by Nerys Jones
There followed a silence as Godiva composed herself to deal peaceably with this abrasive woman, sent to help her, ostensibly, from Evesham.
‘Yes. I suppose you are someone the abbess sent from Evesham.’
‘Someone? I am Sister Mary of the Assumption,’ the nun declared. ‘And while I am here you are under my rule as a penitent. You are now under the authority and protection of the Abbess of Evesham. Look,’ she commanded, opening the door into the yard. Godiva stared out through strained eyes and saw two young novices standing guard on either side of her door, each holding a cross like a sentry holding up a sword.
‘I didn’t ask for this . . . guardianship.’
‘No? But you got it. Be grateful. Now go and wash and dress and put that disgraceful hair out of my sight. Then we can begin to pray.’
Since prayer was what Godiva wanted, it seemed futile to start arguing with Sister Mary about her domineering manner. Still, she wondered that her good friend, the Abbess of Evesham, had sent her this awful woman at such a trying time. She decided to let it pass and tidied herself up. A little later Sister Mary and Godiva, now dressed and with her head covered, entered Godiva’s bedchamber. The nun took one look at Godiva’s bed and refused to pray anywhere near it.
‘I can only pray with any strength in pure surroundings,’ she said, looking away disdainfully from the marital bed.
‘There is a small chamber to the side,’ Godiva said in quiet exasperation. ‘My maid sometimes sleeps there.’
‘A virgin?’
‘Yes.’
‘That will have to do. Let us begin.’
Sister Mary believed that comfort was necessary for sustained, concentrated prayer, and she quickly found four thick cushions on which they could kneel as they prayed. Godiva braced herself for tedium as the nun started to hurry through the paternoster and various psalms that seemed to have no connection with her coming penance and present state of sin.
After a while she stopped, and Godiva, assuming she would repeat herself as Father Godric always did, opened her eyes to see what was going on. To her surprise one of the young novices was standing at the open window, filling her lungs with deep breaths of fresh air. Suddenly she turned and started to sing a psalm in the sweetest, saddest voice Godiva had ever heard, a true performing voice, naturally strong and trained to perfection.
‘O Lord,’ she sang in English, looking Godiva in the eye as she pressed her hands together, ‘rebuke me not in thy anger, neither chasten me in thy hot displeasure.’ Godiva winced. This psalm was being sung for her, Godiva the penitent, and no one else on the manor.
‘Have mercy upon me, O Lord; for I am weak; O Lord, heal me; for my bones are vexed.
My soul is also sorely vexed – but thou, O Lord, how long?
Return to me, O Lord, deliver my soul; oh, save me for thy mercies’ sake.
For in my death there is no memorial to thee; in the grave who shall give thee thanks?’
Did they know she thought often of death, dreaming of the pool where drowning would be easy? How could they know that? The singer, who had paused, now resumed.
‘I am weary with my groaning. All the night I make my bed to swim and I water my couch with my tears.
Mine eye is consumed because of grief; it groweth old because of all mine enemies.’
It was true. Her eyes did look old; her enemies were many; and some who had not been enemies had wounded her even more. Her husband. Her children. Now she began to sob quietly as the singer, her voice growing stronger, continued:
‘Depart from me, all ye workers of iniquity: for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping.
The Lord hath heard my supplication; the Lord will receive my prayer.
Let all mine enemies be ashamed and sore vexed: let them go away and be at once ashamed.’
Perfect stillness now occupied the room as the singer folded her arms across her chest and bent her head in thanks for her gift of song.
Sister Mary opened her eyes and spoke softly for the first time since coming to the manor.
‘We are all sinners, Godiva. I was once a penitent like you. Though,’ she added quickly, ‘my sin was not the same as yours. Nevertheless, we all have to find the way forward from our sin, and the only way open to us is true repentance. This means far more than regret or even remorse. To purify your soul you must cease to care about your own worth, not just in the eyes of others, but – hardest of all – in your own eyes. That is what the penance you will perform in the market square of Coventry will accomplish. It will debase you, and if you willingly receive that degradation, you will be free to feel the love with which the Lord fills the universe, even in the very air you breathe. Because, you see, it is your own self that stands in the way of your own healing.’
