She stayed up very late that night, a pile of parchment to her left, an inkwell, quill pen, and the brightest lamp in Coventry to her right. She would not let Leofric see what she had written, although when her cheerful humming kept him awake, she managed to silence herself.
Her right hand was cramped the next morning; she had not written so much in an instance ever in her life, not even when she lived in the abbey and spent every morning working on calligraphy. She had been squinting in the candlelight for so long, there were creases around her eyes that she was sure would never subside. Never mind, she thought, today is not a day for beauty anyhow.
She was wearing her lovely set of dark and light blue tunics, girdled with the green-glass belt, her hair contained by a gold fillet and a sky blue veil heavy with embroidery. Everything about her whispered feminine beauty. The silk felt soothing and delicious against her skin.
Edgiva looked much improved when Godiva saw her in the chapel at mass. The abbess did not meet her gaze, but neither did she shun her.
Her husband, as they exited the chapel, gestured to two large carts freighted with locked chests. “There it is,” he said, low in her ear. “The treasury. Let me pay him, and this is over. We have more than I reckoned. He will not beggar us.”
She wondered if this was just a reassuring lie. She turned to look at him. “Are you commanding me, my lord?”
There was some part of her she did not like that wished he would say yes.
His gaze softened and he kissed her cheek. “I can command you when you are my subject, but in this matter, you are my wife, and so, my partner. I may ask you, beg you, cajole or bribe, chastise or even threaten you—but I cannot command you.”
She felt her throat tighten. She wanted to bury herself against him.
She did not move.
They were breaking their fast when a messenger arrived: that same obsequious fop of a man whom Edward had sent earlier. He was announced by the steward and entered as if he were the hero of a parade. He walked straight to them at the high table, bowed almost mockingly, and declared, “His Majesty the King awaits you at the far end of Coventry. If you wish to pay the levy or yield the village, he will come here to receive from you coin of the realm or a piece of town sod as proof of land-grant. If you wish to defy him and take punishment instead, he awaits evidence of your own person, and nothing but your person, at the far end of the high street.”
Leofric to one side of her and Edgiva to the other turned expectantly to look at her.
“I do not defy him,” Godiva said. She sensed, more than saw, their surprise.
The messenger looked triumphantly satisfied. That proved to Godiva she had been right: Edward expected her compliance after all.
“Excellent, my lady. Shall I tell him to expect gold, or the town charter?”
Leofric was shifting beside her.
“Neither,” she said. “I do not defy him, but I rather accept his third offer. I shall meet him at the other end of town. You may tell him to expect me.” She took a sip of wine.
Suddenly Leofric was still as stone. She reached toward him and covered his clenched fist with her free hand. His skin was frigidly cold. To her other side, Edgiva crossed herself.
The messenger blinked. “Very well,” he said. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“I will go ahead of my wife,” Leofric informed the smarmy man, without a glance at her.
“You will?” she said quietly.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I will prepare the way for you. I think I know what Edward is up to, and he shan’t have his way.” Back to the man: “You may tell His Majesty we will arrive after we have broken our fast.”
“I shall announce you,” the man said with a smile, and added meaningfully, “to everyone.” He bowed, turned, and flounced out of the hall.
“What does that mean?” Edgiva said.
“What I anticipated,” said Leofric. “Edward has summoned the population of the town to either view his victory promenade, or, as will apparently be the case, gawk at Godiva as she rides. I shall ride out ahead to tell them not to gawk.”
It was as if he’d wrapped a warm protecting blanket round her shoulders. “Thank you, Leofric,” she said.
“It is not nearly enough to stem the damage of your choice,” he replied, coldly, almost a grunt.
She found suddenly she could not eat. Her hand trembled holding the bread; she did not trust herself with her own dining knife. Excusing herself and fighting a terrible sense of agitation, she went back to her room.
She sat on the bed, knees pulled up before her, rocking slightly.
