Godiva (19 page)

The outskirts were defined by earth berms and defensive dykes, with wooden trestle-bridges that her horse was skittery to cross. There must have been nearly a thousand souls living within, and the effect was not salubrious: there was filth, noise, and visual chaos; the broad dirt streets wafted odors of feces and urine, rotting vegetables, and general garbage; noisome odors curled her nostrils from the dyers and tanners upwind of them. There were more than a few decomposing animals, especially rats and dogs, along the road, and the smell made her gorge rise.

But within a few streets, something like order and industry began to emerge. There were wells and cesspools, and the roads were in better repair. They skirted a huge square, itself as large as all Coventry, and so crowded with farmers and their animals that wattle enclosures had been erected to keep the nervous livestock organized. As they moved deeper in, the streets became more regular, the buildings built of better wood and daub and tighter thatch, and more varied in their purposes: here were the cozy shops of the bakers; the smiling brewers and the grimacing blacksmiths and bone-workers; the clustered, chattering spinners and weavers. People wore bright clothing, in all styles—loose tunics, fitted tunics, extremely fitted tunics; loose gowns, fitted gowns—some of which Godiva eyed with envious approval, feeling weighed down by her dour pilgrim's gear. The noise grew maddeningly loud: peddlers screeching about their wares, unruly children playing loud games in the dirt, chickens hysterically protesting being carried upside down, pigs squealing, dogs barking, and too many souls passing themselves off as minstrels, often competing for attention on the same corner. It was absolute cacophony.

Godiva loved it.
Someday Coventry will be like this,
she thought, and smiled.
And it will be mine.

As they reached the gates of Hereford Manor, the bells tolled Vespers, and Sweyn invited the countess and Druce to a meal, as he had prevented their dinner and it was close to supper now. They ate briefly—oysters, cold meat and cheese, and bread. Godiva accepted a gold chain from Sweyn, a gift of gratitude for having diverted him from disaster. And then Godiva and Druce set off from the city to get in a few hours' ride toward Worcester before dark.

CHAPTER 19

Worcester

G
odiva and Druce had to get through the passes of the Malvern Hills, and Edgiva already had half a day on them. So they rode hard, stopping at a farm finally when the waning moon was all the light left for the road. Godiva was given the farmer's only cot, and they were off again early the next morning. They reached the outskirts of Worcester before sunset.

When they came to their lodging, Edgiva and the rest of the men had not arrived.

This was no cause for alarm, Godiva realized; they were all riding slowly. She calculated that even if Edgiva and the men were to stop for the night somewhere soon, they would no doubt start early again in the morning and reach Worcester by noon. At the latest. Surely.

Druce set up his sleeping roll outside the door of the small closet she would sleep in.

Patience was a virtue Godiva lacked. By noon the next day, there was no sign of them, and she sent Druce to look out the westward gate of the town. She paced the room in terrible distraction. She wanted to go out, but she wanted to be here, present, the moment they arrived. If it were taking them so long to travel, that must mean Edgiva had dreadful morning sickness, and could not let the men know it. What a miserable experience it must be for her—and they had days ahead of them to ride yet. When Druce came back, Godiva would go to the market and find something to pad her saddle seat, or soften the pillion. Or perhaps they should buy an extra horse and make a palanquin? There was no way to know what best to do until she arrived.

When would she arrive?

Unable to wait any longer, feeling caged in the small room, Godiva decided to venture to the western gate and wait there with Druce. It would mean dragging herself about in this terribly dour nunlike dress and, worse, walking through all the dreck and clamor of the town, but even the smell of rotting meat would be a welcome distraction from the state she was in now. She went down the narrow ladder to the ground floor of the house, told the first servant who approached her that she was going out, and received her mantle from him.

This house was in an outer neighborhood of the newly rebuilt city, just above the Roman walls, north of the stone cathedral dedicated to Christ and St. Mary. Godiva had lost certain track of the days, but believed it was St. Mark's day or perhaps the day after, which would make it Saturday, if she were remembering her calendar correctly. What market would be open on a Saturday? She might meander through this part of town before holding her breath for the thousand-odd strides it would take to reach the western burgh gate by the river.

Pondering the possibilities, she stepped out of the house—and smack into the newly anointed Bishop Aldred of Worcester.

