Godiva

by Nerys Jones

  Godiva, though never afflicted by a weak stomach, felt a tide of acid rise suddenly in her throat. She put her chin down into her neck, breathed deeply and studied her feet in their small black shoes. Memories of rapture while contemplating the Virgin’s boundless kindness came back to her. She had been so sure, all her life, that this was the heart of her religion, and that it was pure, strong and real. Had she been deluded, then? Was the God whose immaculate conception filled Mary’s womb with everlasting joy not really a loving God at all, but a furious deity who had to be appeased with token blood and flesh, a scornful hater of the poor, pain-racked creatures called men that He himself had made, those imperfect angels whom He exposed to temptation and then let fall to Earth and death and damnation? She did not understand this at all. But she felt sure of one thing: the king was determined that sooner or later, one way or another, he would bring her to understand God in the way that he did, and in no other way. To his mind, this would be an act of love on his part. And she herself had seen a hidden part of his soul, a warm and remote recess where it was possible that love did really dwell in hiding.

  She raised her head and glanced at him. The tenderness in his eyes was unmistakable. It was radiant, even saintly. What was she to think? That Edward was the cruel joker described by Godwin in such an agony of shame that there could be no doubting his sincerity? Or that Edward was in fact holy, self-sacrificing and totally misunderstood by the earls? Many others thought so. And yet, in the mere second that their eyes met and a question came to her lips, some swift change came about and his customary mocking expression was back in place. Her blood ran cold and she stepped away in case he tried to touch her once more with that insinuating, pointed finger of his.

  ‘It is getting late, sire,’ she said hesitantly, afraid of affronting him. ‘My lord Lovric will be expecting me . . .’

  Just then the cathedral bells interrupted, the eight chimes pealing all together to announce the arrival of one of the most important of the canonical hours: the eighteenth hour of the summer evening and the holy office of Vespers.

  ‘You cannot leave now,’ Edward said. ‘Let us go and stand together in the nave and watch the cathedral choir, with the monks and the priests, perform the solemn rites of the ending of the light of day.’

  Obviously, she had to stay. She heard the huge cathedral organ start up and braced herself to enter the nave with Edward. There, side by side, they would await Vespers and the coming of the dark.

  Eight

  Athrone had been built for Edward behind the back of the high altar, a throne from which he could be seen by everyone in the cathedral, even during the most sacred moment of the mass when the priest said the secret prayer. But Edward did not ascend his throne. Instead he remained beside Godiva in the shadows under the arches of an aisle, about halfway down the nave.

  Winchester cathedral had drained of people, for the vergers and deacons had swept out the pilgrims and the sickly devotees of St Swithun’s bones, and only a few hardy faithful were left who were prepared to stand through the twelve psalms and the various prayers and short allusions that made up Vespers. Perhaps, Godiva reflected, Edward had not ascended his throne because there was little dignity in presiding over so small an audience in such a vast, empty space. Thank God for the organ, she thought. It filled the cavernous church with a great volume of sound, reverberating on the lower registers like storms in the black of the night of the first day, then rising like choirs of cherubim to the realms of the tiny twittering birds, created late on the evening when God turned his hand to flight and feathers. She stood there, entranced by the music and wishing she could own an organ and learn to play it, and waiting for what would happen next. At her side stood Edward, still as a stone, and also waiting.

