Godiva

by Nerys Jones

  Godiva took Adel’s hand, the way she would have liked to do with her daughter, if only Milly did not always repel her gestures of concern. ‘There won’t be bad times. You shouldn’t worry. Too many powerful lords want peace.’

  ‘I know. But I also know that Wiglaf is worried, and he won’t tell me why. The hall is full of strange men who have come down from the north – but I only know that because my maid heard Danish and northern accents. All of a sudden Wiglaf won’t talk to me, and if I ask him anything he gets angry.’

  There was a pause in the conversation as neither knew what to say next. Godiva’s words of reassurance now seemed hollow, and Adel thought she had given too much away. Now she changed the subject.

  ‘There will be a great feast tonight in the hall. You must come! You will, won’t you, dear Godiva?’

  Dismayed, Godiva explained that all her good feasting clothes had been sent on ahead to Winchester.

  ‘But you can borrow anything you want from me,’ Adel persisted. ‘A godweb cowl, for instance, to brighten up a plain dress. And your maid can put extra braids around your ears where they will show under your headdress. Oh, you will look beautiful tonight, and rich and glorious!’

  ‘We shall see,’ Godiva said, suddenly irritated by Adel’s nervous, vapid conversation. ‘I may need to rest tonight, Adel. The journey was long and there is much more ahead. I’m not quite the rider I was. I’ll send Agatha to let you know later.’

  Adel nodded, smiled and then, as Godiva left, she seemed to dab one eye to blot un unspilled tear.

  In the event, there was no question of Godiva keeping up appearances that night. As she sat with Agatha in the guest chamber before a large mirror, Lovric came in, breathless and bringing news. The sight of him, appearing like a ghost in the mirror, alarmed Agatha, who left without being told.

  Godiva rose to greet him. ‘Lovric, whatever . . . ?’

  ‘Sit. Eva, I have news. Earl Siward is here in Oxford.’

  ‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’

  ‘Something is changing. We are not going directly to Winchester as I planned. Earl Godwin has asked for a secret meeting with me. We are to go south from here into the heart of Wessex, to meet Godwin in secret.’

  ‘But, Lovric, we can’t afford this delay. The boys . . .’

  ‘This must take precedence. This meeting will affect my standing in England. It will either strengthen or weaken my hand in dealing with Edward.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Siward came all the way from Northumbria to Oxford to arrange this meeting. No one else knows about it. Father Godric and Agatha will come with us, of course, but they must not be told where we are going. If Edward knew he would suspect that Siward, Godwin and I are conspiring to overthrow him.’

  For a moment Godiva said nothing as she tried to digest this latest twist in the kingdom’s fortunes. Upheavals were taking place in the king’s circle, so much was clear. Lovric was losing favour, judging by the recent threats to his sons. Yet his old rival, Godwin, also seemed to be breaking ranks and falling out with the king, just when his position was growing ever stronger. It made no sense to her, but Lovric was not going to enlighten her. For safety’s sake, he would tell her only what he absolutely had to.

  ‘Where do we meet Godwin?’

  ‘Near Uffington, in the Berkshire Downs, where King Alfred’s old castle stands.’

  ‘In the Vale of the White Horse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then,’ she said decidedly, ‘we had better pay our respects to the Goddess while we’re there. I will invoke her help for the boys. After all, she gave me Harry.’

  Lovric, who had little patience with overcredulity, surprised Godiva by making no objection. ‘We need better luck,’ he said, ‘than we’ve been getting from the prayers of those monks of yours at St Mary’s.’

  Godiva ignored the barb and continued. ‘You should walk along the White Horse’s back with me too. That makes the magic stronger.’

  Lovric nodded, though with a shadow of embarrassment beginning to darken his face. Religion of any sort, he thought, was best left to women and perfumed men in skirts.

  ‘Now,’ he said, slapping his knees to announce a complete change of mood. ‘I have something else to tell you, something that will cheer you up.’

  ‘Is it news of the boys?’

  ‘Not quite what you want to hear, but enough to make you very happy.’

