* * * * *
The birds were singing in the trees, but the hawks that sat on the hawker’s gloves were silent as the royal cavalcade rode out through Rockingham Forest.
The court was making one of its periodic changes of location, and they were on their way towards the southern reaches of Mercia. At the moment, however, they were staying at the king’s hunting lodge in Gumley by the River Welland, south of Leicester and nine miles from the edge of Rockingham Forest, a location unrivalled throughout the kingdom for its hawking.
At their head rode Offa and his family, Egfrid near the back, his expression sulky; Cynethryth riding side-saddle with her daughters Edburgh, Ethelburgh, Elfreda and Elfleda on either side. Their retinue came close behind them, including Earl Brorda, Bishop Ceolwulf, and Elmund the chamberlain. Godiva rode at his side.
It was always pleasant to quit the smoky, stuffy confines of the palace for the more relaxed atmosphere of the king’s hunting lodges, but the trees looming overhead seemed oppressive. She caught herself thinking of Oswald again. Why did everything revolve around who she was going to marry? The only person who had shown any consideration for her own feelings in the matter was the queen. Maybe her highness had been right, and she should take up holy orders. But she felt uneasy about the queen, inexplicably disquieted. She would never accuse the queen of lying, but it was impossible to accept that Oswald had done as she had claimed.
However, there was now more news of Oswald, even harder for Godiva to accept, and yet easing her suspicions regarding the queen. Robbers in the Forest of Arden had ambushed a monk, and one of the attackers had answered to Oswald’s description. The monk admitted that he had only seen the man at a distance, but the leader of the robbers had been Edwin the Lawless, in whose company Oswald had fled Tamworth...
‘Still brooding, daughter?’ Her father rode closer. ‘Just wait until you see my hawk fly again. That’ll raise your spirits.’ The thralls rode in their train, one with Elmund’s hawk held high on his gauntlet.
Godiva smiled wanly at her father, but said nothing. Her father had never realised that hawking was not her favourite pastime, although she found it preferable to sitting in the queen’s bower, sewing amidst an atmosphere of spite and malicious gossip.
The king called a halt. They were some way into the wild wood by now, and had reached the bank of a stream overgrown with willows.
‘We shall eat here, boy,’ he told the leader of the thralls. He and his fellows went to unpack the hampers, while the nobles dismounted and found places to sit upon the grass. Godiva sat beside her father, amongst the men. As the thralls started bringing over the food, she looked up.
‘Godiva, dear,’ the queen called from nearby, where she sat with her daughters and their maidservants. ‘Come and sit with us! Leave your father to talk men’s matters with my husband. You don’t want them boring you!’
Godiva’s father looked uncomfortable, then smiled. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said. ‘Don’t let us bore you.’
A little unwillingly - she found even her father’s conversation more interesting than women’s gossip - Godiva moved over to join the queen’s party.
‘I hear you wish to become a nun, dear,’ said Princess Ethelburgh, smiling placidly at her.
‘Well…’ said Godiva quickly.
‘I never want to be a nun,’ said her sister, Princess Edburgh, her voice spiteful. ‘I’m for a worldly life. Give me a husband who’ll do my bidding, and a strong kingdom, and I’ll call myself happy.’
‘Shameless wench!’ said Cynethryth, exchanging a fond smile with her favourite daughter. She turned politely to Godiva.
‘So you’ve made your decision, then?’ she asked.
Godiva looked down at the ground.
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Not really. I mean - I don’t think I want to be a nun.’
Cynethryth’s face fell, but then she smiled again.
‘Talk to her, Ethelburgh,’ she instructed
By now, the thralls had set out a collation of cold meats and vegetables, and the assembled party set to with gusto. Princess Ethelburgh sat at Godiva’s side, and spoke at length on the joys of a cloistered life.
‘And it isn’t so far removed from being a great lady,’ she said as Godiva picked daintily at the first course. ‘You own an estate; you have servants, a high standing in society…’ Ethelburgh was Offa’s youngest daughter, and had been brought up from childhood expecting to enter the Church.
‘But surely that’s only if you become an abbess,’ Godiva objected. She found the girl’s monologue almost as tedious as the drone of the wasps that buzzed around the food. ‘I’m not so sure I’d be guaranteed so high a position.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re eminently suited,’ said Queen Cynethryth from nearby. ‘Now, dear, why don’t you have a drink? You must be thirsty.’ She passed a goblet of wine over.
Godiva took it gratefully, conscious that all the queen’s daughters and handmaidens were watching her. They must be jealous of the attention the queen was giving her. If she was honest, she found Cynethryth’s smiles and kind words more than a little cloying, and again she wondered at the woman’s motives. She raised the goblet to her lips thoughtfully.
She frowned, and stared down at it. Beneath the soft odour of wine, she could detect something sour, bitter. Colouring under everyone’s stares, she quickly lowered the goblet, setting it down hurriedly, her hand shaking and inadvertently spilling it on the grass.
‘I’m sorry!’ she said wildly, ‘but I think there’s something wrong with it! It smells awful!’
The queen gave her a cold stare, and Godiva realised that she had made a mistake.
‘Or maybe it’s too rich for me,’ she added hurriedly, desperately wishing the earth would swallow her up. ‘My father keeps a simple table.’
‘No, no, my dear,’ replied Cynethryth icily. ‘I’m sure the wine must have been badly kept. Boy!’ she added, snapping at a passing thrall. ‘Who’s responsible for this?’
The thrall stared strangely at her.
‘But my lady, you told me to put…’
‘Silence!’ said Cynethryth harshly. ‘Get her something else.’ She smiled brightly at Godiva, who squirmed with embarrassment and stared down at the ground. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear.’
The Sword of Wayland Page 21