Godiva (27 page)

“What?” Edward said sharply.

“Were you not aware that abbesses can issue penance?” Edgiva said sweetly, still getting her breath back. “You have spent too much time in Normandy, uncle. I prescribed to her the penance of riding naked through the town of Coventry.”

Both Edward and Aldred blinked convulsively a moment, before Edward said, “And for what sin, precisely, was she required to perform such an egregious penance?”

“She abducted me from my abbey, and then made it appear that Sweyn Godwinson was the one to have done so,” Edgiva said promptly, offering up the codex. “She will confess as much to you herself, and as I said, I have recorded it here in the abbey chronicles. I have placed a strip of vellum in the page to mark it. Please read it for yourself.”

Godiva pressed the fingers of both hands over her lips to keep from shouting or laughing or perhaps both. Bishop and king stared at her, stupefied.

Edgiva gave them a quizzical smile. “What puzzles you so, gentlemen?” she asked. “Were you not aware of the rumor that Sweyn had abducted me from Leominster? Or perhaps you were simply not aware that the rumor is false? It
is
false, as you can tell by the fact that I stand before you here in Coventry. As I am in Coventry it follows that I am not, of course, in Hereford.”

Godiva lowered her fingers and allowed herself a smile, which was far more impish than she knew was proper. “The poor dears,” she said quietly to Edgiva, “that's
two
earls in one day whom they now cannot rebuke.”

“What do you mean, Godiva abducted you?” Edward demanded.

Edgiva waggled the codex at him. “You may read about it. She and five armed men appeared at the abbey and brought me back here, although I had no intention of leaving the abbey and never once acquiesced to the journey. And then she created a diversion that made it appear as though Sweyn had taken me back to Hereford.”

Edward and Aldred angrily exchanged looks. “Why would she do such a thing?” the king demanded.

“Because she wanted to besmirch Earl Sweyn's name. She and Leofric felt threatened by Sweyn's rising influence, and she felt it was necessary to undermine him by creating a scandal that would envelop him.”

“Did you really?” Edward demanded sharply of Godiva.

Godiva was so astonished to hear Edgiva lie—so fluidly, so comfortably, as if she did it all the time—that she almost could not collect her wits enough to speak. But: “Yes,” she said. “It's true. It was evil and meddling of me. I begged Edgiva for a penance, and she—”

“That is not what happened!” Edward shouted furiously. “That is not why you rode—”

“Isn't it?” Leofric asked with a grudging smile. “What could it be, then?”

“If it were a punishment for not paying taxes,” Edgiva pointed out, her breath fully recovered, her voice modulated and abbesslike, “then the letters Godiva has sent around the kingdom will be perceived as truthful, which is not, I think, in His Majesty's interests. How fortunate, then, that His Majesty did not order Godiva to ride naked through Coventry.” And pointedly to the bishop: “I am the one who did that. And she has performed her penance, as you have witnessed. Proving what a faithful and biddable Christian she is.” Pause. “Are there any misunderstandings still to be addressed? Would you like to read the book?” She offered it up again. Edward looked at it in angry disgust, then swatted it away into the dust. Edgiva's pleasant expression did not waver. “We have cleared Sweyn, Godiva, and His Majesty of all wrongdoings in this matter, and of course His Eminence would never attempt to excommunicate someone who has done no wrong simply as a political maneuver—”

Aldred looked sincerely relieved by this turn. But Edward was not done yet.

“Why did you choose such a horrendous penance?” he demanded.

“Do you think it is really so horrendous?” asked Edgiva charmingly, stooping down to pick up the codex. “I think she was quite successful in surviving it, and considering she is just a fragile woman, it could not have been so difficult.”

Sudden in the electric-silent air, an orange streak of lightning split the purple sky to the west. They and the horses all startled, and the horses nearly shied when a high-pitched crackle jolted them. Then silence.

“Sweyn did not abduct you from Leominster?” said Edward at last, gloomily.