His pudgy Eminence was circuiting his city on foot, under a handheld canopy of white silk with purple decorations in the corner. An entourage of a dozen priests, monks, and robed children surrounded him, but kept a respectful distance from the canopied man in full bishop regalia. A crowd of several dozen followed behind, eyes wide and demeanors solemn, seeing for perhaps the first time the man who had replaced the late, lamented Bishop Lyfing.

Godiva had literally stumbled into him because she had entered the street with her eyes on the uneven step before the house, not looking up. This road was always quiet; it did not occur to her there would be traffic until she caused it to stop.

“Brother Ald— Your Eminence!” she said, flustered, taking a step back and bowing. The canopy carriers paused, their attention on the bishop and each other to stay in formation. The tabour player stopped playing; the boy holding the incense burner stopped swinging it, although the smell of frankincense already filled the narrow street.

Aldred, recognizing her after a heartbeat, looked as flustered as she felt. “Daughter!” he said, and offered his hand. She bowed down to kiss his shining signet ring. For a moment her heart ached; last time she kissed a bishop's ring, it had been Lyfing's. There was nothing bishoplike about this poor man. He seemed no more certain of himself than he had at the Great Council, when he refused to stake out any moral ground regarding the heregeld.

“What an unexpected pleasure and privilege to find you in our town!” He glanced at the solid but undistinguished building she had just exited. “But why are you not staying with us at the Palace, as you always do?”

“I thought you would be at Tavistock,” she said, eyebrows slightly higher than their natural position.

“The archbishop felt I must establish my presence here in the cathedral town for a while.”
Of course,
thought Godiva—even something as fundamental as his place of residence must be determined by a superior. How would he ever manage as a bishop? He was not capable of deciding anything himself. “But anyhow,” he was saying, almost timidly, “yourself and Earl Leofric always stay at the Palace, even when Bishop Lyfing is—was—not in town.”

“Of course, but Lyfing was a friend of many years,” said Godiva, unusually awkward, hoping that Edgiva did not choose this particular moment to appear on the road. “I would not presume to ensconce myself in your home without your permission.”

Aldred frowned. “It is established practice that the earl's family may stay in the Bishop's Palace, no matter who the earl or who the bishop.” Another glance at the nondescript household she had just exited. “Is there a reason for your absence? Have we offended you, daughter?”

“Oh, no,” she said hurriedly. “This home belongs to Leofric's son Alfgar, and we are awaiting the arrival of his chamberlain's kinswoman, whom I might take into my employ.”

Aldred's plump face looked puzzled—almost, Godiva thought, hurt. “Stay with us at the Palace,” he insisted. “Tell Alfgar's men to send word to you when the woman arrives. It would be our honor to host you, but more than that, it would be to our shame for you to stay anywhere less deserving while you are in Worcester.”

“Of course, Your Eminence,” said Godiva, wondering how she would get out of the commitment. “In the meantime, as I have the pleasure of having encountered you unexpectedly, I wonder if we might discuss a certain urgent matter about which we have so far merely exchanged messages?”

Aldred nervously signaled her to quiet. Then he gestured her to join him under the narrow canopy. She took one step to do so. The entourage exchanged glances, wondering what was happening. Few of them would recognize Godiva from her face alone, and she was not dressed like nobility. She did not like being looked at when she was so bland and rumpled. Aldred spoke in a low voice. “I will be happy to speak to you further, daughter, but not here, not in public, not even before my servants. We must speak in absolute privacy.”

“Of course,” Godiva said, suddenly uncomfortable. Did he fear one of his servants was a spy for King Edward?

“I am very nearly finished with my circuit, and then will have some time before the None service for rest,” he said. “Please walk with me to the Palace and we shall have a moment to speak there.”

She could think of no excuse that would not sound suspicious.

“It would be my honor,” she said, willing enthusiasm where there was none. Aldred signaled, and the procession began again, tabour and swinging incense and all.

Godiva knew sunshine was not good for her complexion, but she still missed the feel of it, under the white silk. She was terribly distracted. What would she do when Edgiva showed up? How could she send word? What would poor Edey think when finally she arrived and found Godiva absent?

But at least Aldred was willing to speak to her in person of the ride. That reassured her mightily. She could pose Leofric's objections and suspicions to him and let him explain or dismiss them, and then she would not require even Edgiva's commentary, which meant she would not have to burden her friend for counsel while Edgiva was in such turmoil. So she smiled and bowed her head, and began to walk alongside him.