It was the wrong choice. She should not have said it. She should have let Leofric pay the heregeld. He was strong and wealthy enough, and wanted to protect her—she should have let him. Let someone else protest the heregeld. She did it only to please Edgiva, but there was no pleasing Edgiva now. What a troublesome, foolish woman I am, she thought.
There was a rap on the door.
“Enter,” she said.
Edgiva came in, in her abbess’s modest robes, which made the thought of what Godiva was about to do that much more sickening.
“Benedicite,” said Edgiva, with compassionate formality. That offered as much warmth and intimacy as the dark of the moon.
But then she said: “Do you need somebody to lead your horse?”
Godiva almost gasped. “You would do that? Even though you judge me?”
Edgiva looked genuinely startled. “I am not judging you,” she said. “How could I judge somebody stuck between Scylla and Charybdis, when I am stuck there myself? The making of a choice at all requires so much soul-searching and sacrifice, and I have not accomplished that. You have. I would be the worst kind of Greek harpy to judge you.”
“You do not think my riding naked through town is just the extremity of my comportment?”
Edgiva blinked in amazement and even laughed. “Are you jesting, Godiva? I think it is quite the opposite. Edward harries you by robbing you of coquetry, which is your greatest weapon. If you make the ride, you lose that power, and my heart rides with you in sympathy.”
“Even though you are cross with me for other things?”
“Even though I am cross with you for other things.”
That was not actually what Godiva had been hoping to hear in response.
“So you are still cross with me for . . . other things?”
Edgiva gave her friend a warning look. “Have those other things miraculously resolved themselves overnight? No? Then, yes, I am still cross.”
“I am not the one who put or allowed a child in your belly—”
“We are not revisiting that conversation,” Edgiva said sharply. “You are not responsible for my sins, but you are responsible for your interfering, which has endangered Sweyn and complicated everything.”
“I would say you complicated everything, as soon as you spread your knees for him.”
Edgiva’s face instantly went crimson, and Godiva wished she had not said it. “Are you trying to convince me to retract my offer?” Edgiva demanded. “Because you are just about to succeed in that.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I need you beside me now, Edgiva. I am sorry I am such an ass. You are a better woman than I am, you have always been so; please be so now. I did not realize how terrified I was until moments ago.”
The abbess softened. “You are my oldest friend; of course I am not going to desert you in a crisis. Even though you brought it on your own head.”
“I thought you were not judging me!”
“That is not judgment,” Edgiva said briskly. “It is fact.” She stepped back and gave Godiva an appraising look. “Let us sort out how to get you through this.”
That was deeply reassuring: Edgiva, in charge, gently pushing things to happen as they ought to. That was an Edgiva Godiva knew from her other life, her regular life, before things had gotten complicated.
“Disrobe here, in this room, in private,” the abbess suggested. “There is something about disrobing that is even more . . . fraught . . . than actually being nude.”
“You speak from years of experience, do you?” Godiva asked wryly.
“I speak from one experience, but it was recent, and enough to educate me,” Edgiva said pointedly. Their eyes met, and Edgiva blushed. Unexpectedly, they shared a sheepish grin.
“It has been so long since my undressing before Leofric felt . . . fraught . . . that I would not have considered that,” Godiva said.
“So disrobe here, in private.”
Godiva nodded. She unpinned her veil. Edgiva held out her hand for it, and Godiva yielded it, and the pins.
“Wrap your longest, fullest mantle round yourself, and go down to the stable covered. Get on the horse, and stay cloaked to the manor gate.” She reached for and received Godiva’s wimple and fillet, and watched long pale tresses spill over the slender shoulders.
The countess took a steadying breath, then lifted off the three heavy gold necklaces gracefully, hooping them down the length of her hair. These too she handed to Edgiva, who continued, abbesslike, to instruct: “I shall carry the mantle as we walk to the far end of the street, then I will give it back to you. Come now, off with your tunic.”
