Godiva

by Nerys Jones

  Their way led through a warren of old, poorly lit streets, full of people quietly concluding their day’s labours. Some of these looked up curiously at the king’s men leading a lord and lady on these unceremonious paths, and one or two nudged each other knowingly, for rumours had swept the city since Alfgar was brought in, dishonourably heaped with chains and sitting in an ox-cart. But soon the little group passed out of the civilian settlement and entered through the west gate of the city wall and into the planned grid of streets laid down in the time of King Alfred for his administration, his soldiers and his priests. And there before them rose the towers of the cathedral – holy, regal and transcendent. We should have been allowed to come here first to pray, Godiva thought bitterly. A king who calls himself ‘the Confessor’ should have thought of that and made arrangements for us. Instead they passed round the side of the cathedral, alongside the precinct wall, and marched on towards the king’s fort down a lane that ran alongside it, coming to a halt in front of a squat oak door, its planks reinforced with rivets of iron. It was a mean and menacing hole in the wall, and nothing could have made it plainer that this was the entrance of a passage to prison.

  The captain of the escort shouted out a password. Then, it seemed for several minutes, nothing happened. Godiva glared at Agatha, who had forced herself into a state of unnatural calm, and Agatha looked back meekly, understanding that her ladyship was controlling her own fear by bossing around her maid. The poor thing, thought Agatha. How terrible to find yourself at this door to who knows what kind of horror, and your own son within. She crossed herself and began to say the beautiful prayer she had recently learned by rote and half-understood, ‘Ave Maria, gratia plena . . . benedicta tu in mulieribus . . .’

  Godiva, hearing her, immediately remembered Mary at the foot of the cross.

  ‘Dear God,’ she murmured, ‘I am like any other woman who must see her child suffer. Help me now.’

  Then, while her thoughts were on Calvary, the door swung slowly open. A turnkey stood there, dressed in black and reeking of stale beer.

  ‘The Lord Lovric,’ he said, with all the contempt that servants can squeeze into inoffensive words, ‘may enter his majesty’s prison.’

  Lovric took Godiva’s hand and stepped forward. But the turnkey raised his arm and blocked their way.

  ‘We both go in,’ Lovric growled. ‘She is the mother, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Orders,’ said the man, staring insolently at Godiva.

  ‘Go and check your orders again,’ said Lovric. The man stared back at him until Lovric found his purse and pulled out a silver coin. ‘My good man,’ he said, his voice splintering like ice as he extended his hand.

  The turnkey took the coin, tested it on a back tooth and then retreated into the tunnel that led into the heart of the prison. In a moment he was back, the door was thrown wide open and Lovric and Godiva passed under the thick lintel, into a place that stank of old fear, of dirt and of recent death.

  ‘Alfgar?’

  There was no answer from the corner of the dark room. One torch flickered high above, giving just enough light for them to see that there was a pile of blankets and straw at the opposite side of the room.

  ‘Alfgar, my son?’

  Lovric went up to the pile and started to pull back a blanket. Then Godiva came near. In her hand she held a blue glass bottle. She cracked the seal open and inhaled the fragrance of mead, honey and the Mercian herbs and foreign bitters that the wise woman of Coventry had blended for her. From out of the pile there emerged a blackened hand, and then a face, shoulders and neck, and very soon the bottle found its way to Alfgar’s mouth, which sucked on its tonic contents until Godiva pulled it away, fearing an overdose.

  Alfgar threw off the straw and blankets, sending a cloud of fleas leaping for cover, and leaned back on his hands to get a good look at his parents. They were haggard, he thought, and showing their age. His own appearance he knew to be appalling. There was blood caked in his matted black hair, an untended gash running down his right cheek and needing urgent cleaning and dressing, and he stank of his own urine. But now he was grinning.

  ‘I’m not in as bad a way as I look,’ he said, smiling at Godiva and then at his father. ‘When they brought me here I buried myself in this heap of blankets and slept. The food they give you is so bad there’s no point sitting up for it. I put it in the corner by the torch and it kept the rats away from me.’

  ‘Well, what is your story?’ Lovric asked. ‘It had better be good.’

  ‘It’s not much of a story, actually,’ Alfgar replied, ‘but it is different from the one that is being put about.’