  ‘Is it Harry? Oh, my God, did Siward bring Harry here with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mother of God! I thought he’d already sailed to Southampton for Winchester. When can I see him?’

  ‘Now,’ Lovric said. ‘As soon as you are ready.’

  It was growing dark. Agatha lit several candles and arranged Godiva’s hair and veil so that her son would not be dismayed at how much older she looked than on the day he saw her last, nearly nine years ago. Agatha then left the room and Godiva paced the floor, her heart racing. Despite the avalanche of plans under which she had buried her fears, she remained angry and anxious at the fate that had befallen her son while he was far away from her. She crossed herself and called on Mary, recalling again the time when he left home to be fostered at the court of Siward in Northumbria, and the terrible grief that had gripped her then. Harry was her first-born son, one who had taken a long time to conceive, and the only living child of her union with Lovric. As they parted she had kissed his cheek and he had squared his shoulders like the warrior he would have to become, and she had remembered then, as if it were just yesterday, the neck of her son when he was an infant, tucked into his chest like a chick in its shell, so frail and delicate it was impossible to think a man would grow from this. She had wept for so long that Lovric promised on oath that he would have Harry back home with her before he was eighteen. That would have been this Christmas. It might still be, God willing.

  The door creaked open and someone gave a small soft knock. How like him, she thought. He still enters first and knocks afterwards. Then, unable to hold back, she ran to the door and pulled him into the room and into her arms. Lovric had let him come alone and she would have him all to herself for a while.

  ‘My son, my son,’ she repeated, and it was to be a long time before she could hear him say, ‘Mother, I’m all right. Don’t cry, mother.’

  And it was much, much longer – not until after he had told her where he’d travelled, which thegns he knew, how good his skills with arms were, the greatest adventure he’d had (which was when he saw the Pictish warrior princess, Gruoch, the wife of Macbeth, in armour and off to battle) and how kind his foster-mother was (at which Godiva choked as relief and resentment collided) – only when they were finished with all this recounting of years spent apart, only then could Godiva bring herself to talk about their bitter circumstances.

  ‘But you are not coming back home with me, my darling. You are to go to Winchester and remain there.’

  ‘As Edward’s hostage? Yes, I know that, mother.’

  He spoke these words with that cool indifference that young men of his rank were taught to produce under the worst of circumstances. But he said it with a northern – indeed a Danish – accent, and this sounded so rustic and uncouth to her ears that she gave a little laugh.

  ‘What’s wrong with that, mother?’ he asked, more earnestly now. ‘Siward says I won’t be held for more than three months. Less than that, if father gets Alfgar off the hook again. Siward has even made a bet with me. If I’m still with Edward in six months’ time, then I’m to get Siward’s youngest daughter to wife.’

  ‘Wife? I forbid it! You’re far too young.’

  ‘I’m not! But I won’t win the bet,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And anyway, I don’t want a wife. I will be home with you by Christmas, you’ll see.’

  There was a loud knock on the door and Lovric entered.

  ‘Harry will dine in the hall tonight,’ Lovric announced, beaming proudly. ‘I will have the pleasure of showing off this fine youn
g man of mine to my thegns, who have not seen him since he was a child.’

  ‘Good, I’m sure,’ Godiva said coldly.

  ‘And won’t you come to the feast, too? Other noblewomen will be there.’

  ‘I don’t know them, and I am not fit for company tonight,’ she said, and then, before she could bite her tongue, she rushed on, ‘and nobody but a fool would expect his wife to smile and dine and be merry at a feast when her son is to be made a hostage.’

  Harry looked in alarm at his father, who signalled for the boy to leave.

  ‘I must go to this feast,’ Lovric said when he was out of earshot, ‘in order to show Edward’s spies that I do not feel afraid, and therefore that I firmly believe in Alfgar’s innocence. I thought you’d understand that.’

  ‘I do,’ she answered. ‘Lovric – I’m sorry I called you a fool before Harry.’