She shook her head. “I have never been in Hereford but by my own volition. And that not since the Great Council concluded. Again, I offer my codex for perusal.” She held it up to him—a brazen thing, thought Godiva in wonderment, for while much of what she said was true, and written, plenty of it was not.

Edward and Aldred had pushed Edgiva too far, and made her into a liar—at least to Edward and Aldred. She seemed strangely liberated for having succumbed to the sin she hated most. It was a necessary ordeal to survive in order to escape the crushing hypocrisy that now defined the Church she once had loved.

A pause.

“Would you like some dinner before you head back to your respective palaces?” Godiva asked, pulling the mantle even tighter round her shoulders. “I believe our cook is dressing the lamb and plucking the cocks even now.”

“We will dine at the monastery,” said Edward in a disdainful voice.

“Less work for our cook,” Godiva replied agreeably. “If Your Majesty and Your Eminence will excuse me, I shall ride home and dress.”

“And attend a celebratory mass for having completed your due penance,” Mother Edgiva amended.

“If I must,” said Godiva with a tiny grin.

“What are you going to do about the farmers?” the bishop demanded unhappily. “They have come expecting your blessing.”

“There is surely no harm in a fully clothed lady giving a benediction to her serfs,” said Edgiva quickly. “The lady countess already did as much at the Land Ceremony. But if you have any theological qualms about it, Your Eminence, I will be happy to bless them in her stead. As an abbess I certainly have the qualifications to do so.”

“Why don't we let the bishop do it himself?” suggested Leofric. “They've come all this way, they deserve the highest-ranking prelate we can offer them.”

“I'm not going to dole out pagan blessings!” Aldred said nervously.

Edgiva, with a knowing look, said then, “There is not such difference between a pagan blessing and a Christian one, as long as the blessing is sincerely given. They want to believe somebody with more power than they have is looking out for them. That's all. I often feel the same way myself. Do not you? Would you deprive them of the succor they need? What kind of shepherd does that make you?”

“They want a heathen blessing,” Aldred said, looking slightly desperate.

“And lo, the bishop arrived among the heathen, and they received him and accepted his blessing, and when he departed, they were again amongst the righteous,” said Edgiva beatifically.

“Or even, lo, the
king
arrived . . . ,” Godiva suggested.

“Now
that
sounds like a chorale in the making,” Edgiva said heartily. “Shall we send them to you at the monastery?”

And then the rain began.

T
he rainstorm, sudden in its outbreak, was gentle, unseasonably warm, and lasted just long enough to wet the thirsty soil without pooling into floods. The farmers returned to their homes in a state approaching ecstasy, welcoming the pearls of rain on their faces, considering this miraculous shower to be Godiva's blessing on them. The earl, his lady, and their guest went home to the manor, where Mother Edgiva wrote into her codex that she had sinned by lying, then added that her bigger sin was this: she truly did not see it as a sin, for the good it accomplished.

It was the next morning now, and gently overcast. Godiva's seat was slightly sore, but otherwise the ride had left no residue. At all.

King and bishop had departed, without ceremony; there was no entourage, no extra horses, no loitering curious commoners trying to win a glimpse. Except for Edgiva, the only people in Coventry now were townsfolk.

And Edgiva was not quite in Coventry now; nor was Godiva, nor was Leofric. They sat astride their horses just outside the edge of town, looking down the westward road, listening to the monastery bells ring Terce. Their boots were dark with mud, as were their horses' hooves. Leofric and two of his housecarls had reined their horses away from the women, to give them a confidential moment.

“This road goes to Hereford,” said Godiva pointedly.

“It also goes to Leominster,” Edgiva replied quietly. “But I cannot go there while I am with child.”

“Then you had better go to Hereford.”

“ 'Tis not that simple, Godiva,” she said, a little sharply. Then she grimaced and Godiva could see she regretted her tone. “If I go to Hereford
because
of the child, then Sweyn has done a terrible thing that will bring trouble on his head. If I go, it must be a choice, not a necessity.”

“What would make it feel like a choice?”

“Knowing that
if
I chose Leominster, there
would be
an acceptable alternative for the child.”

Motherhood had never been required of Godiva, and God had never tested her or blessed her with it.

