Worcester
Godiva 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.
When they reached the Palace, Aldred sent Godiva with a lay brother toward his private audience room with the promise he would be there in a moment, as soon as he changed from his street-dusty costume to a cleaner one. She was offered wine and water, both of which she declined. Beside the ecclesiastical throne—this one a small one, not the large formal one of the general receiving hall—there was only a small wooden stool. She did not want the stool and she could not have the throne, so she stood and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
She would query him with every doubt Leofric had raised. She would—sweetly, even lovingly—demand satisfaction, and she would get it from him, she could tell now, because he wanted so badly to be liked. She was very good at scratching that particular itch.
If she did not scratch it, Edward might. Aldred had not seemed to like Edward at the Council, but she might have misread that, and she certainly did not want Edward to lay claim to the affection of anyone she wanted for herself. Worcester was the largest minster in Mercia; Leofric required Worcester’s loyalty. She would see to it, over the course of as leisurely an afternoon and evening meal as it took, that Leofric had it. She would charm Aldred to pieces.
Until the moment Edgiva finally arrived, or sent word, and then she would have to find a graceful way to excuse herself. Running into him had been both a complication and a boon.
She had been waiting, it seemed to her, for rather a long time in this boring little room, which was chilly and underlit. Just as she was beginning to feel uncomfortably confined, the door opened and Aldred entered hurriedly.
Godiva bowed her head, but with an apologetic smile he gestured her not to bother. “My lady, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting for me,” he said. “Something has happened and I am afraid I cannot speak with you now after all, I must attend to other business.”
“Oh,” Godiva said, her fantasy of winning him by bedazzlement instantly dampened. “May . . . I . . . return later and we may speak?”
He averted his gaze. “I would be happy to speak to you, my lady, but I am not sure when I shall be free, now. Perhaps if your ladyship wished to join us this evening for the Compline service, I might be able to speak to you just after? That should not pose a problem if you are staying as our guest.”
“. . . Certainly,” Godiva said, not sure what else to say in the moment. She did not want to stay here—she could not stay here, if Edgiva were at the other house. Hopefully Edgiva had already arrived and was waiting for her. How could she divide her attention, her presence, between the two?
And why was Aldred suddenly unavailable? Was it simply—as she knew Leofric would suggest—that he did not want to be held accountable for speaking to her about her dilemma at all? Hopefully not. Hopefully not.
“Please, Your Eminence, I do not wish to disturb your work,” she said, graciously. “I shall repair to Alfgar’s house and collect my belongings and bring them back here.” I’m not really going to do that, she thought as the words came out of her mouth. What excuse shall I give to explain my absence? Later. Later. That was for later. She realized her mind was racing, she was so anxious about Edgiva.
“Thank you for understanding, daughter,” Aldred said, a note of nervousness in his voice. Good, thought Godiva, you should be nervous about dismissing me. Let me have that much power over you still. I will not abuse the power, but I must know I have it, for Leofric’s sake.
Somehow, with each of them dripping in obsequiousness, Godiva ended up outside the Palace gates, unattended. With a sigh of relief she turned back toward her lodgings and walked with all deliberate speed.
Edgiva still had not arrived.
By sundown Godiva was worried nearly to fits. She had not eaten; Druce, returning for dinner from the western gate, expressed concern. She was tempted to send him back along the road toward Leominster, but to further divide the traveling party was unwise, especially since she herself was now supposed to be in two places at once.
As the church bells were tolling the end of Vespers, at last, there was a rap on the door and the young son of the house announced himself.
“My lady, your men are here, and with them is a fearful-sick woman,” he said. “My father thinks she will be wanting wine and ale to fortify her.”
She felt a thrill of anxious relief, said a silent prayer of thanks to Saint Christopher, and rushed out to the stable.
Edgiva nearly collapsed from the saddle straight into her embrace. Druce gently lifted her under the shoulders, moved her slack body so that she lay across his arms, and carried her inside and up to the small room. One of the other men brought up a saddlebag laden with herbs—Edgiva never traveled without her medicine bundle.
In the room, Druce laid her gently on the hard cot and left them. The abbess seemed almost comatose. “You are well and safe now, friend,” Godiva said to her softly. She removed Edgiva’s veil and wimple and ran a hand over her temple; she was very warm. “If you will tell me which of these herbs will best assist you to feel better, I will prepare it for you.”
“Nothing for this but mint and nettles,” Edgiva murmured, slightly singsong, almost to herself. Her eyes rolled in her head. “Sleep. I must offer God a psalm for my safety and the safety of the babe, and then sleep and sleep and sleep and sleep,” and then she was, in fact, asleep.
