Godiva (25 page)

Godiva felt her breath catch. She nodded, and reached up to undo the heavily jeweled brooch that nestled by her shoulder. She had pinned the mantle so snug across herself that even with the brooch unpinned, it stayed around her shoulders. With a shaky breath, she shrugged it off, first her right shoulder, then her left. It slumped down around her waist, heavy and warm, and in its place the cool air slid under her hair and chilled her skin.

“Take it,” she said, and pushed the whole mantle off of herself, down toward Edgiva. The abbess turned just enough to catch and collect the yards of dark wool, then, with the whole of it in her arms, she faced forward again. Two fingers held the mare's lead. She had deliberately avoided looking at Godiva.

Godiva breathed in slowly and willed herself to sit up straight on the horse.

Her hair covered most of her upper body, although she had to round her shoulders slightly for it to entirely cover her breasts. She was not used to seeing her own body in direct sunlight. Most distracting felt her knees and shins, for they were entirely bare; breeze and sun felt alien upon them. How much exposure, she wondered, before one was as dark as a shepherdess? And how absurd was she to be worrying about that at this moment?

“Oh dear, look at those bony knees,” Edgiva said suddenly.

Godiva giggled, nervously. The abbess grinned—Godiva could actually see her grin although her back was to her; her whole body took on the spirit of the grin.

“So this is all it is,” Godiva said. “Here I am, naked, on a horse. I am still me, the horse is still the horse. The sun has not gone out. I have not been struck blind by lightning. The end of the road is just barely out of sight, and then this will be over. I will survive this.”

But will I survive what comes after?
she wondered.

Edgiva threw the unwieldy heft of the mantle over her left shoulder. “Let us go, then,” she said and, standing at the level of the horse's eye, tugged gently on the lead. Abbess and mare both walked forward.

The rocking sensation of riding bareback—essentially bareback—was familiar to Godiva from her early years. She had only to squeeze her thighs against the horse's barrel of a body to feel secure; its warmth was comforting, sending a message between two living beings, in a way she never felt when riding a saddled horse. In the abbey, she had managed to slip out now and then to “borrow” a horse from the stable, without a saddle and frequently without a bridle. And usually horses not so gentle as this one.

It was not the sensation of being on the horse, but the sensation of her own nakedness in the world, that lifted her out of her body. She had never been such a stranger in her own skin, for she had never been made so aware of her own skin. Not since the first time Leofric took her as a wife; and then it had been dark, and she had been so young, and so innocent of all the things there are to be self-conscious of. Then, she had simply lain back and let him do with her what he wished to do; her simply being undressed was enough. If she had left her body then, she left it in the hands of somebody who knew exactly what to do with it, who could protect and master it. Now she had to remain conscious and attentive; Edgiva could not catch her if she fell.

Her nipples were hard, as they always were when she was chilled, but now she felt the brief drift of breeze upon them, and the strange hard silk of her own hair, which created almost a shawl of protection. She thought briefly Leofric might find it enticing to see her like this, but it did not
feel
enticing. It felt strange, and she wanted it to be over.

Her senses were heightened. Besides the extreme awareness of her breasts, she heard the sounds of springtime, the rhythm of the insects and small animals scurrying unseen on the earth around her; along with the reassuringly familiar scent of horse, she could
smell
the grass growing, and the earth overturned, beckoning seeds to come to it and give it life to feed upon. She now noticed the sunlight tease and dazzle every thing it lit upon, even birds, even rocks on the side of the unpaved road. She saw how it lit up the sky, as if there were no tomorrow to save itself for. It gave itself completely to the day, this day, this moment.
We should all do as much,
she thought.
I sound drunk,
she thought next.
I wish I were drunk. Why did I not overindulge on wine at breakfast, so that I could have done this in a stupor of disregard? No, instead I am doing this cold and dry and too aware of what awaits me when I reach the far side of the village.