  Suddenly the music stopped and in the startling silence that followed a bell rang out, shrill and commanding. Then the organ let out a great boom and the processional music began. It was rude to turn and stare at the clergy at this point. Godiva looked straight ahead as they passed alongside her, lurching with importance as they always did, whether in royal cathedrals or in her own modest priory. She could only see the sides of their heads and bodies, but it was enough to take her breath away, for they were so numerous and resplendent. First came the bishop himself, Alfwold of Sherborne, newly consecrated as bishop and thin as a saint due to his famous frugality, but adorned in the richest of robes. After him came his archdeacon and the rest of the canons, all solemn, ageing monks. There then followed, after a meaningful interval, the minor orders – the door-keepers, lectors, sexton, exorcists and acolytes. Next came the choir, led by their master. Its members ranged in size from tall, fully grown men down to the small boys whose delicate, pure voices were so prized in churches everywhere. Straggling after these came a sizeable group of male catechumens, seeking baptism for the first time. Godiva thought they looked Danish, so broad of face and thick of leg were they all. And finally, at the tail end, there came shuffling a small number of penitents who had confessed to such deadly sins that before they could be readmitted to communion they needed to pray, fast and endure whatever else the bishop specified, and then get baptised all over again. Godiva stared curiously after them, but from where she was standing she couldn’t tell anything about them, not even their ages, for they had recently been shaved in the style of the Roman tonsure and now looked like middle-aged men who were naturally balding at the crown. All four wore ash-white woolly robes of coarse, untreated wool, and all walked unshod on the cold tiled floor. One also dragged behind him a blood-stained piece of rope.

  The whole procession came to a halt before the altar, and each section distributed itself to its proper place as the choir began to sing the Psalms of Vespers and the clergy prepared for the Office. Then the tall, sun-whitened, beeswax tapers and thick yellow candles were lit, casting light into corners of darkness and throwing shadows across hitherto plain surfaces. The cathedral, transformed for the passage of the night hours, had taken on an aura of new and even denser mystery.

  Eventually, after what seemed like hours to Godiva, the service of Vespers drew to an end and Edward came out of the trance that had gripped him throughout. He bent down to whisper to Godiva, ‘The day that God gave us has ended and has been blessed. The walls have gone up against the demons of the night. Are you not glad, beloved sister?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied uncertainly. The lighting of the candles had reminded her of hearth and family. She wanted to get back to the hostelry and talk to Agatha again about the stain on the dress, and she wanted to dine with Lovric and listen to his tales of charters and land-grants, envy, greed and plotting.

  ‘Then remember the gladness of this moment,’ Edward said obscurely.

  The music for the exit procession gathered momentum and the whole assembly of those who had performed the Office of Vespers now began to move slowly away from the altar, down the nave and towards the western doors of the cathedral. Godiva, able to see their faces for the first time, stared with unabashed interest at them all in turn, until, their heads hanging down and displaying their shining pates, there came the four penitents, shuffling their numbed bare feet and scratching wherever the raw wool robes chafed. They looked poverty-stricken, footsore and cringing, the beauty of their hair destroyed and all pride gone.

  At the moment when they came alongside Edward, the king put out his hand and touched the shoulder of one. He gave a nervous start and, on seeing the king, signed the cross and dropped to his knees. Godiva looked on, feeling sorry for him and wondering what offence he had committed.

  ‘Rise, poor sinner,’ said Edward. Then, giving Godiva one of his smiles of melting sympathy, he took her hand and placed it in the hand of the penitent.

  ‘My son, I give you the power to bless this woman,’ Edward said.

  For the first time the penitent looked at the woman who stood beside the king, and then he snatched back his hand in horror.

  ‘Holy Mary, she is my earthly mother!’ he gasped. ‘Godiva, why are y
ou here?’

  ‘Harry?’ Choking, she turned on the king. ‘What have you done to him?’ she shouted.

  ‘Hush! Good lady, stay quiet. We are in God’s house,’ Edward protested.

  ‘Look at him!’ she carried on in a frantic whisper. ‘You have degraded him. He cannot hold his head up and look me in the eye. I’m going to need answers about this. You were supposed to return him to us once you freed Alfgar.’

  Edward nodded sympathetically. ‘But he is free to return to you, are you not, Harry?’

  ‘Yes, I am free to go,’ Harry answered. ‘But I have chosen to stay here. I will take holy orders, mother.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Godiva hissed.

  Harry looked at the king, hoping for guidance.

