by Nerys Jones
‘The manor and the town,’ she continued, ‘not much change there, mistress. People be better fed, and no one else caught cold on the manor. But the outlook for the late crops ain’t good. That mean the farmers won’t replace the cattle they had to cull, because they’ll need what money they got left to buy more grain. So milking will stay poor.’
‘And Gwen and Milly?’
‘One still a-bed, the other still a-sulking.’
‘So, no changes then.’ Godiva paused, embarrassed to have to ask her maid the next question. ‘What news from the earl?’
‘Nothing, mistress. But . . .’ Agatha hesitated.
‘Yes? Tell me.’
‘There be rumours coming from the dairy that some of the housecarls have sent to say that they would be taking ship. They were in Bristol and to sail west.’
‘Rumours!’ Godiva said angrily. ‘You mustn’t listen to them, or repeat them. They mean nothing at all!’ And yet they evidently meant a great deal to Godiva, who seemed to have plunged into sudden despair.
‘Yes, mistress,’ Agatha said, regretting the distress she had caused. And yet she had done the right thing. This was no empty rumour. Everyone in the manor and the town had heard it, and its meaning was clear: whatever was troubling the mistress, whatever had caused her to go to the legendary Egg Ring, and no matter how great the threat – she would be facing it alone. Or with a viper in her bosom.
Agatha blotted Godiva dry, rubbed lavender oil into her sore spots and dropped over her shoulders a soft new nightdress, the latest product of the sewing rooms. Usually she exclaimed with delight when something new came her way, but tonight she hardly noticed. Agatha pulled back her hair to braid it and keep it tidy for the morning, and as she did this she caught a glimpse of Godiva’s neck in the light of a candle that had been placed on a high shelf. There was a mark there that she had never seen before and, taking it to be an insect bite, she asked if her mistress would like some lavender oil on it. But Godiva recoiled as though just stung, rubbed her neck and blushed bright red. And so did Agatha, who now realized what she had found, for she had seen many of these mouth-shaped marks before, on the necks of girls whose mothers were less fierce than her own.
‘It could be a heat spot,’ she said as casually as she could manage. ‘This is the time of year for them. Better just leave it alone and it will go by itself.’
Minutes later, as Godiva started to grow warm and sleepy in her bed, Agatha sped across the yard in search of someone in whom to confide.
Odo was in the stable when Agatha burst in.
‘Take this horse out to pasture now,’ Odo said to the boy who stood nearby looking curiously at Agatha.
Once he was gone, she sat down in a crumpled heap in the straw to tell Odo her worries.
‘Mistress said nothing about heregeld,’ she concluded, ‘nor anything at all about why she had to see the king. And she knows nothing about Lovric and the housecarls going into western waters. She was longing for tidings of him, but ashamed to ask me. She looks very tired and weak, like she be sickening with something. We should be helping her now. But what can we do?’
‘Best we do nothing until we know more,’ Odo replied. ‘I tackled Arne, but he had nothing to say. None of the men who went with her to Egg Ring have any inkling of how things went with the king.’
‘I bet one of them does, though,’ Agatha said.
‘That’s what Arne said, too. But I find it hard to believe anything bad of Bret.’
But no one else, thought Agatha, would put a love-bite on Godiva. She bit her lip, though. Many women lapse, she knew, and most are not discovered. Let Godiva be one. She was about to say something misleading about Bret to distract Odo, when the stable door flew open and in he limped.
Odo left without a word and Agatha, stepping back, took in the sight of Bret’s damaged face, from which he had removed the bandage. It had swollen greatly on the left side and his ear was split.
‘You’ll get a cauliflower ear if you don’t get that dressed right now,’ she said.
‘Would you do it for me? There’s no one else to help me. Your mother won’t do it and Gwen is sick. Would you do it, please, Miss Agatha?’
She had a strong urge to box his wounded ear, or put salt into a dressing and slap it on his cuts. But she knew she should not act out of turn, for whatever she thought of him, Bret must still be in Godiva’s favour. And so, instead, Agatha decided that she would extract every bit of advantage that she could from attending to the odious man.
