Godiva

by Nerys Jones

  Again the flautist started up, playing a well-known melody. Gunnhildr knew the words, but she had a voice that was quavering and off-key. By now the boys had seen people laughing at their mother and realized that they were being held up to ridicule. They snivelled copiously and Gunnhildr, still trying to sing, found herself having to wipe their noses with her own long sleeves. As the spectacle became agonizing, Godiva nudged Lovric questioningly.

  ‘Leave her,’ he whispered. ‘It will stop soon.’

  It did, but the torment only got worse for Gunnhildr. Edward clapped his hands again and the flautist stopped playing. From the far end of the hall a soldier blasted a single long note on a trumpet and all eyes turned in that direction, where stood a man, dishevelled and dirty, his hands bound. A gasp rose to the ceiling of the hall. The trumpeter hit the man on the side of his head and slowly, unable to walk properly, the captive stumbled forward towards Gunnhildr.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ Gunnhildr screamed.

  ‘I had him questioned,’ Edward answered blandly. ‘Now tell my friends who this man is.’

  ‘He is my cousin,’ Gunnhildr said loudly, her fear chased away by outrage. ‘You have dishonoured my family, king. This is not how free men are treated.’

  ‘But this is how I treat traitors, free or not,’ Edward replied. ‘You conspired against me, Gunnhildr. Your kinsmen in Denmark were on their way here to try to take my throne.’

  ‘That is not true,’ she shouted back.

  ‘There are men in this room who have heard your cousin’s confession,’ he answered. ‘He leaves England tonight.’ He nodded to the guards, who dragged the Dane away. ‘But as for you, Gunnhildr, I may show mercy. You and your sons will forfeit your English lands of course, but you can stay here at court with me and my queen, as long as you can make some contribution. You could entertain us. It seems you have an unsuspected talent for making people laugh.’

  Loud guffaws erupted in several parts of the room where Edward’s most assiduous supporters sat. Others, out of pure inebriation, picked up the mirth, and soon the whole hall was laughing, pointing fingers at Gunnhildr, and some were laughing so hard they were taking to the pissing pots that sat under the table for late-night convenience. Gunnhildr turned round and stared at all of them in turn. For a moment she gained a dignity that no one had seen in her that evening. Then she started to walk down the length of the hall, her sons clinging to her gown, through wave after wave of increasingly obscene laughter.

  So great was the noise that only those close to Edward heard him instruct his sergeant-at-arms, ‘To Bruges with them at once, under guard, and with no servants at all, not even a maid. Let that woman do her own cooking and cleaning until she reaches Flanders. Make sure of that.’

  Godiva turned to Lovric. ‘I was sorry for her,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think she was guilty,’ he whispered. ‘He had no proof against her. That confession under torture meant nothing. Edward should have sent her away for a year and looked into her affairs. She was condemned through ridicule. That was not right.’

  He shook his head and glanced round him. For all the noise in the hall there were others who were looking soberly round them too. Lovric caught the eye of one, a thegn of Siward’s, and knew they were in agreement. In his treatment of Gunnhildr and her children, Edward had been dishonourable.

  Dessert was now served, sweetmeats of many sorts, fruit and syrups, and nuts chopped in honey and eaten with little boat-shaped cakes made of crisp pastry. Godiva, however, had no appetite any more. Yet no one could leave the hall before the king, and so she sat there, making rather stilted conversation with Lovric.

  Eventually Edward got up and declared that he would share a cup with each of his guests and then retire. He now progressed slowly round the table, starting from the far end of the hall, accompanied by three young monks who sang psalms and hymns in soft and doleful tones. Edith poured wine for the first time that night, and Edward, offering his cup to each guest, took a sip from the guest’s own goblet and pronounced a blessing. Several minutes later the king and queen reached Lovric’s place at the table. Edward smiled with pleasure at Godiva for so long that Lovric began to stir restlessly.

  ‘My good earl, great lord of Mercia,’ Edward intoned, ‘how glad I am that you have kept your promise and brought your glorious lady to my city of Winchester. My lovely Godiva, welcome to my home.’