  ‘You should talk alone to each other,’ he said. ‘Harry, your mother needs to understand your decision. And you will need her blessing, though you do not need her legal consent.’ He turned towards a deacon who was hovering nearby. ‘Lead this lady and this boy to the vestry and see that they are left alone.’ Then he turned back to Godiva. ‘It is well that you found out here and now what Harry has decided. The sooner he is able to begin his vocation, the better. And the sooner you know the truth, the better for the health of your soul and the peace of your mind – about which I care deeply, beloved sister.’

  A hundred questions flooded Godiva’s mind, but she stood there speechless until, after a moment of silence, Edward left.

  A little later Godiva and Harry sat facing each other in a comfortable, candle-lit room within the vestry. The doors were shut and the organ music could scarcely be heard. They were alone, it seemed.

  ‘Harry,’ she began tenderly. ‘Tell me what this means. Why are you doing penance?’

  ‘So that I can be baptised again. At Easter.’ His voice was tight with the difficulty of talking.

  ‘But that is more than half a year from now!’ she protested gently. ‘What could you have done to earn such a long period of penitence?’ She looked at him searchingly. ‘You have done something bad, I assume. But if you can tell the monks of Winchester, you can tell your own mother.’

  He lifted his head and gazed at her with such despair in his reddening eyes that she wanted to throw her arms round him like a cloak against a cold wind. But he had been away from her too long for such an embrace.

  ‘You must tell me, son. Someone will tell your father soon, and then I’ll find out anyway.’

  This time Harry gave a wan smile and for a moment something like derision seemed present in his eyes.

  Godiva struggled to retain her composure. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if you cannot tell me yet what your fault is, at least tell me what penance the bishop imposed on you. I saw another of the penitents dragging a rope. It had blood on it.’

  ‘Yes. He committed rape on a child. He was flogged this afternoon, even though he is of noble birth.’

  ‘And you?’ she whispered.

  ‘My only penance is prayer and fasting. No more than the daily routine of the monks.’

  ‘Your sins can’t be very serious then,’ she said, trying to sound hopeful. Harry didn’t reply. Godiva repeated her words. Still he said nothing, but hung his head very low. Suddenly she realized his shoulders were shaking and tears were falling on to his hands. The distance between them fell away at once and Godiva sank to the floor before him, lifted his hands and kissed them, and then took his face and kissed his wet cheeks.

  ‘My darling,’ she whispered, ‘what in God’s name have they done to you?’

  ‘Edmund’s gone,’ he said at last, his face twisted with grief.

  She waited for the gusts of sorrow to die down before asking more questions.

  ‘Who is Edmund?’ she began. Then, before he answered, she realized who he was. ‘Your page. That’s who he is, am I right?’

  Harry looked at her curiously.

  ‘I saw you together from an upstairs window,’ she said. ‘You were on horseback and he held the reins in the yard outside Wiglaf ’s hall in Oxford. He is a beautiful boy, like you.’

  He started to cry again. ‘They’ve sent him away forever. I may never see him again or hold his hand. He has to do penance for a year in Northumbria. And because he is not noble, they’ve already flogged him, in the prison in Winchester.’

  ‘Not noble? But the boy I saw was one of your foster-brothers, one of Siward’s sons. Wasn’t he?’

  ‘No. He is a churl, a poor farmer’s son.’

  ‘But what is his crime? Why a flogging for this boy?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, mother, can’t you guess? Look at me. Why am I so sad? Because I lost a friend? Just a friend?’

  Slowly, like a mist stealing across a field and changing the appearance of everything, making sheep look big as ponies and trees vanish, it dawned on Godiva what Harry meant. Instinctively she pulled her hand away, and then immediately tried to put it back, but he refused her touch.

  ‘Harry, tell me in plain words,’ she said.

  ‘I love Edmund. I love him as other men love women. That’s all there is to say.’

  The silence that sat between them was immense, a vast icefield over which nothing living moved and no horizon came in to view. Godiva did not know what to say. Harry got to his feet.

  ‘I think you should go now, mother,’ he said.

  ‘Harry,’ she whispered, ‘I love you. You are my son. Nothing will change that.’