  She’s losing her nerve, he thought. Seeing Harry had undone her composure. It was like this sometimes on the battlefield – a soldier, full of resolve, would suddenly see the face of a long-lost friend, and would fall into a tailspin as all that had ever been lost took its place alongside all that might soon be lost, in one dark embrace of despair.

  ‘Eva,’ he said, softening. ‘You don’t have to play the part that I must. You can grieve for Harry. You have the right. Even if the king is only playing a game with us, and even if Harry will be home soon, it is still hard to see your boy being made a hostage.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘But I too must try to keep up appearances. This feast is important for Wiglaf and Adel.’

  ‘Wiglaf is not important, just rich. Dine well in your room now with Agatha, and go to sleep early. You’ll need to be rested for this journey through Wessex that starts tomorrow.’

  A little later Agatha returned and set down a silver inlaid tray on the table. She looked down at Godiva, who had fallen asleep, half-dressed for the feast, and lamented silently for her troubled mistress. Then, as instructed by her mother, she found Godiva’s rosary of precious stones, wrapped it round her hand and started to recite the English paternoster quietly. But she had only arrived at ‘thy kingdom come’ when Godiva sat up briskly and started praying too. When they reached the end of the prayer, Godiva repeated loudly, ‘Let thy kingdom come upon our Earth, and not that bastard Edward’s. Amen.’

  Agatha gasped in astonishment and then, before she could shut her mouth as her mother had warned her to, she blurted out her own thoughts on Edward. ‘True word, my lady! He be a right bastard. All Saxon folk know that. You ain’t got nothing to fear from long, tall Neddy. Ain’t nothing in his trousers, they say. Forty years old, married, and still a virgin! And boasting of it, too! It ain’t right, and he ain’t no man. So how can he win against a real man like the earl? Ain’t going to happen. Our Harry be home by Christmas or Candlemas, you’ll see. Mark my words.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right, child,’ said Godiva, happy to give the conversation over to someone so young and blithe that in comparison ladyship seemed a dismal, useless thing. What common Saxon mother would let her son be taken hostage? Not one. They would fall on their knives first. But she, Godiva, second to no woman in the land but Queen Edith and old Queen Emma, could not do that. She had to fall in with her husband’s plans and keep a straight face when she met the creature they called king. But not tonight.

  ‘Tell me again, Agatha,’ she laughed, pouring the maid a full glass of rich red wine, ‘tell me what folk say about long, tall Neddy. And Queen Edith.’

  Agatha took a huge gulp of the unfamiliar beverage, downing it as she would a mug of beer at home, and continued with the delicious destruction of the king’s dignity. ‘They call him Unwed Ned and her Needy Eady. Why, you can guess. What with all that chastity, virginity and other things folk don’t understand the why of . . .’

  ‘But it’s said he’s so holy that one touch of his hand heals the sick,’ Godiva mocked.

  ‘One sickness heals another, they reckon. That hand of his been up to no good, all on its own.’

  The evening wore on tipsily, until it was not only dark, but silent outside. Agatha snuffed out most of the candles and went off to her own sleeping space outside the chamber door. Grand folk, she thought as she buried herself in a rough black blanket, them ain’t no better than we be. Laugh just like us, and tears as wet. Some day, though, we’ll be rid of them all, mark my words. Common folk can see what’s coming. Normans be coming, that’s what. Well, good riddance to all these rich earls and thegns we got now. Though not to my own good, kind lady here, not to mistress Good-Eva, may Mary and Freya bless her and keep her, and me and my mother too, amen.

  Three

  Several hours later Godiva woke up to a headache and an empty bed. Lovric must have slept in Wiglaf’s hall last night with Siward, Harry and the northern thegns, huddling together round the great fire to strengthen the vows of friendship that bound together these men who met infrequently and not always in accord.

  Despite the early hour, sounds of human activity could be heard outside. From a nearby monastery there drifted the first prayers of Lauds, defying sleep, darkness and the rhythms of the earth. And then, from much nearer at hand and growing louder, there came the muffled sound of horses being walked slowly over straw-strewn cobbles and men talking quietly to each other.

