My Man Godric

by Cooper, R.

  “They came at night.” Bertie focused back on Godric, pausing to see the man moving closer to him as though this was one of Bertie’s dreams after all. “I had no time to send you the message I promised. I’m sorry.”

  He had made that promise to send for Godric half in jest and half distracted at the intensity in Godric’s voice. The tempting heat of Godric had been near and yet Godric had seemed furious, quietly shaking at Bertie’s stupidity in staying behind while the rest of the world had ridden off to possible war. Perhaps it was his peasant upbringing, but Godric had little tolerance for fools. Bertie was nothing if not foolish.

  “It is I who should apologize, my lord,” Godric told him now, the same furrow between his eyes that had made him seem so fierce then. “When I heard the report of Green Men in the west descending the mountains….” He stopped and Bertie swayed, just a little, at his proximity.

  In Bertie’s dreams of this reunion he had not swayed. But in his dreams, he had also been clean and Godric’s eyes had lit like new year bonfires to see him again. In his dreams, no one had died.

  “My lord.” That was Godric’s name for him, never Bertie, and never Lord Aethelbert anymore. “I am sorry I could not come for you myself, that I had to send others in my place. But I could not leave here, and I had to know if you were alive.” There was a small pause between the last two words, then Godric wiped at his face with an unbearably weary heaviness.

  Bertie blinked down at his beloved, tired and just a touch confused.

  “You had your duty.” Because this was obvious, surely. He understood it well. Without duty, Bertie would have followed Godric from the Keep and never looked back. It was his duty to care for the people in his brother’s absence as it was Godric’s to protect Bertie no matter how vexing he found Bertie’s devotion to him.

  Bertie stared longingly into Godric’s piercing eyes at the thought, knowing that he was breathing hard and distantly aware that Godric also seemed to be struggling to find air, though Bertie did not wish to spoil this reunion by asking him why.

  “As lovely and poetic as it would have been to see you ride in to rescue me, Godric my love, I would never have asked it of you.”

  Godric’s head went back at his words, color in his face, and Bertie froze. He honestly hadn’t meant to embarrass Godric again. The last time had been enough.

  “You should not speak in such a way to one such as me,” Godric tried to argue and Bertie tossed his head. His vision swirled as he did, his pulse racing. Something kicked at his chest and a week of frightened and harried travel hit him all at once. He was so very tired. He swayed once more, and brave, protective Godric caught him with one hand at his arm.

  Bertie fell forward at the touch, bending to press himself against Godric’s chest and inhaling the stink of tents and a soldier’s camp, sweaty living Godric, iron and leather and all manner of unpleasant, beautiful odors.

  Perhaps the others in the room remarked on it, or perhaps they were long used to Bertie’s madness and said nothing, but Bertie did not look on them or hear a sound that didn’t come from the man holding him up.

  Godric’s chest moved rapidly with his breath, the mail warm but hard beneath his shirt. The patches of his bare skin felt hot. He pulled his hand back from Bertie’s arm, but as always, he did not push Bertie away.

  It was consideration for Bertie’s rank, Bertie knew, and felt ashamed of himself for the small moment of advantage and weakness, but he shivered gratefully just the same. He thought that with enough time spent like this, the warmth might return to his bones at last and food would once again tempt his unhappy stomach.

  “Oh my war-like Godric,” he sighed to the throbbing vein at Godric’s throat, with Godric’s short beard against his mouth. “I am happy to see you unharmed as well.”

  Godric drew in a deep breath, then swallowed.