  ‘I know, mother,’ he replied gently, but with a new dryness in his voice. ‘But your love will only help you, not me. I have to face my life as it is. There is nothing you can do for me.’

  He started towards the vestry door, but Godiva, in panic, threw herself at him and seized his arm.

  ‘Stay longer,’ she pleaded. ‘Let us talk more. We could talk about your vocation as a monk, if that’s what you want. Or we could talk about Edmund. One day I would like to meet him. Anyone who loves you will be loved by me . . .’

  He looked at her with what seemed like contempt. ‘Mother, you don’t know what you’re talking about. My life won’t be as you expected, coming to visit you at the family hearth, bringing family and friends with me . . .’

  ‘Why not? It could be, I’m sure,’ she trailed off in desperation, her longing outrunning her command of words. ‘I’ll talk to your father. I’ll explain. He’s sure to understand such things . . .’

  But Harry stood by the door now, opening it. ‘Father . . .’ he began, and then he too ran out of words. And once again a faint look of derision and pity crossed his face.

  Godiva left the cathedral without anyone seeming to notice. The king had disappeared and so had the most important priests and deacons. She supposed they were all busy now in the monkish city that sprang from one side of the cathedral, the labyrinth of Benedictine buildings that housed, fed and employed the multitude of monks amongst whom her son was now a citizen of the lowest rank – but yet a citizen. It was a whole world, able to swallow any man or boy, erasing his past and defining his future.

  The long summer’s day was dwindling into twilight as she made her way towards the hostelry. She wondered how she would tell Lovric and how he would react. Would he be disgusted, fearful and angry, or sad and compassionate? She had no idea, for love between men was not something they had ever discussed.

  Deep in thought she turned a corner, and then came to an abrupt stop. Further down the street, his back turned to her, stood her husband, talking to a well-dressed woman and her maid. Godiva, not wishing to start explaining anything to Lovric until they were alone and in private, was about to go back and find another way to the hostelry, when the woman called out, ‘Farewell, Lovric’ and started to walk towards Godiva. Lovric turned round. Inevitably he saw his wife, and both women saw each other. It was Estrith, the tall, pretty woman, the one who had spoken to him beside the inn so recently, the one who took the Bishop of Jumie`ges to her bed. She smiled at Godiva, wished her good evening, and vanished.

  ‘What are you doing out on your own at
this hour, Godiva?’ Lovric asked.

  ‘I should think you are the one with a question to answer,’ she whispered.

  ‘That woman, you’ve met her already,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘If you must know, her husband once served with me in Gloucester. I’ve known her for years.’

  ‘And is she a widow now? A bishop’s whore, with some free time to pass with old friends?’

  ‘Eva, you’ve no right,’ Lovric sighed. ‘Estrith is not my mistress, and she is not a whore. She was giving me news, that was all. You are the only woman I love. You know that. I know you do.’

  But he said it irritably, and his words made no impression on her. She was on the point of saying that nothing would surprise her any more, but that would only lead on to the subject they had to discuss with great care, as soon as possible.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘We will say no more about Estrith – or any other such woman.’

  He ignored the barb, and ignored too the utter coldness of her manner. Clearly she had been out on some business, and that was what he needed to hear about, not angry reprimands about an old love affair that had died out many years ago and which he would never, ever reveal to his wife.

  In the hostelry Agatha had swept and tidied up the chamber used by Godiva and Lovric, lit candles and put fresh wood on the fire. A pitcher of wine and another of beer stood on a table near a low bench, where there were also tankards, wine glasses and a large dish of meat pasties. Though it was late, they would have a pleasant evening tonight, she thought, and get over all the fretting of the past few days. But as soon as she heard their voices on the stairs she knew it would not be like that, and she banished herself with the merest curtsy.

  ‘Well?’ Lovric asked Godiva.

  ‘I went to pray, in the cathedral.’

  ‘Alone? Godiva, you promised me you would not go out alone.’