Godiva looked at her searchingly, surprised that the bossy nun was now speaking about such ethereal things. Her eyes were cold, grey and canny, her mouth thin and hard, and her nose dominant, but her brow swept upwards in a graceful curve to her hairline. It was a face that could have been fashioned by different workmen in the same mason’s shed.
‘Yes, it is hard to let go of one’s own thoughts and feelings,’ she replied. ‘Mine have been almost drowning me recently. I even longed for death, or for a sleep that would be endless.’
‘I know,’ said the nun. ‘That was why I came here. At the abbey we prepare people for death. Penance and death are alike, and you would be surprised which people go through the fire with grace, and which ones choke on their pride and stumble on like wounded dogs, without dignity, without understanding.’
Godiva sighed deeply.
‘I know you must be afraid,’ the nun continued. ‘But we will be at your side from now until your ordeal is over.’
At that the other novice took up her position by the window to sing and started with a psalm so short that even Godiva knew it in its entirety:
‘O praise the Lord, all ye nations: praise him all ye people.
For his merciful kindness is great towards us: and the truth of the Lord endureth forever. Praise ye the Lord.’
As she repeated the psalm, the first singer joined in. On the third singing so did Sister Mary. On the fourth repetition the nuns signalled Godiva to join in. When they were sure she knew the tune, they began to sing in parts, with the first singer soaring into descant like a lark to the heavens. How like the Church, thought Godiva, to mingle the misery of penance with the sublime delight of music.
‘This little psalm is what we will sing when we walk together into Coventry on market day,’ said Sister Mary when they had finished with the sung devotions.
Godiva nodded. The penance was beginning to seem, if not less terrifying, then at least conceivable. It would have a form, and she would have companions.
‘One thing more,’ said the nun. ‘This business of you riding the horse naked and, I understand, bareback – I do not like it at all and neither does the abbess. It seems extreme. It would have been better had you walked in bare feet and in sackcloth and ashes.’ She had begun to assume her former administrative voice, the voice that crackled with authority. ‘But there we are, king’s orders. Ours not to question why, and so on. But what I want to know is this: can you do it? Have you ever ridden bareback?’
‘Of course.’
‘But naked, and without a saddle or even a saddle blanket beneath you?’
‘It will hurt.’
‘Ah,’ sighed the nun, ‘I was afraid you’d say that. I was afraid that was meant to be the main part of the penance. And it should not be. Public repentance should have been all.’ She screwed up her mouth in distaste. ‘Sometimes I think men should have no part in the spiritual discipline of women. There are some bishops . . .’ She shook her head and then she stopped abruptly, pulled herself together and repeated her mantra, ‘But there we are. Orders are orders. We must do as we are told, isn’t that so, Godiva?’
‘Indeed. That is the truth,’ Godiva agreed, nodding her head vigorously.
S
ister Mary gave her a sharp look. Godiva did not strike her as a naturally submissive woman. Agreeable, yes, but not biddable. But surely, with the horror of this penance facing her, she would not have the nerve to muster defiance of any sort, not even the weak defiance of sarcasm.
Sensing that the nun was scrutinizing her, Godiva turned her face away. She’s hiding something, thought the nun, some secret rebellion. Most penitents do. Deep in their hearts they want to subvert their penance and neutralize it, giving it some secret meaning that lets them retain ownership of their own souls. So mistaken, so futile! One plays such games with God only at great peril.
Godiva turned back to smile at Sister Mary and saw at once the suspicion in her eyes.
‘Good sister,’ she said. ‘Don’t doubt my sincerity. I will prove it to you on the day of the ride.’
Flustered at having been so well understood, the nun said nothing. As well she should, thought Godiva. The matter of my penance is between me and the king, not between me and God. The king is playing a game that I don’t yet understand. But I know one thing: for me to win, I must keep playing, too.
Sixteen
On the night before the penance, the nun suggested that Godiva go to bed early, with the novices to sing her to sleep. She herself conducted the meeting of the people of the manor and disclosed what was about to take place.