Godiva felt clammy, and still trembled, as she pulled off her clothes. Edgiva glanced away, not as if she were ashamed to see her friend’s nakedness, but as if she were concerned Godiva stood in fear of her judgment.
Never since her first years with Leofric had Godiva undressed with such awareness of her body’s appearance. Everything she liked about it—the smooth skin, the curves at her hip, her slender arms—seemed diminished as she watched herself, as if she were another person undressing another body. Everything she found fault with—a brown spot on her neck where sunlight had poisoned her perfect paleness, her buttocks that did not sit so high as once they did, her ridiculously skinny ankles and bony knees—all of these things suddenly seemed to be what her body was made from. The buttocks would be mostly hidden under her hair, she was sure, but the knees and ankles would be the most visible parts of her. They would be what people would remember of her from this ride.
Not that many people would see her, anyhow. Coventry was but a hamlet, and Leofric was going out before her to tell people not to look.
All the same, surely somebody would catch a glimpse of her bony knee pressed against the horse, perhaps some serf, and he would tell some cousin of his who had migrated to someone else’s estate, who would mention it so that it would make its way up the ladder until the thane or carl of that particular area heard about it, and the next time Godiva fluttered her eyelashes at him, he would laugh mockingly and say, “I hear you have bony knees, Countess,” and that would be the end of—
“Godiva, are you listening to me?” Edgiva’s voice broke through her unhappy reverie.
“Pardon?” she said hurriedly, and took a moment to review herself: she was down to her shift. She had ungartered her stockings and removed them without paying attention.
“I asked which mantle you prefer,” Edgiva said. “Merewyn has brought you two.” She pointed to the bed. One was dark blue-black, the color of Edgiva’s robes; in fact, it was the mantle that had caused a confusion about who had gone to Hereford with Sweyn. The other was a lighter blue, shot through with red and emblazoned with Leofric’s catamount, which stood for vigilance.
“Which would you pick?” she asked Edgiva uncertainly.
“I would wear the one that looks like a nun’s robe,” she said, “because I am a nun. You are nothing like one.”
“I shall wear it anyhow,” she said. “If Edward has brought a chronicler with him, I do not think Leofric would want me to remind anyone I am his lady today.”
“On the contrary, he might be very proud of you,” said Edgiva.
“I do not think it.”
Godiva pulled the shift off over her head. Now she stood entirely naked, except for the cascading shield of hair that fell to below her waist.
“Must I pin my hair up?” she fretted. “I am sure he wants that, to make all of my flesh completely exposed.”
“If he said you must be nude, then you cannot wear any hair ornaments,” Edgiva said smartly. “Your hair must be as unadorned as you are, so no hairpins.” She smiled conspiringly. Her smile convinced Godiva she could go through with this. Her smile made everything seem almost normal. Almost.
Godiva wrapped the mantle protectively around her and pinned it tightly at her shoulder. “Let us go, then,” she said.
Edgiva held the door open for her. They walked out into the hall.
The housecarls and servants must have heard what was happening by now, for everyone paused, as if suddenly they were posing for a mural, and then hurried to continue their rounds. All of them were straining covertly to glance at their mistress.
If her closest subordinates were willing to behave that way, what awaited her out among the stranger, ruder populace? This was a new hamlet, and the people did not know her well.
The two women walked across the courtyard to the stable. Godiva could feel her pulse throbbing in her neck, at her temple. She could hear her blood rushing through her, as if it were a thing outside herself, the murmur of the sea on the Northumbrian coast.
The day was dry, as too many had been this spring, and it was sunny. The stable was absolutely empty, with only one horse remaining in it. With a stab of panic Godiva realized she had made no provisions for her horse—she would ride the mare, of course, but how was she to control it? Should it be bridled? Edward had said it should be naked too. What if she used a bridle and then, having survived all of this humiliation, the king claimed it did not count because she had defied him by bridling the horse?