Despite her heightened senses, although she could hear every flap of bird wing, somehow at the same time the throbbing of her blood muffled her, placed a sphere of soundlessness around her. Everything was either too loud or too soft, or somehow both at once—nothing sounded normal. The monastery bells were sounding—Terce? Sext?—they did not toll for her now; she existed outside of time.

They walked on. They passed the small huts, wattle and daub, thatched roofs, no windows, opened doors. She wondered if anyone lurked within there, old women or little children, watching and wondering what they were seeing, trying to make sense of it. She had never noticed how cleverly the thatch was laid onto the roofs before. She wondered if there was a trick to it.

This was so simple. All she had to do was ride, with her hair so thick about her, below her waist, that she hardly felt unclothed at all. Edward thought this was a punishment? Ha! The more fool Edward! She could not wait to arrive at the other side of town and tell him so, show him so.

No, she did not want to ever reach the other side of town. Then all the throngs would be there, and she would have to either bless their bags of earth in front of the king, which surely would be damning, or send them all home fretful and disappointed, disgruntled, and if there was yet another year of drought and bad crops . . . they would lay it on her head.

Much easier to keep riding in this strange altered state where she watched herself, as a different person. There is Godiva, lady of Mercia, she thought, pointing her out to herself. She is riding naked through the town. She felt compassion for that woman, for all that she would have to face when she came to the other side of Coventry.

For that was the real moment of crisis, after all. Not the ride itself—that was easily done, the proof was that she was
doing it now
. The hard part was what followed after. She had no control over that. She could not guess what Edward would do. She could not guess how the mass of people would behave. She could not choose Edgiva's next actions, or Leofric's. The hardest thing about taking action was accepting that there would be a reaction, which one could not control. She tried to think of exceptions to this. Had she ever done anything in which she had power over somebody else's response? One could offer food to a hungry child, and there was no guarantee she would taste it. One could lift one's skirt to one's adoring husband, and there was no guarantee he would lift it higher. One could write a letter to a friend encouraging him to pursue his lady, and there was no guarantee about anything at all.

She thought about Sweyn and Edgiva as she rode. Nobody would remember much about these madly intense few moments of her life, for the kingdom's gossip was focused so much on the two of them. Theirs was the story that would echo infamously through history. How silly to make a fuss, Godiva thought, and wondered to herself if she meant a fuss over her ride or a fuss over them. How silly to make a fuss over anything, really, she decided. How silly to make a fuss.

They came to the deserted market square.

“Halfway,” said Edgiva.

“Yes,” Godiva said.

They continued. Moment by moment she was less absent from her self; ordinary senses resumed: sound became normal, her nostrils were filled only with the smell of the horse, she was once again aware of living within her own skin. She found that mildly disappointing. But even as her skin braced itself against the cool morning breeze, even as her mind tried to pretend there was nothing strange at all about the sensations it was feeling, the sun on her knees, the yielding warmth of the horse beneath her thighs and buttocks, a breeze dancing at her toes and elbows . . . even as she began to believe these things were good and natural, just as her forefather and foremother would have ridden in the Garden, just as she was almost ready to convince herself of that, she saw, a bowshot away beyond the monastery, the dark crowd that was the host of farmers and shepherds and villagers. It was time to return to humanity. To cease feeling nude and instead feel naked. For the first time ever in her life, she did not want an audience.

A handful of men on horseback waited much closer, at the monastery gate.
I built that gate,
Godiva thought,
and now I am made to pay for their jealousy of my accomplishment.

A high, thin glaze of clouds was paling the blue of the sky. “We approach,” said Edgiva gently, as if testing to make sure Godiva was still conscious.

“Yes,” she said.

“Are you well?”

“Of course,” Godiva said, as if she did this all the time.

“When do you want your mantle back?”

“Hand it to Leofric and let him drape it over me. He feels powerless right now to protect me.”

“You don't need protection,” Edgiva said, in an approving tone. “He should be proud of you for that.”