  Edward now carefully exchanged cups with Lovric, whose strength was going into quelling the tremor in his sword arm. Then it was Godiva’s turn. She steeled herself to smile politely at Edith, but the queen ignored her. Edward raised his goblet slightly so that Edith might add more wine. What happened next Godiva could not tell, for though she was staring into Edith’s face and was sure the queen was concentrating and that her grasp was firm and steady, nevertheless, with a slight exclamation of surprise, Edith tipped out a large amount of red wine, spilling it so suddenly that the table was instantly awash in crimson and the middle of Godiva’s dress was soaked in it.

  Servants immediately appeared and began to undo the damage as well as they could, mopping around with linens and pitchers of water.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Godiva forced herself to say. ‘My gown is dark; the stain will be faint and wear out.’

  Edith, however, was on the attack at once. ‘It was you!’ she declared. ‘You leaned forward and you jerked my arm. I saw you.’

  Lovric, expecting Edward to side with Edith, braced himself for a difficult moment. But it was Edith who received an unpleasant surprise.

  ‘Naughty girl!’ Edward said, looking down from his great height.

  ‘But . . .’ she began.

  ‘Naughty,’ said Edward again, wagging his finger and looking at her with sadness, as though she were a promising pupil who had let down her devoted teacher. ‘We will talk about this later, and how you shall make amends to me for spoiling my pretty dinner table. Off with you now. Go on! Bedtime!’

  Taut with rage, Edith composed herself and walked out of the room with all possible speed, leaving Edward to give Godiva his complete attention.

  ‘I shall properly compensate you for my wife’s clumsiness,’ he insisted, and then, within full view of Lovric, he lightly ran the back of his index finger along the wet patch on her dress, which sat clinging to her belly. Edward saw Lovric’s knuckles whiten on the hilt of his sword and smiled with satisfaction. The evening had gone brilliantly. Now he would retire and take to his bed, though perhaps not before playing one more little game with Edith, something ordinary and simple tonight, like a light dessert after the rich meal he had just enjoyed so much.

  He turned to go, and was surprised to hear Lovric address him. ‘King,’ he said, ‘my wife and I must know soon about our son, Harry. Alfgar is now free. There can be no further need for a hostage. Harry . . .’

  ‘Ah yes, freedom!’ Edward sighed. ‘That treasured word. That fool’s gold. My good earl, freedom is a matter between God and man, not between men alone. Or women,’ he added, smiling at Godiva. ‘I will tell you about Harry in God’s good time, cherished lady. And now, good earl, dear lady, goodnight. Goodnight to you all, my friends.’

  And then he was gone, leaving Lovric and Godiva staring at each other and, over at the far side of the room, Siward’s thegn, taking in the scene and guessing what had transpired. No release for young Harry. Fury amongst the earls. This is bad, and surely it is not going to get better. What mischief will the jester of England think of next? As Siward’s thegn watched he saw Godiva turn towards him, caught the gleam of gold in her hair and around her long neck, and noticed how many other men were looking at her too, openly covetous no matter how powerful the man who stood at her side. It was obvious where Edward’s interest would turn next. He left quickly to alert his lord with a coded message in Welsh addressed to Siward’s master of ogham cryptograms: llygaid y neidr ar nyth yr eryr. Siward gofalwch; the snake’s eyes are on the eagle’s nest. Siward, beware.

  Seven


  ‘Ican get most of the stain out,’ Agatha insisted anxiously, fingering the wine-sodden gown. ‘But the smell will linger unless I really scrub it, and then the dye would come off and leave you with a faded patch in the middle.’

  Godiva said nothing.

  ‘My mother would pull my hair if I did that,’ Agatha chattered on, trying to ignore the silence that enveloped her mistress this morning. ‘How could the queen be such a butterfingers? She don’t want no practice in pouring wine, I’ll warrant . . .’

  ‘Just leave it,’ Godiva said curtly. ‘I won’t need that dress again in Winchester.’

  Agatha was too nervous to desist. ‘But the smell will soak in and grow old and sour. Mould could grow in it. Mother always said . . .’

  ‘Stop it, Agatha,’ Godiva snapped. ‘Leave me alone. I don’t care about the dress.’