Edward’s harrying the town would have been easier. The villagers could have taken refuge in the manor and Godiva would have paid to rebuild all their houses. It would have cost far, far less than the heregeld. She opened her mouth to make this point to Edgiva, but by then they had reached the stable, and Edgiva pointed almost cheerfully to Godiva’s mare, a broad-boned palfrey, waiting just inside, haltered by the mounting block. A slender horsehair cord—the mare’s own, by the color—was tied around the horse’s nose, with enough length to it that Edgiva could hold it and guide the mare with nothing else.
“Thank you, Leofric,” Godiva said softly. Edgiva nodded.
They were alone in the stable. The smell of horses had never been so sharp in Godiva’s nose. Perhaps because she had never breathed it in combined with her own wakeful nervousness.
“I am frightened,” she told Edgiva.
“No, you’re not,” the abbess said, sounding wise and calm and abbesslike, and not at all like the distraught woman who was so upset with her. “If Leofric’s life were dependent upon your not falling off and making a fool of yourself, or if you had to survive being dunked, or walking along the edge of a canyon without falling, then you would be frightened. This is not fear. This is something so much smaller that is fooling you into believing it is fear. Do not be fooled.”
There was the mounting block—the same mounting block she used every time she was in Coventry, a block identical to every block she used at every stable in Mercia. She looked at it now, felt the grain of the wood as her bare toes trod upon it, and it became the most unusual and fascinating of objects ever under her feet. The strange sea-murmur had not subsided; it was as if the air around her had its own pulse.
She rested her hands on the mare’s low withers, leaned her weight forward slightly and swung her right leg over the mare’s broad back, pushing off from the mounting block with her left foot. Her cloak swirled heavily with her as she moved.
She was astride the horse.
It felt, to her surprise, comfortable and unremarkable. The mare had been well groomed that morning, was warm from standing in the sunlight; its bare back was softer than a saddle, and the skin of Godiva’s thighs and shins, used to woolen stockings and wraps, was indifferent to the smooth horsehair. It hardly felt different from riding bareback in skirts.
She nodded to Edgiva, who pressed her hand against the horse’s far cheek to turn its head. The mare could feel Godiva’s unease; it was a very gentle palfrey, but its rider’s anxiety made it fussy. It tossed its head in disagreement and ignored Edgiva.
“Come, my lady,” the abbess cooed firmly. With her left hand holding the lead of the horsehair halter, she once again reached under the horse’s neck and rested her strong fingers on its cheek to turn its head out.
This time the mare stepped with her. Godiva felt an uncomfortable thrill at having no direct control over the animal. They walked out of the shade of the stable, across the small courtyard that suddenly seemed smaller than ever.
They reached the gate almost instantly. With a nervous sigh, Godiva reached to unpin her brooch, but Edgiva held up a hand, and she paused. The abbess listened intently to something that Godiva could not hear, because again her pulse was throbbing too loudly in her head. Edgiva glanced over her shoulder with a slightly alarmed expression.
“What is it?” Godiva asked, feeling helpless.
“Keep your cloak on,” she whispered, and pushed at the gate. It gave a little, then paused, and then with some fitful movements, it opened slowly.
Edgiva saw them all a heartbeat before Godiva did, and took in an audible breath. Godiva marked Edgiva’s reaction, then Leofric—who sat on his horse there outside the gate, awaiting them—looked toward her, and his gaze pulled her away from Edgiva’s startled expression. He was horrified.
Coventry was overrun with people. From their dress they seemed mostly farmers or serfs, and by their numbers they must have come from dozens, perhaps scores of miles, in all directions. Every hamlet, village, farm, and manor within two days’ ride or three days’ walk—they all must be emptied of inhabitants except those too old or sick to travel. They were all in Coventry. There were at least a thousand people here. The crowd disappeared out of sight down the road, and probably went all the way to Edward, waiting at the monastery. They had not been here yesterday, and there had been no sign of them at dawn today, so they must have come all at once, which was too extraordinary to conceive. They must have arrived almost silently, like an army. That meant they were here under somebody’s direction.