No great reaction met her words. There was acceptance, repugnance and a few tears, but in general it seemed as if people had been preparing for the worst since the prior made his announcement in church on Sunday and snatches of rumour had percolated into the manor. She examined their faces and tried to read them, but the more she looked, the less she felt she understood. Were they docile out of love of the Lord and respect for the king and the bishops? Or were they perhaps full of loyalty to Godiva and the Earl of Mercia? (She crossed herself quickly, thanking God silently that he had not returned, stopped the penance and sent her packing.) More probably these people were simply oafishly, ignorantly obedient. Then again, they might be dissimulating – raging with hidden rebellion that found no open outlet. They worried her, but soon she would be gone and they would not be her responsibility. That was the good thing about orders. You knew what you had to do, and what you could forget about.
Everyone slept soundly in the manor house that night, as if nothing special were to take place the next day, and at dawn the two novices rose quietly and woke up Sister Mary and Godiva. As soon as they were finished dressing, the nun began the last set of prayers that would precede the penance. She had decided on the simple prayer to the mother of God, Ave Maria, and when she finished Charity and Mercy repeated the invocation, ‘Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death’, singing it together like two birds nesting on the same branch, until finally the nun raised her hand to signal them to stop.
‘I hear it,’ she said. ‘The bell of the priory is tolling. It is time. Come, Godiva.’
They walked out into the deserted yard of the manor, the three sisters in white and holding up their silver crosses, and Godiva wearing only her cloak, and beneath it, against her skin, her glittering, priceless rosary. She breathed deeply and chanted the prayer to Mary over and over again without stopping, like a great sock crammed with words that she stuffed down her throat to plug it and choke her screams of anger, fear and refusal.
A groom appeared from the stable with the halter of the chosen horse in his hands. He removed the halter, and the horse, freed of his usual restraints, shook his head nervously for a few minutes, then settled down. The groom backed away, crossed himself, shook his own head disbelievingly like an angry horse and strode quickly out of the yard.
Godiva hung a bag round the horse’s neck, and then took hold of him by his pale-yellow mane. She walked him slowly towards the stone mounting block that stood near the entrance to the stables, whispering softly in his ear, ‘Starlight, my friend. Go slow. Go easy. Keep me from being hurt, dear friend.’ The nuns watched her, and though they did not approve of horse-whispering – a prayer would have been far better – they left Godiva at this moment of crisis to make her own decisions.
At the mounting block she ascended the four steps and then placed herself astride the horse’s bare white back, gripping his flanks with her knees and testing his sensitivity to being guided solely by careful tugs on his mane. She leaned forward and thanked the horse for his calm and for letting her guide him from a new direction, and then she called out to the nuns to let them know that she was ready to ride. At this, Sister Mary positioned herself to walk in front of Godiva, and started to ring a small, shrill silver handbell she had brought from Evesham, while Charity and Mercy placed themselves at either side of the horse and raised their silver crosses high. As they started to sing the chosen psalm, Godiva slipped off her cloak and let it fall onto the horse-block.
The shock of the cold morning air on her skin, and the strange sensation of the horse’s hide between her bare thighs, heightened her alertness and helped her concentrate on the difficult matter of keeping a good posture while riding bareback. It was, therefore, like hearing something at a great distance that she first heard another horse’s hooves galloping into the yard and slowing down to approach her. Like a dreamer awakening, she looked up and saw Agatha astride a horse she did not recognize, glaring at her defiantly as she swept up Godiva’s cloak from the horse-block.
‘I be coming too, mistress,’ Agatha said. ‘And when you done your penance, I’ll wrap you in this. I’ll warrant the king said nothing about you riding naked both ways.’
‘No. It will tarnish your good name. You will be ridiculed. No one will let you forget it.’
‘I doubt that, mistress. Whoever be telling your tale in times to come, it won’t be no enemy, for you ain’t got no enemies save the one that caused your clothes to fall off you today, and he don’t tell no stories in our part of England. We’d best be off now, mistress, and do this deed. And take this to sit upon as you go.’
Agatha passed Godiva a small pillow from a baby’s cot. It was filled with dried linseed and covered in white lawn linen, and when she sat on it, it disappeared into the shape of her body.
‘Thank God. Who thought of this?’
‘Mother. She ain’t so bad, after all, mistress. And she sent to say God bless.’
Sister Mary rang her little bell again and Agatha bit her lip until it turned dark red. Godiva looked up at the cloudy sky and sighed deeply.
