Naked (6 page)

“If you were taught by Lord Radulf then you’ll fight well. Your father was a strong warrior, I know.”

“On my sixteenth birthday he gave me my sword and my set of armor. It’s light yet strong.”

“Light yet strong.” The earl’s voice seemed to brush my skin. As I stared into the fire I could only hope he assumed the warmth stealing into my cheeks came from its heat.

I changed the subject. “Will you tell me more of Mercia, Lord Leofric?”

“What would you know of my homeland?”

“I know that you have towns of great size. I’ve heard of Chester.”

“There’s also Derby and Nottingham. Yes, our towns are growing apace at last. When Thurkill had control of Mercia he stripped it of all its wealth. Mercia was once powerful in this isle. But we fared badly when the Danes came. We were too much of a threat. They sought to crush us.”

“But you won your lands again.”

“Not without cost. My three brothers and I were outlaws for years.”

“You have other brothers?”

“Two younger. Edwin and Godwin.” He brooded into the fire. “They are still in the north or what’s left of it. Thurkill left our coffers bare. I’ve had to raise our taxes. But my people understand. Mercia must be rebuilt. I’m determined on it.”

“I believe you’ll do it.” How could I believe otherwise with his tone edged with metal, his profile carved as if from fierce rock?

“Are you afraid of facing open battle?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes.” Impossible to lie. “I’m afraid. But courage is going on whether you’re afraid or not, isn’t it? It isn’t courage if you don’t feel afraid. Courage is what we need at our worst not our best. That’s what my father taught me.”

“That’s true. When you have courage you have no choice but to go forward, to do what needs to be done, no matter how difficult.”

“You know courage, I think, Lord Leofric.”

Again he stared into the flickering fire as if scrying them, and then at me. “It’s been called upon for me to show courage. But like all men, I didn’t know I possessed it until the moment for requiring it had passed. Courage is only known after the battle is won.”

I shivered. “I hope I’ll know it.”

Standing up, he lifted his tankard and drained the ale. “I’ll leave you now. I can’t stay indoors.”

“You’re going outside? Into the cold?”

“When we were outlaws, I began to prefer sleeping in the open air. It’s almost too warm in here.” His mouth curved slightly as he glanced at my cheeks. “Do you not find it so?”

My blush deepened.

“Sleep well, battle maid. At dawn we’ll be ready. And have faith. I don’t think your courage will fail you now.”

6

She sent a herald forth,

And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet

—Tennyson (1842):
Godiva

The morning dawned cold and bright. The scent of grass in the air too soft a perfume for the day ahead. On the mud-trod plain outside Coventry our warriors were gathered.

Uneasily I shifted on Ebur’s saddle. My armor was light, as armor went, as I’d told Lord Leofric, but the weight still lay heavy on my shoulders.

My grip went to my braid as it often did when I was nervous. But my hair wasn’t in its usual thick rope. Instead, my fingers touched the metal of my helmet.

Earlier, Aine had tied my hair back. “It must be firmly fastened.” With skillful fingers, she’d twisted it into a braided coil and secured it with a string of wool. “There. That will fit below your helmet, and it won’t come loose, whatever happens.”

Whatever happens.
Aine’s words rang in my ears as I stared across the vast field at a terrifying spectacle.

The Danes.
So many more than the Saxons. Panic overwhelmed me at the sight of the solid wall of men, most on foot, a few of them on horseback. How could we defeat them once their shields were up, their axes high, their catapults, heaving with stones, at the ready? I could hear their jeering and hooting, calling out curses and threats. They’d found out we were coming to meet them on this open stretch of grassy land. I didn’t know how.

Had I led us into a trap? I darted a peek over my shoulder. We had men for our own shield wall, tall, strong men, many of them young and bold. Once their shields were raised, the edges touched. Surely they would form a defense too hard for the Danes to break.

Behind the shield warriors were the townspeople, men I had known my whole life. Wilbert, shifting his axe from hand to hand, his expression firm. The blacksmith, the inn keeper, no doubt wishing himself on the mead-bench instead; the butcher, the miller and his two sons, a farmer, carrying only a hoe … all of them had come. Closer to me were the warriors who were now my bodyguard, Edmund leading them. They were mounted too, but later, when the horns blew and the battle began, we would join the men on foot.

When the battle began.