The stable was full of the tools of first aid, for this is where men turned up first when they had fallen or been lacerated by hanging branches. Agatha took some clean lint and wiped away the pus that oozed from beneath the badly knit new scab on his cheek. He winced, but held steady.
‘You be brave. Some men scream when we clean out wounds.’ He said nothing and she started to smear a salve on the wound. ‘Bret?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know about the king’s demand for heregeld. Everyone knows, and everyone be afraid. What happened at Egg Ring? Did mistress say the right words? Has she persuaded the king to leave us be?’
Bret ignored her.
‘I won’t carry on treating your face unless you tell me,’ she said, putting one hand on a hip and wagging a finger in his face as Bertha would.
‘Listen, girl,’ he said, seizing her wrist roughly and twisting it, ‘this is too serious for gossip.’
‘Listen, boy, my mistress be too good for you. You left a red mark on her neck last time. I know it were you. If I tell people about that mark, everyone will believe you done it. We all seen how she looks at you.’
Bret got to his feet, glanced round to see if they were alone, and before Agatha could guess what he was going to do, he put his strong fingers round her slender neck and slowly, as he whispered in her ear, began to squeeze.
‘If you threaten me again,’ he breathed, ‘I’ll kill you. And make it look like a horse kicked your face in.’ He released his grip on her neck, but kept a tight hold on her arm. Agatha, reeling and choking, tried to catch her breath. ‘What do you want for your silence? Money? Answer me! What do you want?’
No one, not even Bertha, had ever terrified Agatha so much. ‘Not money,’ she managed to whisper.
‘What then?’
‘Knowledge. Mistress be looking terrible. I know something was agreed at Egg Ring. Must have been. Then why don’t she say? Because it must be something bad.’
‘Why must you know?’ he asked, holding her at arm’s length and looking at her searchingly.
‘Because I be afraid of what might happen next. She might run away, like the earl, and leave us to be raided. Or she might kill herself, like them vagrants over in Stivichall. You could tell me, at least a little bit, about what is going to happen next. If you ever loved her even for a minute, tell me.’
Bret stepped back, still staring at her, and noticed her small fingers knitting together in ceaseless agitation. Suddenly he pictured them at night, unbraiding Godiva’s hair and brushing it down like a white horse’s fair mane. He breathed heavily, clenched his fists and forced himself to think of Godiva as a peaceful corpse who would never trouble any man again. After moments of holding this image in his mind, he calmed down enough to deal with Agatha.
‘Finish with my face,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you.’
Agatha bustled to give his wounds the best and gentlest dressing she could and then she waited.
‘I can’t explain my part in your mistress’s life,’ he began, ‘and I don’t expect anyone to forgive me. I loved her more than she will ever believe, and far more than I wanted to, but that’s over now. And I’m trapped. I can’t help her.’
‘Well?’
‘She is to undergo an ordeal.’
Agatha leaped as if burned. ‘What will they do to her? And why?’
‘A penance. You will find out when the time comes. She will need comforting afterwards. Be ready, and get others ready. Talk of h
er with nothing but appreciation in the next few days. Remember her kindness to you all. Spread a rumour that she has ended the threat of heregeld. This will probably turn out to be true.’
‘But what has she done wrong? Why a penance?’
‘Done? Nothing really. She is wife to a man the king calls an enemy. But no one believes Lovric is really an enemy. Godiva provoked envy, because she is far more beautiful than Queen Edith. But the king is not attracted to women, at least not in the usual way. Nor is she a witch, though she is ignorant of theology and tolerates minor sins. But everyone is like that.’
‘Then what?’
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t understand, Agatha.’
‘I understand more than you think. I knew what you were up to as soon as you showed your face here. And I knew you were pretending to love her, and that yet you really do love her too, both at the same time. If I had better words I could say this plainer. But I do understand, even what I can’t say.’
‘Yes? Well, try this. The king likes to dream up stories, but his tales are about real people. He draws them in and then watches them struggle as they try to get out of the net he has thrown round them. He can do this because he is a king . . .’
‘And a child! That’s not so hard to understand. We have a man like that here, in the hall, and I had an uncle who was a mischief-maker like that. No one believes a word they say, but everyone pretends to. King Edward never grew up. That’s all there is to say about him.’