  She got up, shivering in the night air, and went to the window. Below, in the yard, soldiers were assembling rapidly by torchlight. They were pouring in from the hall, from the house-carls’ quarters and from the stables. Some were beginning to mount their horses. Anxiously she scanned the flame-lit faces in the crowd, searching for Lovric. Instead her eyes alighted on a man of similar build and age and wearing a red cloak just like Lovric’s, but with no black eagle on it. It had a bold design in white, black and gold across the back, showing a bear rampant above two war axes that lay across each other, and both axes Viking. This was none other than the Dane, Siward, Earl of Northumbria and arch-enemy of the deadly Scot, Macbeth; Siward, the third partner in the fractious, unpredictable triumvirate of earls that now held England together; Siward, kind foster-father of her beloved Harry.

  Godiva had never met the Earl of the North. Now she longed to run down and thank him, and beg him to urge Edward to abandon his demands for a hostage. But even as the thought entered her mind it petered out. For there, riding up to Siward on a gleaming, sloe-black stallion, was Harry. He was dressed all in black as though to match his horse, and his fair hair fell down his back in the Norse fashion. A young page, a boy of about Harry’s age and dressed like him, took hold of the reins of his horse. The page turned and spoke to Harry, who looked down and smiled at him with such warmth that she knew at once he was a foster-brother, one of Siward’s sons. It gladdened her that Harry had grown up with love in Siward’s court, and yet that open smile of his frightened her. He looked like a boy at the start of a wonderful adventure and not one whose life, liberty and dignity were at risk. She longed to talk with him again, this time to warn him realistically of the dangers he faced. She opened the casement a crack and thought of shouting down to him. He was beautiful as only the young are at that exact moment when childhood, its work done, finally departs, and her heart ached with love. But she stood transfixed, with the cold of the floor rising into her feet and confusion paralysing her will.

  ‘Eva!’

  She spun around. ‘Lovric?’

  ‘They are going now. Going to Winchester.’

  ‘Already?’ She turned back to the window.

  ‘Yes. Don’t embarrass Harry.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’

  ‘Liar,’ he said, but he said it fondly and pulled her back under the bedclothes and started rubbing her cold feet.

  ‘You’ll see him again in Winchester,’ he went on. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sending my thegns and my housecarls ahead of us with Siward. They’ll ride into the city together under my banner, after Siward and the northern thegns. Edward will see them – or his spies will – and will see that a
ll the country stands behind Harry and his safety.’

  ‘Lovric?’

  She put her hands up to him, cradling his face, and looked into his eyes. Shadowed under his brows by the candlelight, they gave only a hint of his mood, but enough for her to know he was calm and resolved.

  ‘I trust you.’

  ‘You’re trying to, I know that.’

  They smiled at each other for the first time since early yesterday, and Lovric, knowing he had an hour at least before he should go down to the yard and give everyone orders, decided to see what they might make of this interval alone together.

  A little later they made their way down to the family dining room where Godiva and Adel had talked yesterday. Despite her worries, Lovric had cheered her up with his undiminished appetite for love, a love that seemed able to resist whatever misery the previous day had brought or the next one might hold. A servant brought in a wooden bowl of oatmeal porridge. In the background she could smell frying bacon, black pudding and baking bread. It was what they usually ate at Cheylesmore in the mornings, and no doubt the same breakfast was being prepared in every prosperous kitchen in all parts of Britain at this very time of day. She almost felt at home in Adel’s house, and looked round, hoping to see the lady of the manor come in. Lovric, who had eaten before dawn in the hall, went off to see how the preparations for departure were going in the yard. As he stepped out he almost knocked over Adel, and for the first time Godiva realized how slight and fragile she was.

  ‘Is your food good?’ Adel asked anxiously. ‘If not, I can get you something else. Griddle cakes. Buttermilk. Or an omelette? And more meat and cheese of course.’

  She fluttered on, waving her hands around distractedly. The excitable young woman of yesterday had vanished: in her place was a bewildered girl whose headdress lay wrapped untidily across most of her face.