  Agatha stared incredulously at Godiva, who was gazing out of the window. It was inconceivable that she would suddenly become indifferent to her black godweb feasting dress, the pride of her wardrobe and a gown of heirloom quality. The maid peered carefully from the corner of her eye at the side of her mistress’s face. She lacked her usual glow this morning and her mouth had that downward, bitter droop at the corners that one saw so often in women of her age. Recent events had taken more of a toll on her than Agatha would have expected. She turned to hang the dress up to air near the window, breathing heavily as she struggled to hoist the heavy gown onto its hanger and lift it above her head.

  ‘You seem tired today,’ Godiva said.

  Agatha, who felt perfectly well, looked at her in surprise. Her words were meant to be kind, she supposed, but her tone of voice continued to suggest annoyance.

  ‘You’ve had a lot to do on this journey, child,’ Godiva went on. ‘Rest this afternoon. Borrow my bed and sleep there. The earl will not be back until early evening and I intend to go to the cathedral alone.’

  Agatha gasped. ‘But master says I must go with you everywhere.’

  ‘And I say otherwise. Do as you are told, dear, and get some rest this afternoon.’

  Agatha felt a surge of resentment. God only knew what trouble Godiva would land herself in, and this time Lovric would come down heavily on her maid, no matter what Godiva said now. Then, as Agatha pulled the curtain back from the bed, she noticed again how soft and inviting it was, compared to her own scratchy bundle of blankets. It would be very pleasant to have some time off and take a nap in this silky nest. Mistress could look after herself today, and good luck to her.

  That afternoon Godiva stepped out onto the streets of Winchester on her own, and felt a sudden lifting of her spirits. The prospect of being free of Lovric’s constant commands, Agatha’s fussy ministrations and Godric’s empty pieties, filled her with peace. On her own she seemed to have her wits about her again and felt confident that she would do better at avoiding mishaps than when others were at hand, distracting her with demands for cooperation, approval and the constant recognition of their presence. On her own, moreover, she felt detached from Lovric’s political importance, and less of a magnet for whatever troubles his power might attract. For the first time in her life she really understood why so many wealthy women of her age, once they were widowed and released from the promises of marriage, dispensed with family life and put themselves in convents. Silence and contemplation. Peace, prayer and gardening.

  From just around the corner a single bell, grave and finite, tolled the hour. Tempus fugit. But mortals do not fly or escape. Here on Earth they must labour forward, one foot ahead of the next, head down and hand on the plough. Daily life and the business of living it. No convent would open its doors to her for a long time to come – indeed never, unless she abandoned her plans for Coventry and the priory. Her only present hope of tranquillity lay in a couple of hours of solitude in a small obscure chapel, uninteresting to pilgrims and hidden in the depths of the glorious cathedral. Such a place must surely exist and the sooner she found it, the better. She pulled the light hood of her cloak round her face and started walking briskly down the street, dodging the lively traffic of royal servants, pilgrims, monks and vendors, and feeling with every step she took that her normal strength might soon return.

  As she turned onto the main street, the wall of the cathedral precinct came into view, running alongside the street and forming a protective boundary round the sacred enclosure. Several carved archways offered entry into the precinct and Godiva went in through the most ornate of them, thinking it would lead directly towards the cathedral’s west front and the entrance. Her assumption was shared by many others and soon she found herself being swept along by a thick stream of pilgrims, all reverential and awed, and all aiming at one place – the royal feretory of St Swithun, the gold and silver case provided by King Edgar to hold the saint’s earthly remains. These now lay, following several removals and divisions amongst sister churches, in the apse behind the high altar, immediately beneath the throne of King Edward.

  Cheek by jowl with young and old folk of all sorts, Godiva was soon struck by something that they had in common: few were healthy, and those that were fit were struggling with the care of invalids. There were crutches everywhere, tripping the sure-footed, and stained bandages were more abundant than good cloaks. Sighs, tears, lamentations and prayers for deliverance filled the air with a murmur too gentle for pain, but too persistent for comfort. Soon this mass of people would reach the feretory and here they would place the afflicted parts of their bodies as close to the holy bones as possible, inserting ulcerated feet and scabrous hands deep into the shrine, and pressing blind eyes and deaf ears against the golden cage. Desperate for this last chance to be healed, they pressed forward ever more insistently as they neared the massive west front of the cathedral and the main door into the nave.