‘But the king’s jokes are far from idle. And you can never be sure who his victims are supposed to be.’
‘Godiva and the earl, I reckon.’
‘Yes, but others too. Me, for example. It’s possible no one will ever know.’
‘He is clever, then. Doing things in such a way that he can never be blamed for what happens at the end of his story.’
‘You do understand. You are clever too, and very pretty.’
He stooped to kiss her hand and Agatha shuddered when his lips touched her skin. Poor Godiva, she thought, how she must miss her poisoned paradise.
‘I want to make amends for frightening you,’ Bret said, extending his hand. ‘I don’t think I’m going to need this, and it might help you to marry a good man. In return, you could pray for me sometimes.’
He pressed a small leather pouch into her hand and then, instead of heading back to the hall to sleep, he mounted his horse and rode out.
Agatha stared after him for a long time until she realized he had left the manor. Only then did she open the bag. It was full of silver coins, which she took to be his winnings from gaming. She picked up one of the enclosed glass lamps used in the stable and started to examine the coins, and then she realized they could not have been won at gambling, for they were newly minted. She raised the leather to the light and was just able to make out the crest stamped on the inside. It was a crown. The bag had come from the royal mint and, like the coins, it was utterly new. Bret must have received it at Egg Ring, as payment for something.
‘Holy Mother Mary,’ said Agatha, feeling like a criminal and falling to her knees in the straw. ‘What in God’s name should I do with this?’
Bret was approaching the bridge on London Road when he saw them. The moon had come out and, in its steely blue light, the white of their tunics had taken on a phosphorescent glare and the red of their crosses a colour that was dark as old blood. He saw at once that the riders’ heads were so completely encased in helmets that no one could tell which men were those who were coming to Coventry from Cleley. His heart thundered as they got nearer. They had come upon him sooner than he expected and he felt unready. Their hidden faces unsettled him, too. He would be out of luck if one of them was the guard who beat him up a few days ago. Rapist, the man had spat at him, and then battered his head with the boss at the centre of his shield.
For a moment the urge to escape gripped him. But he could see no pathway leading away from the road and nowhere at all to hide. Now it was too late. One of the men had already spotted him and urged his horse forward. Seconds later he had the reins of Bret’s horse in his grasp. The man pulled up his visor and Bret was relieved to see a young face that he did not recognize. But then the other man arrived and took over the situation.
‘Bret,’ he said, removing his helmet. ‘Your orders were to stay in Coventry until you were told to leave.’
Bret trembled. ‘My mission is already over, lord bishop. They told me in Egg Ring that the woman is going to agree to the king’s demands.’
‘It was not for you to decide when your mission was over. Why did you leave Coventry?’
He had taken off his mailed glove, but Bret, though he knew what would follow, could think of nothing to say to save himself.
‘You were disobeying orders,’ the man insisted. ‘You were running away. Why?’
‘I was in danger of discovery.’
‘That would have been your fault.’
The expected slap on the mouth did not materialize. The senior officer turned to confer with his colleague for a moment and then told Bret to dismount. Both soldiers now dismounted too and drew their swords, the younger one standing behind Bret and the senior going ahead towards the riverbank. No one said anything. There would be no further questions, Bret knew. The senior man had the authority to decide what to do with him, and really there was little choice. They could not turn him loose, nor could they take him with them on their mission to Coventry. Suddenly Bret found he did not have full control of his legs. He looked up at the bright full moon and thought he saw in it the lovely face of the young girl who had lain with him, willingly he was sure, though she had put up a struggle and was too young to lie with any man. How sweet that was. But later she had called it rape. He closed his eyes and thought of Godiva. She too was sweet and, for a woman of her age, innocent. He wondered when she would find out the truth about him. He wondered whether she would survive the penance. He wondered if the man behind him was a skilled swordsman, or one who understood the garrotte. And then he slipped at the edge of the river and could not get up again. He flailed for a few minutes in the shallow water under the soldier’s heavy heel, and then he lay still. The moon disappeared and the soldiers cursed as they stumbled back to their horses in the dark.