Courage
, I told myself.
Courage.

I hadn’t known it would feel like this. I hadn’t known fear would sour in my mouth, that my stomach would churn, my palms dampen inside my leather gloves, or my legs turn so weak I could barely hold on to Ebur’s sides with my clenched, leather-clad thighs. It was fortunate I hadn’t been able to break my fast that morning, though Aine had tried to make me eat. There was no way I could keep anything in my roiling belly.

No! I refused to give in! Fear was the point at which weakness could enter, like a pottery bowl made poorly, or a thread loose in the loom, leaving a bowl to break, a garment to unravel. Fear would not enter into my soul, just as no Dane would trample the soil of my lands. No Danish blade would take the lives of the women and children of Coventry, huddled in their homes now, praying that the men of the Middle Lands, and the men of Mercia, too, would hold off Thurkill the Tall.

The men of Mercia. I cast a sidelong glance at their leader, mounted beside me. His jaw was set hard as he stared straight ahead, coolly surveying Thurkill’s troops. His leather armor, battle-scarred, spread across his vast chest, his helmet low over his brow. He held himself taut, at the ready. His black horse, the magnificent animal on whose back I’d first seen him, hoofed the ground into clods of mud, seeming as eager to begin battle as his master.

“It’s not too late for you to retreat to your hall,” the earl said, low. “I can lead the battle.”

“I must do this.” I took a deep breath, as if I could draw courage in like air. “It’s just … there are so many of them.”

“Numbers don’t decide the victor, just as size does not.” He glanced at my armor, shaped to fit me with its carved metal breastplate, the leather tight on my body. “If we have the will, the battle will be ours. Surely your father taught you that.”

I nodded. I knew.

“Do you wish to try to truce with Thurkill?” he asked me next.

“You go to truce with him?” Edmund, mounted on his bay stallion on my other side, broke into our conversation. War-shirted. The silver wings of the
cnihts
of the Middle Lands swept his shoulders.

Attached to both men’s saddles were the rounded shields of the Saxons. Edmund’s leather-wheeled, the metal at the center shiny and smooth. On Lord Leofric’s a double-headed eagle was carved. The largest of the hawks. I, too, carried a shield. An oval shape upon which the proud sparrow-hawk flew, amber-eyed.

Leofric’s glance at Edmund was a dismissal. “To try for peace first is our trusted way. I’ve sworn to it since I became earl. If there’s a chance of saving Saxon blood we should take it.”

Edmund snorted. “We should just go straight into battle!”

“What do you say, Lady of Coventry?”

First I studied one, then the other. Edmund’s face had reddened again. Leofric’s appeared emotionless.

“Not a single life should be lost, if it can be saved before battle begins,” I said at last.

Edmund flashed silver fury. I knew how angry he was with me. In his view my decisions were ill-judged. Dangerous. Foolish.

With barely a yank of the rein Leofric rotated his horse. “Come with me, Lady.”

Wind whipped my cheeks as we galloped across the plain. On the surly faces of the Danes I witnessed amazement that we should ride over to them. The jeering quieted. Mutters at the sight of Leofric. No one dared catcall as we pulled up our horses in front of a man on horseback.

Thurkill the Tall.

Trepidation turned to rage, burning on my tongue. My hand ached for my sword. Scream, swear, kill. I hadn’t known I had it inside me, this boiling cauldron of fury.

“Will you truce, Dane?” Leofric threw down the words.

Silence as Thurkill slowly removed his helmet.

My gasp choked me. The ugliest man I’d ever seen, with a vast dome shaved to the scalp, his skin pitted and yellow, fight-scarred. His beard dirt brown, his eyes perturbed me most: small and cruel, as though they delighted in causing pain. Barreled in leather armor, the shoulders padded and iron-studded, his massive body had oxen-strength. His stare held the cunning of vermin.

Tucking his helmet under his arm he gave a mocking bow. “The Earl of Mercia. You’re far from your lands.”

“And you’re far from yours.” Leofric’s tone remained even. “Too far.”

Thurkill grimaced. Twisted his massive head. It seemed as if maggots crawled over my skin. “This must be the new Lady of Coventry.”

“Because you killed my father who was lord,” I burst out.

“A bold maid!” Thurkill sneered. “Ah yes. I remember your father and your pretty mother, too. A bold one like you.”