  Suddenly Godiva felt repelled by this tide of distress and its ineluctable drive towards its destination. She had not come to be healed, but to enjoy sacred beauty and divine peace. Pushing and struggling, excusing herself to old men who were trying to keep their place in the throng and to women fighting to hold on to fragile children, she worked her way sideways to break free of them and get on to the grass verge. Once there, she walked back a few paces until she stood alone, and then she stopped and raised her eyes. The reward for her effort – the vista of the precinct – now unfolded before her. To the left stood two churches and to the right what she guessed must be the royal palace. Directly before her rose the cathedral, now called the Old Minster, and beyond that to its north stood the New Minster, whose enormous bell tower looked down over the entire enclosure. Behind both minsters she could see a part of the Nunna-minster, which was famous in Wessex and Mercia as a convent for princesses and queens, and to the south side of that stood the strong fortress of the bishop’s castle.

  Confused by the architectural riches of the precinct, Godiva focused her gaze on the Old Minster and its dazzling white stone frontage and towers. Unexpectedly, tears welled up in her eyes and sat there like offerings of gratitude for such astonishing beauty. In this cathedral, mute stone had been made to sing and dusty rock had been smoothed and shaped into a human paradise. How could the hands of mere men do this unless guided by the one divine hand that vivifies all things? Like many others before her who had stopped at the approach to the cathedral, Godiva was transfixed with joy. Minutes passed as she stood alone, her eyes following the lines of the cathedral eastwards towards the union of man and God at the High Altar, and upwards from that point towards the mystery of the heavens, whose stars and firmament, the doors of infinity, indicate that there, truly, lies the everlasting and only destiny of the human soul. Spontaneously she began to murmur the paternoster, and one or two people, seeing the beautiful woman wrapped in the love of God, crossed themselves as they passed near her.

  Suddenly she stopped praying. Someone was coughing loudly behind her.

  ‘Lady,’ Father Godric began. ‘Better to go inside to pray. I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No. I wish to be
alone,’ Godiva muttered in annoyance.

  ‘Then I’ll accompany you,’ the chaplain said stubbornly. ‘On your own you’ll look like a holy one, a blessed pilgrim.’

  Godiva raised her eyebrows, not understanding his meaning.

  ‘You mustn’t look too saintly in Queen Edith’s city, lady.’

  Godiva frowned, thinking how even Godric had more sense than she could muster in Winchester.

  ‘Very well,’ she agreed, and took his arm in the way she usually did as she walked round Coventry on those Sundays when Lovric was away from home.

  Godric, for all his apparent lack of intellect, was an observant man. As they walked towards the cathedral’s entrance he noticed two monks suddenly stop, confer and then turn off towards a small lane that seemed to lead to one side of the cathedral. One was memorably tall and the other short, and Godric was sure he had seen them watching Godiva at prayer, and talking to each other about her. That, in fact, was why he had approached her and persuaded her to go inside, for otherwise he would now be on his way to the other side of Winchester, to knock on the door of a woman of the town whose delightful acquaintance he was most anxious to renew. He stared at the monks until they disappeared from view through a side door into the cathedral, and thus engrossed he was taken aback and affronted when he realized that Godiva had stopped to acknowledge someone else. He turned to face the intruder and the other man turned towards him. It was Bret. He smiled at Godric, nodded his head politely, and then addressed Godiva as though her chaplain had vanished from the face of the Earth.

  ‘My lady, good day,’ said Bret, doffing his hat gracefully.

  He had stepped forward from a group of young soldiers to greet Godiva. They now stared at her boldly, each one registering the emergence of a pale-pink blush that spread up her neck, delicately at first, and then proceeded to paint her cheeks a vivid, incriminating scarlet. Not since he sang his duet in the forest with Lovric had Godric resented Bret so much. This time he wanted to kill the man.