  Lovric produced a skin bag full of wine from under his cloak, and then two cold pork chops and a hunk of bread. He passed them to Alfgar and told him to eat quickly so that he would have the strength to talk sense.

  ‘It started innocently enough in a tavern in Hereford,’ Alfgar began. ‘I’d gone there – it’s a decent, clean place, with good ale and nice girls – with this Welshman called Dafydd, who’d just sold me a horse, a lovely chestnut three-year-old . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Lovric roared, ‘get to the bloody point, man.’

  ‘Well, father, this is the point. We were having a pleasant, relaxing time, eating and drinking, and just getting into the mood with a nice little tart called Mari and a big Saxon girl, and the whole town was quiet because it was midweek and there had been no disturbances for a while, when in bursts Ralph of Mantes’ man, Robert de la Vexin, with half a dozen armed ruffians. Everyone dived for cover, but Dafydd and I put our hands up, nice and peaceful, and let them take us off. We thought there was some mistake and it would get sorted out with Ralph straight away. Instead of that, they put the Saxon girl in the stocks, sent Mari back without a penny over the Welsh border, and punched us up before dumping us overnight in Ralph’s pit. The next day I was on a horse and riding here to Winchester at top speed. Then, when I got to the city wall, they put me in a cart, trailed me through the town and people threw dung at me. I still don’t know what this is all about, but the officer in charge of this jail tells me I’m charged with murder and with refusing to answer to law.’

  ‘I’m prepared to believe you,’ said Lovric guardedly. ‘But tell me why it happened. What’s been going on in Hereford? And where are your men now?’

  ‘They’re over the Welsh border.’

  ‘With Gruffydd ap Llywelyn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lovric groaned and shook his head despairingly.

  ‘But they only fled to him after I was taken away,’ said Alfgar. ‘Until then Hereford was enjoying peace. The Welsh were able to come to market and sell their livestock, and the English were able to charge them entry tolls and sell them ale and whores. Everyone was happy. Now it’ll be back to the Welsh raiding and the English clamouring to take the fyrd over the ford to knock their heads in. This is bad for everyone.’

  ‘Except Ralph of Mantes. It will seem that only he can keep the peace on this part of the Welsh border. Edward can continue to favour his Normans and we won’t be able to complain about it.’

  ‘Quite so, father.’

  ‘What do you want me to do, son?’

  ‘You, father? Nothing. I want to go to trial.’

  ‘You’d have to undergo an ordeal, you know. You can’t swear a stronger oath than a king’s man like Ralph.’

  ‘Then I’ll do it,’ Alfgar said, as though plunging his hand into boiling water was nothing to worry about.

  ‘No! You will not!’ Godiva cut in. ‘I’ve seen more ordeals than either of you, and I can tell you, you may prove your innocence, but your hand will never be good again. Your grip will be weak. You won’t wield a sword or axe, and even if they let you use your left hand for the ordeal, it means you won’t be able to manage a shield properly or hold a bow. Your fighting days would end, Alfgar. Let your father intervene with the king . . .’

  ‘Spoken like a caring mother,’ said a thin, sibilant voice from t
he door. All three turned in surprise to look at the speaker, a monk it seemed, judging by his black robe and his sandals. He stood there motionless, his colourless eyes glassy in the light of the torch. A silent priest behind him held a jewelled cross above his head. Then, as the visitor raised his hand to sign the cross, his ring came into view, a massive jewel that could belong to only one man in England.

  ‘Your majesty,’ said Lovric, rising dutifully.

  ‘Greetings, my lord,’ Godiva said, rising to her feet, bowing and crossing herself.

  Alfgar said nothing.

  ‘You are not to disturb your soul, good lady,’ said Edward, ignoring the two men before him. ‘You see, mindful of our Lord Jesus’ command that we forgive one another, and having given thought to the matter at hand, and realizing that the father knows full well how to restrain the son, I have decided to release Alfgar. There will be no charges.’

  ‘That’s because the charges were lies,’ Alfgar shouted.

  ‘Your majesty,’ Lovric began. ‘If blood-money can be proven to be due, it should be paid.’