“Husbands like the idea of such things, but in reality it is much easier for them when they can protect you, or rescue you.” They were close enough now to make out the individual figures, although not their faces. “I'm telling you that so you know how to manage your own husband,” she said, “should you elect to take one.”

Edgiva said nothing.

Leofric was plain now, and it was easy to discern the king: he was surrounded by the others, on a tall horse, dressed in purple.

Amazingly enough, it was almost over.

Or: it was all about to begin.

“Now that I have done this,” Godiva said, “will you tell me what you think the Church will make of it all?”

There was such a long pause she thought Edgiva was either ignoring her or had not heard her. “I think,” the abbess said at last, “it depends on what you mean by the Church.”

“Do not be obscure,” Godiva scolded.

“I do not mean to be,” she said quickly. “I no longer know what that means, that term: the Church. Not even for myself, let alone for another. If it means a set of uncompromising beliefs and principles, then I know how to answer you. If it means something gentler and more human, that comforts and succors—in that case too I know the answer. But if you mean the Church as we know it today, where everything is manipulated and twisted for political gain or personal vendetta, then no, I do not know. But I think you are about to find out for yourself.”

They were nearly there. The sky was whitening—no clouds rolling in, just a general glazing-over of the blue. She could see the expression on Leofric's face. He looked ill. She wanted to reassure him. She wanted to tell him that she was well, perfectly well; that she was better than well. She had slain the beast, and she was not brought down by it. Coventry was saved and Edward squelched, and she had done it, at no cost to herself.

She could not say these things in front of Edward and his men, however, so instead she smiled as warmly as she could at Leofric without appearing foolish.

When they were not three yards from Edward and Leofric, Edgiva stopped and tugged on the mare's lead. The mare pulled its head up slightly in protest, but halted.

“I am here,” Godiva said simply. Edgiva released the horse, crossed under its neck toward Leofric, and offered him the great rumple of mantle. He understood at once, and nodded to her with grim thanks. Edward and Aldred blinked in confusion at Edgiva's presence, as Leofric lifted the mantle by its shoulders out of her hooped arms and then, expertly steering with his weight and legs, sidled his horse alongside Godiva's mare and draped the heavy wool around her shoulders. She remained unmoving until he released it, and then—her eyes boring into Edward's without a blink—she pulled the mantle closed, overlapping, across her breasts. “It is done,” she said.

“It certainly is,” said Edward, his nasal voice sounding unnervingly pleased. “I was expecting the money, of course, or perhaps the town instead, but this suits me well enough. I do not like having to humiliate my people, because it means they have been misbehaving. But that, at least, was less unpleasant than most forms of punishment.” His smile became dangerous, his voice sleek. “And the harbinger of so much more to come.”

“What do you mean?” Godiva said stonily. “That is it. We're done.”

“You and I are done,” he agreed. “You have fulfilled what I required of you. But, Godiva, my ravishing and ravishable lady, your humiliation is only now beginning. I fear news of this day will travel far.”

“It already has,” Godiva said. And smiled.

He looked startled. So did Leofric. So, glancing over her shoulder, did the abbess.

“I wrote to every one of my peers and superiors around the kingdom,” Godiva said pleasantly to Edward. “Last night. This morning, I emptied our stable of messengers, all of them laden with multiple scrolls and orders to relay them to the far reaches of your realm.”

“What did you write?” Leofric demanded—not angrily, but shocked.

“I alerted everyone they were likely to hear strange unsavory tales of what had happened recently in Coventry, and I wanted them to know the truth of it straight from me.”

“And what,” asked Edward, threatening, “did you present as truth?”

“I told them,” said Godiva, unthreatened, “that I had struck a deal with the king, that in exchange for one fairly minor and peculiar ordeal, I had completely overruled his intention of taxing my people oppressively. I encouraged them to do likewise. Refuse his tyranny, I counseled all of them, and for a very small price, you will be free of it. I am not humiliated, Your Majesty. I am exultant. I have paid your price, and it has not diminished me.”