Edward’s.
There was anonymity in their drab dress, their lack of pennants, decoration, or livery. They were Everyman and Everywoman. They had been sent for, and they had arrived. Most likely, they were Godiva’s own people and maybe Leofric’s, summoned by the king’s messengers to bear witness to . . . something. Did they know? What did they know?
Leofric, moments earlier, had come out here thinking he would speak to a few score villagers. He was still recovering from the shock of this enormous massing.
Godiva felt herself grow pale, felt her mouth fall open, and fought to keep her balance as a heavy dizziness immediately pushed down on her from the cool spring air.
“Who are you?” Leofric demanded of the crowd.
That was a useless question: very few of them answered, and those that did spoke over each other in sheepish voices revealing nothing: “Alred,” said one. “A serf from Evesham,” said another. “A freeman tenant of yours, milord.” Voices created a mumbled, apologetic cacophony of no good information.
“Did King Edward summon you?” asked Edgiva’s strong voice, more loudly than ever Godiva was used to hearing it.
“Yes, lady,” came the nearly unanimous response.
“Thank you, Mother,” Leofric said softly, and then even more softly, cursed. Raising his voice again: “Why did he summon you?”
The response was untranslatable muttering.
Leofric scanned the crowd and then pointed slowly with one gloved finger to an older man with the leather apron of a farrier. “You, fellow. Tell me for what purpose the king has collected you.”
The man bowed, calmly, and shook his head. “My Lord, he gave no reason, just sent his men round to tell us that if we appeared here today we would witness something wondrous.”
There was nodding and assenting grunts near him, and the phrase “something wondrous” was repeated three or four rows deep.
“I see,” said Leofric. “Something touching my lady wife?”
The man bowed again. “Not that he said, my Lord. I guessed it must be, as this is her hamlet, but the king’s messenger said nothing.”
With a grimace, Leofric glanced at the two women.
“Look closer,” Edgiva said, reaching up with her free hand to tug Leofric’s sleeve. “Look how many children there are in this crowd. And look at the farmers.”
There were at least three dozen lambs—very young, a few days old—hoisted over the thick necks of ruddy-faced men. But stranger than that, fully a third of the crowd—hundreds of people—held clay pots or small leather bags, and they seemed to be holding these toward the gate, as if in offering.
“You there,” Leofric said gruffly to a young man near the front. The fellow held a wooden box, the size of his head, out before him. He was dressed like a farmer, but cleaner than most, and groomed enough to suggest personal industry. “What is in that box?”
The young man blinked at him a moment; unlike the farrier, he was nervous to be singled out. “Sod from my farm, milord,” he finally said. “For the lady to bless.”
“Ah,” said Edgiva. “Of course. Ask the closest man with a lamb—”
“Fellow, with the red hair,” Leofric called out. “Why have you brought livestock to stare at my wife?”
“So she could bless the creature and so bless my flock,” said the fellow, trying to bow without dislodging his mewling burden.
“Did the king tell you to do this?” Leofric demanded. He glanced briefly back at Godiva, almost accusingly.
“No, milord,” the fellow said, surprised. “It was obvious. Given the hard years we have had it is only right. We all heard the lady performed the Land Ceremony and then it rained for the only time in weeks. So when we heard there would be something wondrous, I knew it would include her blessing.”
“Woden’s knees, this will play right into Edward’s hands,” Leofric muttered with barely contained fury.
“Why?” said Edgiva. “It has nothing to do with what happens in a church. This is to make sure the crops grow and the livestock multiply. Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and render to the gods of harvest and herds. Godiva already proved she was game to help them by performing the Land Ceremony charm. Now they hope she will intervene directly, without the bother of the Church.”
“That is just what Edward will want,” Leofric repeated. “A suggestion of paganism. If the countess does not willingly give him Coventry, he shall take Coventry from the witch.”