Prior Edwin was expecting them. He had sent all his monks to an early bed and given orders that no one but he should answer the door during the night. He himself had spent the entire day praying. Just a little before the midnight hour, they arrived, swathed in heavy cloaks to disguise their white tunics as they rode into Coventry, and with their visors pulled down over their faces. Their legs were wet, though there had been no rain all day, and they had a riderless horse following behind them.
‘Put this one in your stables and hide him,’ said the older of the two soldiers. ‘In the morning get your butchers to slaughter him and burn the remains. If anyone asks, say he was found roaming and he was sick.’ The man dismounted, while Edwin, rooted to the ground, stared at him. ‘Get on with it,’ said the officer.
‘All my monks are asleep, as you ordered,’ the prior protested.
‘So what? You do it.’
‘Me?’ Edwin bridled. ‘I am the prior here. You can’t give me orders. I’ll tell my bishop.’
The officer looked at him pityingly, and then took off his glove and put out his hand. Edwin stared in growing confusion at the huge ruby set in thick gold clasps that sat on the officer’s ring finger, a ring that he now raised imperiously to the prior’s floundering lips.
‘I am your bishop,’ the stranger said. ‘Now stable that horse and get us some food.’
A few minutes later the prior returned with straw clinging to his robes and a long, bleeding scratch on his forehead.
‘Everything is to your liking?’ he asked, feigning confidence.
‘Show us to your room, prior,’ said the younger man. ‘We have come to the conclusion that austerity is not equally distributed in this establishment of yours. It would be good for you to sample your
own guest quarters. Now!’ he barked, as Edwin remained immobile.
In despair, the prior picked up a candle and ushered them through the narrow corridor that led to his private quarters. As he walked he started coughing noisily, and the two visitors exchanged glances. Once the door to the prior’s room was open, the bishop pushed Edwin aside and strode in. There, as he expected, a young boy was smoothing out the bed.
‘Still nice and warm is it, son?’ asked the bishop, glancing round the large room, noting its good oak furniture, its colourful tapestries and the large fire crackling in the hearth. ‘And what is this?’ he asked, picking up a flask of wine and sipping directly from its lip. ‘Not English, is it? Burgundian perhaps. Expensive, certainly. There really is nothing that helps in the reform of the Church so much as inspecting the distant parishes in person.’ Then he turned back to the boy and his tone changed. ‘Out you go, you little whore.’ The boy fled and the bishop turned on the prior. ‘I will have more to say about the state of this priory, but not yet. First you must take your orders.’
‘Yes, lord bishop,’ Edwin mumbled.
‘Get that woman, Godiva, in here as soon as possible. Offer her your help in preparing her and the town for the penance. You must agree a day with her as to when she will do it – in about two weeks’ time. As soon as we know the day we will leave you and return to the king. Two men and guards of the king’s household will return on the night before the penance is to be performed, and you will lodge them in your quarters. Now, repeat what I just said.’
Miserably, Edwin complied. Then, taking his candle, he found his way back to the draughty guest room and lay down to sleep. The boy tried to placate him, but Edwin pushed him away roughly.
‘Pay attention, Cherub,’ he grumbled. ‘Those two are going to stay up there in my room as long as they are at the priory. You’ll have to wait on them. But no special favours, mind, or I’ll kick you down the stairs and back to Bristol market myself.’
Cherub, who was relieved that Edwin would not meddle with him tonight, went to the edge of the bed, where he pretended to cry at the rejection. But it was Edwin who was the truly unhappy one in that hard bed – deeply and wretchedly rueful, and unable to sleep most of the night for thinking what a fool he had been to bring the wrath of Mother Church upon his head. And all to bring Godiva down a peg or two. How he wished now that he had left well alone. How easy his life had been under her benign governance. What had he been thinking of on that fateful day when he gave Bret an audience? And then, a little later, when he gave Bret what he wanted – stories about witchcraft, stories about the earl’s infidelities on his travels, stories about this and that; a bit of truth and a lot of plausible guesswork. He knew it was all destined for the ears of the king, and he didn’t care. But now he did, now that his days at plush St Mary’s were probably numbered.