  But before he could speak something wriggled between them, a fierce, annoyed wriggle that ended Godric’s words before they began. He stepped back to stare down at the front of Bertie’s loose, borrowed peasant clothing, and then Godric—the other Godric—poked his furry head out of the neck of Bertie’s shirt, blinking yellow eyes and offering the room a meow that was as pitiful as how Bertie felt.

  ~~~

  A few of the knights had found it amusing, Bertie reflected, feeling a sad sort of amusement as well as he stayed still under a mound of warm blankets that smelled of sweat and horse and, quite possibly, seed.

  It was a tantalizing thought, or torturous, if he considered that Godric could have been with others here. The love of his heart had taken other soldiers to his bed, if stories were to be believed, and Bertie had no reason not to believe them. Godric was a great man, and Bertie was not the only one to see it. He was simply the one who did not mind the world knowing at whose feet he longed to rest.

  Godric—the wrong Godric, the feline Godric—was curled up at his side, asleep. The cat was skin and bones but Bertie feared he did not look much better. It had been some time since he’d sat down to a feast or even considered food anything but fuel to keep his body going. Two months in fact. He must look worse than he’d imagined.

  Godric the man, as well as the others present the night before, certainly had not seemed pleased with Bertie’s appearance. They had watched Bertie remove his thin cloak and seen his exposed, bony wrists and sagging, loose clothing and made noises of protest. Godric in particular had seemed much agitated when Bertie had stumbled, yet again, while trying to explain why the cat had been fed but he had not. Then as though Bertie was not a fully grown, quite tall man, Bertie had found himself picked up and carried to the smaller enclosure in the tent and deposited here, in Godric’s very bed, from Godric’s very arms.

  The bed was not made of feathers and it was low to the ground, but it was also very warm and indecently scented of Godric. Despite Bertie’s insistence that he would not drive Godric from his own bed, he had fallen asleep to the sound of the unhappy captain relating their journey from the forests around the Keep to here to everyone in the other room.

  Bertie recalled his own voice sleepily interrupting all those stark, bare facts of days with little to eat and freezing, huddled nights without fire, to entreat Godric to care for his people. He must have been loud, or possibly irritating enough, that Godric had returned to his bedside to stare down at him. Only when Godric had finally nodded had Bertie given in and closed his eyes, knowing that even a nod meant Godric had given his word.

  Godric doubtless would have cared for Bertie’s people anyway, and if Bertie had not been so weary and craving Godric’s presence, he would have not demanded such a promise from him. But he’d had visions of the people from the Keep spending another night with growling bellies and no blankets and none of Bertie’s stories to keep their spirits up. Bertie had never told so many stories as he had to keep the fears of the Widow’s children at bay, though he was as well-known for his wild tales as he was for chasing after Godric. His stories were always taken from his dreams, as was often the way with some of his mother’s people. Bertie liked to call them stories, though he knew Godric had another name for them. Godric thought many of them to be visions, and even when Godric was angry with Bertie he had believed in listening to them.

  Godric, as Bertie remembered from their long ago days of conversation, took even the dreams of a mad nobleman into consideration, because Godric considered every possible outcome in great detail, not just the outcomes he would like to consider, as Bertie did.

  Sometimes Bertie felt as if those dreams were all he had. It was not as if he had anything else to offer someone such as Godric.

  Even now he was dirtying up Godric’s bed. There was movement in the outer room, but for one more moment, Bertie stayed where he was, holding onto his dreams for a bit longer. In this dream, when Godric had come to him to say goodbye, Bertie had kissed him and twined a wreath of flowers into his hair as tradition demanded. Then in another, Bertie would do the same again when Godric rode off to battle without him
, as Godric more than likely would.

  Then the spirit of his brother, and his father, and his mother, and even the Widow Flanders, compelled Bertie to his feet. He had slept too long as it was, as the growing light creeping into the tent told him.

  Once in the outer room he stopped in place and rubbed at his eyes. Then he smiled.

  Godric was standing at attention near the table, and near the opposite corner of the tent by three braziers hot even at a distance, was a small bathing tub.