‘I am ready,’ she said.
You could kill someone with such a thing, she thought as she pressed against the horse’s flanks. Strange how quickly skin chafes when it is unclothed. Strange too the illusion that the horse was lurching, pitching like a boat in a storm, simply because there were no reins to control his head, just that mane of hair that kept tangling with her own, both coarse and a dreary pale colour.
Suddenly the horse almost stumbled in a pothole and Godiva, realizing she had no means to regain her balance, panicked. What if this happened in the market square? Imagine what such a fall would look like as she cartwheeled to the ground with her legs flying apart above her. From behind she could hear Agatha call out ‘Steady now’ and ‘Whoa, Starlight’ and the danger passed.
But now the little pillow that sat protectively between her legs was starting to give trouble. It was comfortable, but not stable. She had to reach down and pull it back into position every so often; to any lecherous eye that chanced to see this movement of her hand, she would seem to be doing something obscene. Her nipples were indecent too, for they had grown hard in the chilly drizzle that had started falling a few minutes ago. No one who saw her in her present state would merely remark on her nakedness. No, their thoughts would be on copulation. With her.
Great God in heaven, how disgusting this ride was! You could kill someone this way.
And no doubt it actually happened, from time to time throughout the land, that some man or woman was shamed to death. Tied half-naked to a cart-tail and whipped out of the village. Put on a ducking st
ool and choked on dirty pond water and their own vomit. Hoisted upside down by one leg. Left sitting in the stocks until the stench of their own excrement mingled with that of the offal and spoiled food thrown at them the day before and left to bake overnight on their livid faces. That was ha-ha time for all the little children. These village punishments were things she had always taken for granted, never realizing it was the shame that was the killer, not the pain.
‘But then you never did notice much, did you, Godiva?’ It was Lovric’s voice, loud with exasperation. Next came Milly’s, ringing with contempt and bitter with frustration. ‘Blind! Deaf! Stupid!’
‘And who are you to be so critical of me?’ she retorted. ‘You only complained when I did not notice you – husband and daughter, both with your mountain of needs. Go to hell, Lovric and Milly, and stop tormenting me.’
Agatha noticed that Godiva was mumbling to herself and sounding distressed. They were approaching the bend in the lane where it turned towards the market square. Suddenly Starlight lost his footing and Godiva flew off his back, landing in muddy grass at the verge of the lane. Agatha jumped off her horse, wiped the mud off Godiva quickly and told her to get back up at once.
‘I can’t,’ Godiva said. ‘There’s no stirrup or mounting block.’
‘Like this,’ said Agatha, shutting her eyes and bending low so that Godiva could put one foot on her shoulder and lever herself back on to the horse.
‘Go very, very slow now,’ Agatha said. ‘Don’t worry about anything. The houses all have their shutters closed and there be no one around. The surface of the lane be good from here on. Starlight won’t stumble again.’
Godiva slowed her horse down almost to a standstill and repositioned herself carefully for the walk up the main street. There, just ahead, was the house of the fletcher, whose arrows were not in much demand in Coventry, and who kept a vicious, mangy dog, as bad-tempered as its master. And next to him was where the tinsmith lived, and his young wife who kept a dangerous sow, greedy enough to bite the arm off a small child. Starlight ambled peacefully past these normally noisy households and came alongside the inn, on the opposite side of the street. The silence here was even more startling, for no one had ever seen the inn closed and barred before. Godiva could almost see the tavern girls, crowding round near the front door, offering help to arriving travellers and sizing up those who might want special services in the woods that came close to the garden at the back of the inn. They were silent now, those big, coarse girls, but she could smell the stink of old beer and lubricated flesh that clung to them like marsh gas, as though they were actually there on the street, arms folded, eyeballing her resentfully, the lady of their town whose beauty was enough, all on its own, to make them feel like the cheapest of whores. And where was their whore-master this morning? She had pretended to respect the innkeeper ever since he turned up, just when Coventry was getting going, with a good account of his tavern outside Gloucester, a sound business plan, accuracy in making small change, and local connections who vouchsafed for him. And yet as soon as she saw him, she had known him for what he was. He was a man who bought and sold anything he could, and anyone.