There was no going to the Bishop’s Palace. She would send an excuse come morning. She sat watch over Edgiva that night, in that little room, amazed that they were in such an outrageous position. Godiva did not mind excitement, but Leofric did.
Edgiva’s condition would make him dyspeptic.
Edgiva slept very deeply, crying out in nightmares twice. Godiva did not sleep at all.
When the sun rose, Edgiva awoke, looking heartier than the evening before, and declared herself fit to move, provided they travel slowly. Godiva asked for a blanket, and Druce draped it over the saddle to give Edgiva some extra comfort.
Godiva sent the thane’s son to Bishop Aldred with a message of regret, claiming an emergency required her to leave at once for Coventry. She was truly sorry not to question him about the ride, but her concern for Edgiva’s well-being was too distracting.
They were on the road shortly after Prime. The weather returned to that strange barren cloudiness, dry enough to keep the mud off the roads, even in places where there had been flooding from winter’s thaw. Good for travelers, but not, she feared, for farmers. They traveled far more slowly than Godiva had anticipated, and Edgiva seemed too miserable to talk. So despite Godiva’s impulse to chatter (as a way to pass the time, if nothing else), they said nothing. They did not talk about Sweyn, or the baby, save for Edgiva’s reassuring Godiva it was well, or Godiva’s impending humiliation. She could not even remember if she had mentioned any details of that to Edgiva yet.
They were on the road for days. Godiva lost count, in the mind-numbing boredom of it. The pleasing broad swells of countryside grew monotonous. The flowering bullace and mazzard flowers and even the bluebells and cow parsley and pink campions grew monotonous. The unchanging dry clouds above them grew monotonous. The bedrolls seemed harder and damper each night, the campfires smokier, the dried mutton tougher and stringier. Each morning the dew was heavier; the sounds of the men waking and then breaking camp were louder. They bought bread with fragments of coin from the villages along the route, but the quality of that too seemed to worsen with each bite. And through it all, Edgiva felt so ill she was barely conscious—but always it was she who urged them forward, whispering reassuringly to Godiva that this was normal, that the babe was fine. Godiva found herself thanking saints that she herself was barren. And she began at last to appreciate her shapeless, dull garments: they were comfortable to slouch in, and when she was too tired to care what she looked like, they could not wilt with her as her dazzling outfits did, as these were beyond wilting to start with.
After a couple of days, it was clear the men understood Edgiva’s condition. When Godiva sensed they were discussing it among themselves, she waited until Edgiva had gone to once again relieve her stomach in some nearby bushes, and then reined her horse over toward the cluster of them.
“You understand, of course, that the abbess has a stomach bug,” she said with a charming, weighty smile.
“ ’Tis a big bug, my lady,” said Druce, “and only going to get bigger.” He looked at her, not defiantly, but firmly. She glared and tried to think how best to reply; he read something into her silence and added, “Best to hear that from us, now, when there is no place for gossip to spread, no?”
“Is that a threat?” she demanded, more hotly than she meant to, feeling her stomach clench. “Are you threatening to besmirch Mother’s name?”
He reddened. “On the contrary, lady, forgive me—I am asking your guidance on how to prevent such a thing.”
“By not mentioning it. To anyone. I can trust you, yes?” She smiled tightly.
“My lady, her ailment will not conveniently abate at the gates of Coventry Manor. People will ask. Will ask us. What should we tell them?”
“Mother has a stomach bug,” Godiva repeated.
“Beg your indulgence, but nobody will believe it,” he said. “I have control over what I say, but not over what other people choose to believe.”
Godiva thought for a long moment. “We will sequester her as soon as we arrive. Only my personal attendant will ever see her, until she has recovered.”
Druce’s eyes lit up with alarm. “You’d keep her sequestered for months?”
“This kind of stomach bug only lasts a few weeks,” said one of the other men, with the bored knowledge of a veteran.
“That is right,” Godiva said with cheerful firmness. “And then she shall recover and nothing further need be said of how plump and rosy she has become. How very obedient of you to understand.”
She reined her horse away and back toward Edgiva’s mount, which was grazing near the bushes that screened her from them.
It seemed that they were on the road forever. Edgiva remained in a nearly trancelike state of discomfort, speaking only to insist they travel farther, writing tearfully into her codex every evening. Godiva would have deemed her behavior sulking, were it anyone but Edgiva; Edgiva did not, had not once ever in her life, sulked.
So what appeared to be sulking was of force something else, something more meditative and profound. She was sorting through her own confusion. She was not turning to Godiva for advice, which was a disappointment—Godiva had been so eager to actually be of use to her, for a change—but Godiva respected the state she was in. Indeed, she was a little afraid of it.
And finally, on a damp and cloudy—but not rainy—St. Edmund’s day, they approached the tiny and contested town of Coventry.