Fury boiled in my gullet. Fury and fear. I gulped them down.

My mother. Suffering. At the mercy of this brutal monster.

“You’ll pay for what you did to my parents, Thurkill.”

“
Nidstang.
” A Danish curse. Foul to the ear. “Save your threats. The whole of the Middle Lands are mine for the taking with only a maid to defend them.”

“Do you not see me before you, Dane? Lady Godiva is not alone.”

A leer at Leofric. “Is that so?”

“I’m not here for a day’s ride. The warriors of Mercia will stand beside the men of the Middle Lands until you are defeated, as you were in the north.”

Strength surged through me at Leofric’s words. I’d been unsure of my decision to let his warriors fight alongside my men. In front of Thurkill the Tall, I could only feel relief to have the Mercian lord beside me.

“You challenge me?”

Leofric shrugged. Never would I have guessed he was in the presence of the man who had killed his brother Northman, he remained so calm.

Thurkill grunted. “Did you think I’d quake in my boots at the sight of you here, Saxon? Even with your warriors, this will be sport before we ride on. Oh, I’ll take your challenge for what it’s worth. The Middle Lands are almost mine. There’s nothing you can do to stop me taking the rest and the fine town of Coventry, too.”

“I’ve stopped you before,” Leofric said. “I stopped you in Mercia.”

“Mercia.” Thurkill spat. “There’s nothing left in Mercia.”

Leofric’s leather glove tightened on his reins. From his few words by the fire I knew what pain Thurkill’s plunder of his homeland had wreaked in Lord Leofric. I more than knew it. To my amazement it ripped through me so keenly that if I hadn’t been on Ebur’s solid back I would have swayed.

Yet when he spoke the earl was steady. So steady I shivered. “Mercia will rise again under my command, greater than ever before. You haven’t defeated me.”

“You’ll rue coming here, Mercian. You should have stayed in the north.”

“I’ll defend all Saxon lands.”

Thurkill cursed again. “Saxons. Fine words you have but that’s all. I’ll soon be done with you. You waste your sword, Earl of Mercia. There’s little worth taking here.” He ran his thick tongue over his lips as he ogled me. “Or perhaps I’m wrong. Should we share the spoils?”

As I opened my mouth, Leofric threw me a glance of warning.

“Come, Thurkill.” His tone was now almost bored. “Enough of this. Will you do battle today or can this be settled now?”

A mocking laugh. “Settled? The great Earl of Mercia? Retreating? Oh, you Saxons. Always talk when what’s needed is action.”

“My sword is ready for battle.” Leofric spoke through gritted teeth. “But we both have men who will die this day. Will you truce?”

Thurkill glanced at his warriors and guffawed. Copying their leader they did the same. “This skirmish will only give me pleasure. When I’ve finished, the Middle Lands will belong to the Danes.”

“I’ll not give you the chance to retreat again.”

“You’ll be the one to retreat before this day is done.”

“Then we fight.”

*   *   *

“Will you rally the men?” Leofric asked, as we rode across the plain once more. Behind us the Danes had started up a war-chant, banging their drums. In time with the beat my pulse began to race.

“Me?”

“Put the courage of Coventry into their hearts.” I caught the river blue of his glance. “They’ll fight all the stronger for you.”

His tone made my pulse beat even faster. I gave a quick nod of assent as we turned our horses to address our men.

So many. I could barely see them all.

The herald stepped forth. The horn pealed its brazen note.

“Saxons!” Lord Leofric cried.

The men gave a rousing cheer in response.

“Men of Coventry, Men of Mercia, we are Saxons all!”

More cheers rang out.

Leofric sent me a nod of encouragement.

“Good men!” My voice came out in a mouse squeak.

I couldn’t let them down.

Leaning over I ran my hand along Ebur’s neck. I’d plaited his long mane for battle in many braids as tight as my own.

Ebur’s ears pricked back as I whispered the words. Not Saxon words, nor Latin, nor Aine’s or my mother’s Welsh, nor even a language I knew. An ancient whisper, an old language from far back in time, it came to my lips on a breath of wind.

The noble pact between human and horse.

Ebur’s great head bowed and whinnied.

Releasing my feet from the stirrups, in a heave I was up on my knees and standing on the saddle.

Beside me I heard Leofric’s fast intake of breath.