Godiva stared at Leofric. He looked away. She stared at Aldred. He smiled sheepishly.
“Your Eminence recommended that I do this,” Godiva protested. “You said a little penance would clear me of any transgression associated with it. You lauded me for resisting the heregeld.”
“Did I?” said Aldred. “Forgive me, Lady Countess, I do not recall that.”
Mother Edgiva made a distressed sound.
“Such a shame you did not keep His Eminence’s letter to remind you,” Leofric said with resigned sarcasm to his wife. Godiva felt her skin grow clammy under the mantle. “I believe you have also misplaced the king’s written declaration that your riding naked through Coventry would be punishment enough for defying him.”
Edward looked incredulous. “I am sure I never wrote such a thing,” he said.
“In which case,” said Aldred, looking uncomfortable but grimly determined, “perhaps you will explain to us your actions. I see that you have used your influence to convene a mob expressing pagan beliefs, among many hundreds of your people who are otherwise devout Christians.”
It was the first declaration Godiva had ever heard him utter.
“This is, of course, a jest,” she said. “And in terrible taste.”
“I would never jest about something so serious, my lady,” said Aldred apologetically. Turning to Edgiva, he said nervously, “Sister? Be kind enough to quote scripture to the countess, as she may be ignorant of the holy text and therefore the consequences of her actions.”
“I grew up copying and memorizing the Holy Writ, you hypocrite,” Godiva nearly snarled.
“Then perhaps,” said Aldred, “you would recite the second book of John, chapter one, verse ten.”
Godiva had always found the Book of John by far the dullest of any in the Bible, and besides: “I was never given that to copy,” she said.
“Then I shall recite it,” said Aldred, sounding bizarrely obsequious. “ ‘Whosoever transgresses, and abides not in the doctrine of Christ, has not God.’ ”
A pause. Godiva smirked impatiently. She wondered what he would demand of her for penance, now—and why he was playing this game in the first place.
That Edward had even brought Aldred surprised her. It suggested the king knew there was a possibility she would make the ride, and wanted to milk advantage from it if she did. But why would Aldred—indecisive, passive Aldred—agree to such a stratagem?
“Verse eleven,” Aldred continued. From the corner of her eye, she saw Edgiva tense and cross herself. “ ‘If there come any such unto you, receive him—or her—not into your house or family. Neither bid him God speed: even he that bids him God speed is a partaker of his evil deeds.’ ”
Edgiva dropped the horsehair cord and took a step away from the mare, shuddering. “I must not be a party to this,” she said. Her tone alarmed Godiva more than anything that had happened so far on this already alarming morning, and she looked quizzically at the abbess. “God forgive this,” Edgiva said in a cracked voice, her eyes suddenly full of tears. She held her hands up in a submissive gesture. “He is casting you out. He is telling us we must all cast you out.” She crossed herself again.
“But you will not do such a thing,” Godiva said, trying to smile, and failing. Her chest felt hollow when she attempted a laugh. “Edey, you will not shun me, surely.”
“It is not a choice, Godiva,” Edgiva said. “I have very difficult choices ahead of me. This is not one of them.”
To Godiva’s astonishment and alarm, Edgiva turned away and then suddenly broke into a run, with a frantic earnestness that belied her fragile physical state, back toward the manor house.
“Edey! What are you doing?” Godiva cried out. The abbess ignored her and continued to flee. The image of her oldest, dearest friend’s receding form chilled her. The sky, she noticed with a shudder, was darkening from white to grey, abruptly now.
“She is but the first of legions,” said Aldred sadly.
“You will not do this,” Godiva said. “You will not do this to me, and to my husband, and to my people.”
“Daughter,” he said, looking at her horse instead of her, “if only you had not transgressed, you would not be doing it to yourself and those you care for.”
Confusion clouded her; she was almost dizzy, she could not make sense of Edward’s seduction of Aldred. “You are saying that I am to be shunned from my own home? That my subjects must not even greet me?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Because of what I just did? Just that? Now?”
“Because what you just did reveals a deeper stain in your soul.”
Annoyance and panic fought for precedence. Annoyance got the upper hand. “What atonement must I perform in order to have this heinous sentence lifted from my shoulders?”
“For such a grave offense against the Church as you have just committed now,” said Aldred regretfully, “we must begin with your publicly declaring and renouncing your wrongs. And then a pilgrimage will cleanse your soul.”
“And after that Edgiva—for whom I got myself into this mess—will talk to me again? To Canterbury then, is it?”
“For a transgression such as this one? Jerusalem, I should think,” said Aldred heavily.
“What?” Leofric nearly shouted. “You are not sending her to Jerusalem because she rode a quarter mile naked on a horse.”
“You are right, of course, milord,” said Aldred, almost pleadingly. “I am sending her to Jerusalem for practicing paganism under the Church’s very nose. She even had a nun beside her—she was attempting to corrupt a woman of the cloth.”
“This is a farce!” Godiva shouted.
“That particular woman of the cloth has already been corrupted,” Leofric snapped. “Stick your ecclesial proboscis into her affairs. Those are actually affairs.”
“She is safe, at least,” Godiva said bitterly. “She did not even bid me adieu.” She used the French deliberately, glaring at the Normandy-raised king. She was stunned by Edgiva’s abrupt abandonment. “If I go on pilgrimage—”
“Godiva, you are not going on any pilgrimage,” Leofric said crossly. “This is all appalling political posturing.”
“If I were to go,” she pressed on, ignoring him, “would this sentence of excommunication be conditionally lifted so that I might practically prepare for such a trip?”
“No,” said Aldred, apologetically.