  “I love you,” Bertie told him by way of good morning. Godric’s shoulders went back and his glance over was gently reproving though he said not a word. He was wearing armor and a long fur cloak. Bertie’s shoulders felt tired just imagining the weight.

  Godric was armed as well, though he did not wear a helmet and carried no shield. So no battle was imminent then, but there was worry enough to have him ready for one. Bertie tried to keep his smile and conceal his concern, but feared he failed.

  Godric seemed to misunderstand his frown and gestured toward the bathwater. “Enjoy it. It might be your last chance for some time unless you are willing to risk a stream.”

  Bertie shivered as he removed his gold and rubbed at his sore neck. “I am far too delicate for an icy stream, Godric, everyone knows that.”

  “Delicate,” Godric repeated, his chin rising slightly. It fell again when skin-and-bones Godric headed over to curl around his feet. Not hiding his envy of a cat, Bertie sighed, then set to work untying the leather straps on his boots. “You are perhaps soft, my lord, but not delicate,” Godric mused, possibly to himself for he did not look at Bertie. “A delicate man would not have survived in those mountains with winter approaching and danger behind every tree. A delicate man would not have made a journey of nine days in seven, with injured and weak people to care for and only his stories of Camlann to keep them warm.”

  Godric stared at the cat that bore his name and so did not see Bertie freeze with his hands on his shirt hem.

  “My people? You saw to them.” Bertie had no doubt Godric had cared for them, but he could not add to his burdens. Once he was clean and dressed, he would go out and see to them himself. His shoulders and neck still felt heavy but Bertie was not certain the gold was entirely to blame.

  “As requested, my lord.” Godric nodded, going on when Bertie sighed again, with pleasure this time. “Beds found. Mouths fed. Wounds bandaged, as needed.”

  “Praise the Lady. Thank you, Godric.”

  “I spoke to them,” Godric offered, and Bertie glanced over curiously when this was all Godric seemed about to say. Godric generally didn’t offer much in conversation unless they were alone, and even then it was usually at Bertie’s instigation, not that Bertie was complaining. He could spend hours prodding Godric to talk, to explain how he thought out steps before taking action, to offer his thoughts on everything from Northern food to the cut of Bertie’s hem, without growing tired of it. He rather liked the victory of getting Godric to speak at all, and of knowing that few others shared his confidences. But this time he did not have to wait long before Godric continued.

  Godric hesitated once more, it was true, but only for the smallest moment. “I spoke to Torr also.”

  “Torr? Oh your unhappy captain.” Bertie realized with a small start that the man had never offered his name and had been content for Bertie to address him as “Godric’s man-at-arms”. “He was not pleased to be sent on that mission, was he? Go find the king’s fool brother if he’s not already dead, when he was clearly needed here.” Bertie went on when Godric seemed startled and ready to interrupt him. “Oh, don’t lie to me now, Godric, or be polite. I walked through this camp last night. This isn’t close to the entire army. This is barely a full company. What’s happening? Where’s my brother? Where’s everyone else? You should not have worried about me.”

  He stopped there and swallowed because that had not been an easy thing to say, though it had sounded quite kingly, in a certain way, like something from a long cycle of warrior poems.

  “I do not want to imagine the winter you would have faced if I had not.” Godric swung his gaze up from the cat. For all his talk of winter, his gaze was so very warm.

  “Neither do I, my love,” Bertie exhaled, then flinched at his choice of words. “I… sorry. I know things must be different in the South. I did not mean to offend you with my ways.”

  North or South, Bertie was crazy, it was fact. He wasn’t sure why he had to say whatever was on his mind the moment he had the thought, but he always seemed to, to his eternal embarrassment and shame. Just as he had been intrigued enough to befriend Godric when he’d first come to court and to loudly defend him from anyone daring to scorn him for his low birth, he had just as noisily realized that he’d fallen in love with Godric and confirmed his own reputation for idiocy by announcing his affection to the world before he’d ever thought to say it directly to Godric, and in doing so seemed to have driven Godric away.

  For far too long after that there had been no more careful talks over tea or vaguely amused lectures on how to better ride a horse. Since then, until word of the raiders had come to them at the Keep, there had been only distance and “my lord” between them.