“Never mind that,” said Godiva, shivering beneath her cloak. “How do we keep them all from staring at me while I’m naked?”
“I think I can help you there,” Edgiva said. “If I may have leave?”
“If you think you can possibly improve things,” Leofric said with resignation.
“Good people,” Edgiva called out. She was not on horseback and many could not see her. Scores—hundreds—of people were frowning and craning their necks.
“Talk louder,” Godiva recommended.
“Talk for me,” she countered. “Talk for yourself. Repeat whatever I say. Good people—”
“Good people,” Godiva called out.
“Louder.”
“Good people!”
“Look upon me for a moment.”
“I thought we were trying to make them not look—”
“Look upon me for a moment.”
“Look upon me for a moment!”
“I will gladly bless each of you, and your offerings, at the far side of the village—”
Godiva repeated this, uncertainly.
“—but I will only bless those who keep their gaze averted while I am disrobed.”
“Oh dear God,” Godiva whispered. “Do they even know I am about to do that?”
“Find out,” said Edgiva. “I will only bless those who keep their gaze—”
“I will only bless those who keep their gaze averted while I am disrobed!” the countess declared hurriedly.
No, they had not known that. The immediate uproar was proof.
“Silence!” Godiva shouted. “All blessings come with a price! The price today is that I must see proof of your devotion before I give you proof of mine!”
Edgiva looked over her shoulder, up at Godiva, startled.
Godiva suddenly felt exhilarated. “Turn your backs on me at once, and march all together to the green that lies just on the far side of the monastery walls, past Coffa’s Tree. I will be there moments after you, and at that time you will each be blessed. But until every one of you has removed yourself from the main street of Coventry, I shall stay here and there will be no blessing!”
“That’s enough,” Leofric advised. “You sound like you believe yourself.”
They watched.
There were a few moments of hovering uncertainty. The people on the outskirts of the group did not want to further distance themselves, and they did nothing. However, the men whom Leofric had called out for questioning fixed decisive grimaces on their faces and turned to push their way through the crowd. That turned it; suddenly the entire wave of visitors and residents wanted to reach the far side of the monastery, and now those on the outskirts, suddenly on the front line of the new receiving area, very nearly ran down the road and out of sight.
In the time it takes to draw water from a deep well, there were only a handful of stragglers before the gate. These were all youths, just barely sprouting beards. It was obvious why they had stayed.
“I am no fetching young virgin,” Godiva called out to them. “It really is not worth the wait. I have the boniest knees in Christendom.”
They giggled, looked at each other, at their feet, and did not move.
“I will send my housecarls to smack you with clubs if you do not find other entertainment,” said Leofric with contained, almost bored, annoyance.
The youths left at once.
They were alone now, the three of them, before the gate.
“Thank you,” Godiva said to both her companions, with a shaky sigh.
“I’ll ride ahead,” said Leofric grimly. He tightened his heels against his horse’s sides and it skitted forward, tail swishing and knees lifting high; like Godiva’s mare, Leofric’s mount felt his agitation.
He looked over his shoulder and said quietly, almost grimly, “Know that I love you, Godiva, no matter what follows from this,” then immediately faced forward again and clucked his horse into a trot.
Edgiva looked up over her shoulder. “Are you ready?” she asked.
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.”
Never in her life had she felt more triumphant.
The shock on Edward’s face elated her. How she would celebrate with Leofric and Edgiva tonight! She had accomplished the impossible: used Edward’s own power against him, made his attempt at tyranny the very thing that would take away his power. It was a delicious moment.
But no more than a moment. Edward collected himself, gave her a small, dangerous smile. With his gaze locked onto hers, he gestured with one hand. Behind him, another horseman stirred, and urged his horse up beside the king’s. She recognized his pudgy face.
“Godiva,” Leofric said sorrowfully, “Bishop Aldred has come to censure you.”