the additional worry of wondering when you, Edwin, will stop procrastinating and carry out my instructions.’
‘Ah, you must mean the matter of the arm of St Augustine. You see, beloved lady, this is a delicate business. I have tried . . .’
‘You have not! It is our most important relic – once in the treasury of Queen Emma herself – and you let it remain in obscurity in St Michael’s, and no mention of moving it to my priory. This is a disgrace!’
‘But I really did try. The secular clergy are not reform-minded, you see. They view the holy arm as their own personal property.’
‘Well, Father Godric will inform them this morning, before we leave, that this relic is to be moved at once to St Mary’s. And that you will perform this act with all due ceremony, prayers and reverence. And speed.’
‘Very well, very well. I shall pray for the Virgin’s assistance in ending this dispute amicably.’
‘There is no dispute,’ Godiva shouted. ‘And if I find a feud going on when I return home, I’ll know that you caused it. I’m warning you, Edwin, any more meddling and you will go back to that little prebendary you held outside Hereford.’
Edwin hung his head and said nothing, but Godiva caught a brief flash of menace when he glanced at her for a moment.
She got up, moved towards the door in a great volume of cloth and glared back at him. ‘When I come back from Winchester you will tell me what you have done. Do you understand?’
The prior made no reply. The resentful look on his face had hardened. Suddenly, unwilling to leave him in such a bad mood, she softened. ‘I am not as displeased as perhaps I sound. Together we shall do better in future,’ she said, and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
This was the Christian kiss of forgiveness, but it filled Edwin with disgust. With an effort he summoned his look of pained love for h
umanity, the look that he often used with women to conceal the revulsion he felt for the softness of their lips and the sweet manners that he knew to be a gift from Satan to his first daughter. Still, his hand trembled a little, for Godiva was not only a beautiful woman, but one with great power over him, and though he knew he owed her gratitude, he hated the humiliation he felt in her presence. How wonderful it would be to take her down a peg or two, but without bringing himself down as well. Then the realism that had served him so well over the years reasserted itself. Nothing but God or Satan could bring Godiva down: she was rich in her own right, healthy, beloved of her powerful husband and all those who surrounded her, a celebrated beauty and with no secret blemishes. He signed the cross and kissed her hand.
Godiva closed the door behind her with relief and rebuked herself for not having dealt with Edwin sooner. She looked back at her luminous priory and acknowledged that, despite his absurdity, there was something about Edwin that had inclined her to avoid him. That would have to change if they were to develop St Mary’s as a centre of pilgrimage. When she got back from Winchester, she would make an effort to draw closer to him. It might be a good idea, for example, to start confessing to him sometimes, instead of relying so much on her uneducated chaplain, Father Godric. Edwin was undoubtedly sly and self-indulgent, but with encouragement and appreciation he would probably change. Most people, she had found, preferred to let their better qualities shine. She thought for a moment about all the masons and woodworkers she had supervised until recently, and how some had been arrogant, others crude and yet others confused at taking orders from a woman. Yet in the end they had all become cooperative. Optimistic and resolved, she crossed herself, thanked Mary for her priory and headed back to Cheylesmore manor to face the day and the journey that lay ahead. Had she looked back she might have felt differently. Prior Edwin was glaring after her, and squeezing Cherub’s neck until the pain brought tears to his eyes. But Godiva was facing the road ahead, thinking of all she had to do next, and did not turn round again.