“So you are saying I must somehow prepare for a dauntingly dangerous and extended voyage, without any means to make those preparations? That makes the trip impossible!”
“Then you will not be going? Such a shame to see you so truculent,” said Aldred, glancing nervously at Edward the way a childhood bully glances at a cohort. “We had high hopes for your repentance.”
She looked over her shoulder. Edgiva was gone. Gone.
“It is the monastery,” Leofric said suddenly, in a voice of discovery.
“What do you mean?” she asked—but even as she heard the words, she knew.
“Edward wants Coventry, so he has offered Aldred the monastery that is the center of it. That is the arrangement, isn’t it?” he demanded of the bishop, who lowered his eyes. “You will never fill Lyfing’s sandals, and you know it, so you are staking claim in new territory, where you cannot be compared to the better men who came before you. If Godiva is excommunicated, her estates are masterless—they do not automatically come to me. Edward takes her land. Except the monastery. You’ll get that.”
“Well, it certainly cannot be patronized by a woman who is excommunicated,” said Aldred.
“Or by her husband,” added Edward. “I believe the good bishop just quoted scripture that implies you are as much a sinner as she is, now. Unless you remove yourself from her sinfulness.”
“Or if she were to repent,” Aldred said helpfully.
“By going to Jerusalem?” Leofric said furiously. Godiva was feeling too ill to speak. She could not believe Edey had run away from her. Again she looked back toward the manor. The vast sky was darkening quickly, turning an angry purple. How could any sky turn so quickly? The breeze had died completely; the air was so still it felt unnatural.
“You could go with her,” Edward said pleasantly. “I will keep my eye on Mercia while you’re away.”
Leofric turned to look at his wife. She could not read the look on his face; was it accusation at her, or outrage at them? Or both? He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. Then, opening them: “If I do not shun you, then others must shun me. My servants, my thanes, my housecarls, my serfs . . . I cannot explain to all of them that this is a sham, a political manipulation. They will believe I am imperiling their souls, and they will seek to cleave from me and turn to someone else to rule them. King Edward, for example.”
“So you will shun me,” Godiva said, not believing it.
“I must,” said Leofric softly. “For now.”
Godiva took a moment to consider that. The wife in her wanted to shriek at him in fury, pound her fists against his chest until he relented in a shower of kisses. But the countess understood, and so she grimaced and said nothing to him. “All right, then,” she said, to Edward and not to Aldred. “Since you are the puppeteer, Your Majesty, give me your conditions.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Stop that,” she said irritably. “You have set all of this up so that you may get Coventry and Aldred takes control of the abbey. If we let you have those things without a fuss, will you tell him not to excommunicate me?”
“If Aldred does not excommunicate you, Edward does not get the town nor Aldred the abbey,” said Leofric.
“Let us say you excommunicate me, you take the town and the abbey—so it’s done. You have won that round,” Godiva pressed on, to Edward. “Given that, is it necessary to send me to Jerusalem? Could you not have him send me to Canterbury? Or flagellate myself a few times and be done with it? I could do that right now, I am already undressed. And then at least I can start to put my life back together before dinner.”
“You are in no position to be making any demands at all,” said Edward mildly. “Follow His Eminence into the church, where monks await us to bear witness to the ritual of bell, book, and candle.”
That phrase tore through her like a disease, and suddenly the full impact of this moment hit her. She almost vomited. They really would do it. She would lose everything. Her people, her home, Leofric, Edgiva . . . although she had already lost Edgiva. Despite her fallen state, she was a good abbess, a devoted woman of religion, and she would not speak to Godiva if Godiva were cast out. She had already run off at the threat of it.
And all those shepherds and farmers and villagers waiting under the still, strangely angry sky, who had come so far to be blessed—what would happen to them now? They would be told, in a few moments, that the woman whose blessing they sought was a creature of Satan, an apostate, and that if they had anything to do with her, they themselves would be cast out from the Church. And so they would believe their traditions were tainted and dangerous, and they would cease to follow them, and then have only the Church—this Church, led by men such as this—for spiritual guidance. A dismal future for all. And this time, truly, there was nothing she could do to stop it. It was all a chess game, and she had not seen until now how inevitable it was that she should lose.
The bishop beckoned her toward the church. The king dismounted and let his horse’s reins drop to the ground. “Come, lady, let us go in,” he said.
“Wait!” a woman cried from the market square.
They all turned.
In the purple-blue glare of the strange sky cover, Edgiva came running toward them, her veil flying back, one hand holding up her long loose skirts, the other hand gripping a small leather-bound codex. “Your Eminence, you have mistook the situation! I beg you, be advised!”
She reached the group and stopped, panting for breath. She leaned over, red in the face and nearly retching from exertion, but she held up the small book.
“I have brought you evidence,” she managed to gasp, “of your misapprehension of this whole affair.”
She stood straight again, pushed her veil back over her shoulder, and looked around at all of them.
“What are you talking about, woman?” Edward said sharply.
“The reason for Godiva’s ride,” said Edgiva breathlessly.
“She made the ride to entice good Christians to embrace heathen ways,” said Aldred. “The evidence is the superstitious populace waiting on the other side of the abbey.”
“I cannot account for their appearance,” said Edgiva. “But I can tell you why she made the ride. Although you have not greeted me as such, Your Majesty and Your Eminence, I am still Mother Edgiva, Abbess of Leominster, and I command a certain authority over this woman, who came to me at my abbey seeking spiritual counsel. She has committed a grave sin, a terrible sin, a sin so great I recorded it in the abbey’s diary, which I brought with me. I have in this same diary recorded the penance that I, as abbess, gave her.”
“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.
The 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.”