  ‘I will pay it myself if need be,’ Edward replied vaguely. ‘You need have no concern, good earl. And you, my lady, my dear Godiva, you especially should have no fear. Your soul is as dear to your king as it is to our Lord Jesus. Do you not know that? I have been praying for you – for your great suffering, your dreadful agony as a mother.’

  He smiled at Godiva, who felt a shiver cross her shoulders and pulled her cloak tightly round her chin.

  ‘It is not so simple,’ Lovric persisted. ‘Alfgar must clear his name.’

  Suddenly Edward burst into life like a coiled snake, hissing across the room.

  ‘Is not the life of your son enough for you? Will you play games with me, Lovric of Mercia? Alfgar’s name cannot be cleared. Who knows what happens on the borders of Mercia when Englishmen intrigue with foreigners . . . ?’

  ‘Foreigners? No, Britons!’ Alfgar shouted. ‘The Welsh are my fellow Britons. It is your Norman friends who are the foreigners, and who knows what happens when you give them a free hand? You don’t know, king. I’d swear that on oath.’

  ‘Take your life, you wretch,’ Edward said, suddenly tired of the confrontation. ‘Take your life and thank God for his mercy and for your king’s.’

  And with that he gathered his robe to his long, slight frame, sighed plaintively and shook out one of his wrists as though he had spent too much time writing in the scriptorium. After he left, the aroma of incense lingered disturbingly in the room.

  ‘He smells like a whore,’ Alfgar spat.

  ‘Alfgar! He smells of church,’ said Godiva crossly.

  ‘And you smell like a latrine,’ said his father. ‘First you must be cleaned up and properly dressed, and then we’ll dine as well as we can tonight at the king’s guest quarters. However little sense we can make of Edward, at least you are here with us now, Alfgar – apparently a free man.’

  ‘All well and good,’ Alfgar said. ‘But you still have to find out what Edward plans to do with Harry.’

  ‘Harry? What do you know about that?’

  ‘They brought him here on the same day as me. I even spoke with him.’

  ‘He was here, in this foul prison?’ Godiva shuddered. ‘I told you,’ she said to Lovric, ‘I told you there was no guarantee that Harry would be treated well.’

  ‘Don’t worry, mother,’ Alfgar said gently. ‘He was in good spirits, and he wasn’t shackled. He was only here for an hour and then they took him off.’

  ‘Look at it this way, Eva,’ Lovric said. ‘Edward seems to have done his worst with Alfgar. He’s probably getting bored already with trying to play games with the Mercians. And with Alfgar released, there is no excuse for keeping Harry hostage. We could all be gone from here by the end of the week. You could be back in Coventry soon, Eva.’

  Lovric began to tell Alfgar about Godiva’s successes with the priory and the town, about the new glass windows in the manor house, and how she had started improving the game reserves in the forests. But Alfgar wasn’t listening. He knew that Edward had many other charges he could bring against him, and that one day he would strike again. The arrest in Hereford was just a shot across his bows. Edward would wait. There was no gain to be made from arresting an earl’s son and having to deal with his father, too. No, he would wait till Alfgar succeeded his father as Earl of Mercia, and then he would pounce. There would be an ambush somewhere, or a trap, and Hereford and the marches of Mercia would be delivered to Edward’s Normans. And so he, Alfgar, had better go on plotting to put another king on the throne of England before his father died. There was plenty for him to be thinking about, without wasting time listening to stories about his mother’s shops and monks in a town that he hardly knew.

  But if he thought his father had not noticed his wandering attention, Alfgar underestimated the Earl of Mercia, a man who had risen to the height of power, and had stayed there, by missing very little, and never letting on what he had not missed. So later, after a meal of suckling pig, served with sausage, baked apples, bread and cheese, Alfgar was surprised when his father turned to him and gave him his orders.

  ‘You are to go to Peterborough, my boy,’ he announced.

  Alfgar put down the long strip of pork rind on which he had been gnawing, wiped the fat from his chin and stared coldly at his father. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘We have interests there, as you know. We need to start pressing our rights to rents. I’m not bringing in as much money as I need.’

  ‘And my men?’ Alfgar replied.

  ‘I’m going to send for them in the morning, and send some money to them, too.’