Aldred, she learned within minutes, lacked all of Lyfing's public grace and comfort. He was clearly a devout man, but there was an underlying lack of confidence that she could feel, as if it were a breeze creeping along her shoulders. She felt heartily sorry for him; Lyfing's sandals were large to fill, as Leofric had said—or perhaps as she had said to Leofric. As many people had been saying to many other people. Aldred's was not an enviable position. Lyfing had been adored by the people of Worcester, and held in suspicion by his fellow prelates, and so his successor had to win over the former and reassure the latter. Aldred seemed an unlikely candidate to manage either challenge.

“How are you adjusting to your new position, Your Eminence?” she asked.

He nodded, lips grimly pursed together into something that was trying hard not to be a grimace. “It is a holy burden that I gladly undertake,” he said. “Every day I am reminded chiefly that I am not Lyfing.”

“That is a hard position to be placed in,” she said with sincere compassion.

He sighed. “If I may be frank, daughter, I often feel as if I must either attempt to become Lyfing or forswear that goal forever. If the former, I will always fail at it, for nobody could be Lyfing except Lyfing—and so I will be despised, for failing to attain Lyfing-ness. The other option—”

“Is to not even attempt to be like him, and then to be despised for your difference,” Godiva said, with a sympathetic nod.

“And I much fear that the archbishop's deputy will try to take advantage of my failings,” he amended quietly. “I must not say what I think of him, but he alarms me.”

“He alarms me too. His ambition is without bounds. Even Mother Edgiva, who never speaks ill of anyone, distrusts him.” She rested her hand gently on his arm; he looked down at it, unused to being touched. Seeing his attention, she squeezed his arm a little with a sisterly affection, then released him and kept talking, still with sympathy. “But for your flock, I think you must give us all a little longer to mourn, and do not take to heart whatever comes your way in these few months. Perhaps by autumn harvest, an adjustment of the spirit will be made, and with the coming of winter surely all your flock will be eager only to see you for what you are, and to embrace you for that. I miss Lyfing, but I will not blame you for not being him.”

“If only the rest of my flock were so indulgent, my daughter.” He sighed with some bitterness. “I must needs turn water into wine before anyone will take me seriously. If I cannot perform an outright miracle, I must accomplish some extraordinary thing, lay claim or put my mark on something notable, or I shall be quietly mocked by everyone. I lack imagination and ambition to surmount that challenge.”

Aldred smiled sadly. He looked a little hapless. Perhaps that explained his ineffective air at the Council. Perhaps he simply did not know how to effect anything.

Perhaps in time, she could show him.

She was getting ahead of herself. Right now it was enough to cajole from him, in person, his committed opinion about the ride that Edward threatened her with. As they continued down the road, which would lead now to the Bishop's Palace, she asked softly, “Not to be a pest, Your Eminence, but if we could meet in private audience as soon as—”

“Of course, my daughter,” he said. “As soon as we arrive. And then I hope you will stay for the None service.”

She had to get back to the town house as soon as possible, for Edgiva was likely to arrive any moment now—perhaps was there already, and waiting for her, and distressed about her absence.

“I would like that so very much, Your Eminence. Might I ask if we could send one of your party back to the house I was at, to tell my housecarl where I am going? For reasons I must not bore you with, it is essential that I meet the thane's kinswoman as soon as she arrives. I want them to know to send to me, at the Palace.”

“Of course,” Aldred said, and paused at once. “She is welcome to join you at the Palace, of course.”

Godiva smiled and hoped it did not look as counterfeit as it felt on her face. “She longs to pass the time in the house with her family.”

He shrugged understandingly.

The moving canopy shuffled and then stopped, and readjusted so that it squarely covered them both. The music stopped again. Aldred summoned a monk to join them under the canopy, and Godiva gave him instructions back to the house, and a message for Druce that she was now a guest of the bishop's, so he was to come alone, without the others, to give her word of their visitor.

Aldred seemed very eager to please her. He was not quite obsequious, not quite sycophantic. But unsure of himself. She was gracious and grateful and tried to put him at his ease. She wanted to take him by the arms, shake him a little, and say: “Stop worrying so much. Trust your instinct. I could sway you to my desires right now, and I should not feel that way about my bishop. I do not want to feel I have the power to shepherd my shepherd.”

But she merely continued a banal chatter with him, about the weather and the crops and the need to widen the streets.