  “I am not offended,” Godric interrupted, then cleared his throat. “There are several companies with your brother in the capital, preparing to move north.”

  “You’re not with him?” Bertie threw his shirt to the floor. He was cold, but it was a relief to his sensitive skin to have it off. He pulled at his belt and the waist of his breeches until they fell too.

  When there was no answer, only a sudden, tense kind of silence, he looked up. Godric was regarding the cat with concentration, as though its shaggy fur was inspiring him to formulate a battle plan. Since that was unlikely, Bertie could only assume that once again he’d shocked Godric, though this time he hadn’t said a word.

  Someday, Bertie was going to make the journey south to find if others there were so prudish. The first time Godric had witnessed the drunken dancing and wild loving of Keep’s harvest festival, he had flushed to his ears and stared, flat-eyed and undoubtedly disapproving, as Bertie had consumed glass after glass of wine and then called to him from the fields, begging for a dance, a kiss, a tumble.

  Admittedly, the mysticism of the night tended to go to Bertie’s head, as did the flagons of wine and sweet honey cakes. Of course, he had often wondered, tortured himself, if it could have been the difference in their positions holding Godric back and not mere distaste for Bertie, but the workers and field hands of the valley around the Keep had never hesitated to join in the festivities with anyone who was willing, whatever their status. During the last yield of the harvest, as the new year and winter approached, with the moon high and the sky dark, there was no difference between noble and peasant. At least not to be seen from the shadows of the bonfires. So as respectful as Godric always was of Bertie, never failing to forget his title, this could not be the reason.

  Nonetheless, the drunken love around the Keep bonfires was precisely why autumn was Bertie’s favorite time of year. Travelling from the capital with a smaller court was an additional reason to love it, but mostly the Keep was dear to him because it meant days of riding with just Godric and a relative handful of others and heading toward festivities which promised him yet another chance to have Godric to himself amongst those bale fires.

  He looked over at Godric, who continued to avert his eyes, and then stepped into the tub. The water was lukewarm but it felt divine. Bertie moaned low in his throat.

  “I… am sorry there is no soap for you.” Godric’s voice was barely a whisper and stayed rough even when he coughed. Bertie merely stared at him, deliriously contemplating the water lapping at his chest and the rush of feeling that colored Godric’s face when he finally looked over. “I have advised the king and his ministers, but I could not leave the rest of the country undefended or allow us to be outflanked. Though the north, by sea, is to their greatest advantage, a determined, vengeful
enemy might attempt other routes.”

  “Like over the Western Mountains.” Bertie realized he was staring and ducked to get his hair wet and scrub his scalp.

  “…Thought that unlikely, but possible,” Godric continued as Bertie brought his head back up. “They were over-ambitious in trying. Those mountains are difficult enough for one caravan during the summer. An army could not make it.”

  “Enough of one did,” Bertie replied sharply, then slapped a hand to his mouth. He glanced over helplessly.

  Godric looked at him again, but only to bow his head as though Bertie were welcome to put a sword to his neck. “The failure is mine.”

  “No. No.” First bath in two months or not, Bertie stood up, gesturing until he saw Godric’s gaze on him. It travelled down, then slowly came back to his face. “You tried to tell me.” Bertie’s voice softened without his permission, perhaps at the renewed cold that left him trembling, or the heat in his blood at odds with his prickling skin. But he remembered that moment all too well, the morning light blinding as it had bounced off Godric’s armor, the cheers and cries from the people outside, silence between them as he’d fought not to say anything.

  Godric seemed to as well. The distance between them had never been so great, and then Godric plucked a length of fabric from the table and came forward to offer it as a towel. Bertie took it without turning away, compelling Godric to look at him. “You tried to tell me, but I stayed behind and ordered the soldiers to go.”

  “You had your obligation, my lord.” He could not tell if Godric was answering obediently or teasing him. Most people would have teased since Bertie had never been the sort of talk of responsibilities. But Bertie’s mind was clouded and dizzy with all of Godric near and attending to him and he could not seem to think clearly.