  ‘Father, they will not follow me to the Fens. There’s nothing there but monks and eels.’

  ‘If they love you as their lord, they’ll follow you anywhere,’ said Lovric unsympathetically. ‘Besides, the Fens are the haunt of Vikings, even in times of peace. You never know when you’ll find their boats banked beside some creek in tall reeds, and then you’ll have a hell of a fight on your hands. Learn to tackle the bastards in their favourite hide-holes and when you are Earl of Mercia in my place you’ll be able to do more than just trade horses with the Welsh.’

  ‘Damn it, father,’ Alfgar exploded, ‘I was doing far more than that.’

  ‘Quite so, son. You were plotting to overthrow your king. I know it. He knows it. And he’s just biding his time as far as you are concerned. Meanwhile, there’s nowhere better for you now than Peterborough.’

  ‘No, Lovric, don’t send him so far away,’ said Godiva. ‘Why Peterborough?’

  Lovric looked at her, and then back at Alfgar’s disconcerted face, and started to laugh.

  ‘Why? Because Peterborough has no whorehouses, no Welshmen, and it is on the other side of the country from Hereford. It is not a prison, but it will be an exile. And my God! How much does my son and chief heir deserve it. Exile, yes! With fat eels and thin monks!’ He laughed again, sounding cheerful for the first time in days.

  Alfgar took Godiva’s hand and gave it a kiss. ‘Don’t worry, mother,’ he said, far more equably than she expected. ‘Father is right. Hereford was getting uncomfortable. The Welsh were bringing some Irish in on our plans, and I could not control things. It was too much, and it was giving Gruffydd’s cousins in Gwynedd too much power. No, going to Peterborough is not such a bad idea at all.’

  Godiva looked at him sceptically. ‘What else do you fancy about the Fens?’

  ‘Eel pie. Does a man’s back good, I’m told. I’ll get a warm welcome when I return to the bawdy houses of Hereford. And some thegns’ halls as well.’

  She slapped the unwounded side of his head. ‘You’ll get a wife and settle down,’ she retorted and leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘And you can give me grandchildren, and let me make clothes for them and sing them to sleep.’

  ‘Yes, mother. Whatever will make you happy. I promise.’

  And with these empty words from the wild son she loved so muc
h, Godiva closed her eyes. They would soon all be safe again, and even if Alfgar had to go to Peterborough for a while, he could probably return to Coventry soon – perhaps at Christmas, when Harry would surely be home, too. All the family together, safe at home for a while. She could think of nothing better except permanent peace, and that was as unattainable as heaven on Earth. She dozed off by the fire long before the dinner was over, and father and son kept on talking, all disagreement between them put aside for the time being.

  Very late at night, as the candles started to burn down low and flicker, Agatha came into the room, trailing blankets she had pulled off the bed in the sleeping chamber. She tucked up Lovric and Godiva, who were entwined together, and made sure their feet were warm. Then, as she was still bent over, she felt a hand rise up within her skirt and knowingly stroke the soft skin behind her knee. For a moment, enthralled, she hesitated. Then her mother came to mind, steaming with fury, and Agatha span round and stamped on the erring hand.

  ‘Off with you to Peterborough, you lout,’ she hissed. ‘And good riddance. Wait till I tell your mother.’

  Alfgar groaned and turned over. ‘Well then, girl, tuck me up at least,’ he grumbled.

  None too gently Agatha wrapped him in two blankets and left. Alfgar, curled up like a cat, listened to his father’s breath deepen and his mother’s soft sighs start to fade. These sounds made him think of his family and how it never changed, no matter how many years passed. It was something he could count on, and that was more than many could say. He thought of his men, most of whom were alone in the world. He thought of the Mercian marches, how beautiful they were, and how one day he would have a home there and perhaps a castle of the sort the Normans were starting to build – a place where you could keep a family safe while you went off to do battle. He thought too how much he owed his father. It was because of him that this awful day that had started in filth and well-hidden fear had ended in comfort at a hearth with his mother and father, food and drink. His thoughts strayed on to the possibility of a girl’s delightful thighs, parting in welcome tomorrow or the day after, if only he was more subtle with her, and she did not complain to Godiva.