And oh, how she wanted Edgiva to go to Sweyn. Not only for the political benefit to Leofric, but also because despite herself she was in love with the idea of them in love. If the child forced her to be with him, how much the better?

But that was not what Edgiva needed now.

“We would take the child and raise it in fosterage,” Godiva said confidently. “We would provide for it and nobody would ever need know its parentage. Not even Sweyn. If you feel called back to that . . .
abbey
of yours, the child will not suffer for your choice. And you may, of course, stay here until you are delivered. I shall tell the abbey we keep you here at our request.”

She saw tears well up at the inner corners of Edgiva's eyes. The abbess pursed her lips together hard, as if afraid allowing herself to smile would lead to weeping.

“Are you certain of that?” she asked in a husky whisper.

Godiva nodded. “I may have to coax Leofric a bit, but he will understand.” She grinned. “Motherhood would keep me too busy to get into much trouble.”

Edgiva let herself smile, and let herself weep too. “Thank you,” she said, her voice shaking. “Now I may make the choice with a clear conscience.” She reached out to Godiva, who reined her horse over so they could embrace each other round the shoulders. For a moment, Edgiva sobbed. Then she collected herself and wiped her face off on the edge of her dark veil.

She looked longingly down the road. Godiva could not know if the longing was for the abbey or for Sweyn. The countess began to piece together a convincing argument to soften Leofric's resistance to their potential new houseguest.

“Well?” Leofric called out from a stone's throw away. His horse leisurely began to walk toward them, the housecarls following. “Are we enjoying the view or are we saying our farewells? These fellows will ride with you if you are leaving us, Mother.”

“I do not think she is going back to the abbey quite yet,” Godiva said.

Edgiva took a deep breath. “I am not going back to the abbey at all. I,” she said decisively, “am going to Hereford.”

In all the years Godiva had known her, Edgiva had never looked so radiant.

Leofric took a moment to consider everything behind that statement. “So our Leominster Abbey no longer has an abbess,” he said. “And my most powerful, unruly neighbor is about to have an heir with royal blood. That is the thanks I get for offering refuge to a sinner.”

Edgiva looked mortified.

“It means your most unruly neighbor is about to be domesticated virtually into our family,” Godiva added, smiling beatifically at Edgiva. “You need not thank me for arranging that, husband.”

Leofric gave his wife a droll look, before nodding slowly, with a grudging smile. “Very well then.” Turning toward the former abbess, he said, “Welcome to the world, my lady. May it be a better place with you among us.”

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to:

My manager and fairy godfather, Marc H. Glick (Esquire); my agent, Liz Darhansoff, and her cohort, Michele Mortimer; my editor, Jennifer Brehl, and her sidekick, Emily Krump, for their critiques and patience with the endless permutations of this project. Never was an author so blessed to have such a tremendous, loyal team.

The eternally generous Alan and (especially) Maureen Crumpler, who introduced me to the story of Edgiva and Sweyn, and (as usual) took me everywhere and showed me everything.

Lindsay Smith, for medieval British equestrian insights, Daniel Donaghue for
Lady Godiva: A Literary History of the Legend,
and Bill Griffiths for
Aspects of Anglo-Saxon Magic.

John and Janet Aldeborgh (and lovely, gentle Orville), for assisting my . . . field research. And Sarah Mayhew, for documenting it.

The Gorgeous Group, especially Kate Feiffer for quipping, “It's
Sex in the Medieval City
!”

The readers of the original, and entirely different, concept of this story, including Eowyn Mader and Amy Utstein.

Billy Meleady, for more than words can describe.

Barbara Babcock, for providing a winter writing sanctuary.

Alene Sibley, for helping me to stay the course, and Chrysal Parrot, for listening to me when I thought I'd literally lost the plot.

All the good folks at HarperCollins who market and promote this book; all the people everywhere who work to make it available; and all the people who choose to purchase it, or any other book.

All libraries everywhere. This is, in part, a story about the transmission of information, and libraries reign supreme in that regard. Long may they do so!