Hereford
Sweyn had planned to hunt with the king the next morning, as many of the earls were doing—Great Councils always met near the best hunting grounds. But upon hearing the abbess required an escort, he gave regrets to the king and his huntsman and ordered his housecarls to prepare for departure at dawn, when the stone cathedral’s bells tolled Prime. So Edgiva rode pillion behind a lay brother, in a convoy with Sweyn and his housecarls, as far as Hereford.
It was a rough day’s ride, over hilly terrain, in raw weather, with no spring flowers worth the notice to liven the road. Truly, Edgiva was glad of the hard pace they kept because it would make casual conversation impossible. She spent the morning with gloved hands clenching the grips, head bowed, praying to St. Pelagia for protection from sexual defilement. Sweyn gave her no reason for it; it was her own heart’s pounding that alarmed her.
She had assumed—as Godiva teased her often—that she had been born without the urge to mate, or even to crave that manner of attention. It was such joy and yet such agony to spot him out of the corner of her eye as they rode. He looked so maddeningly handsome in his fawn-colored leather gear and cloak, on his mare—even that he rode a mare, she could hear Godiva japing filthily and gleefully about this, and her cheeks reddened and she had to consciously control her breathing.
He made it worse—although he did not mean to—when after the brief break for a midday meal near a flowering pussy willow, as they were walking the horses for a stretch, he reined his mount up alongside the one she rode on and struck up a conversation with her. He was so obviously eager to entertain her; she became embarrassed for him, that everyone in the riding party could surely read his interest. He was an overeager pup, with more energy than the rest of the travelers combined. Had his horse gone lame, she thought, he could easily have carried the creature home and arrived undiminished in his vigor.
He invited her to stay on an extra day in Hereford to make pilgrimage to St. Ethelbert’s tomb at the cathedral. She said she would consider it gladly, as she had desired anyhow to visit with the brothers of St. Guthlac’s.
“You will be amazed how holy our Hereford is,” Sweyn promised, wide-eyed with desire to impress. “We have an enormous number of relics.”
“I know your roster,” said Edgiva with a maternal smile. “I hope it will not crush your pride to learn that little Leominster boasts far more. We have Earl Leofric chiefly to thank for that.”
They spoke of the arranged and so far fruitless marriage that had made them legal kin: Sweyn’s sister Edith to Edgiva’s uncle Edward.
“I was never fond of Edith,” Sweyn confessed. “And she was never fond of me. I am the most expansive sibling, and she the most implosive. I am Jupiter to her Saturn.” He grinned at her. “Do you prefer I not make pagan references, Mother?”
“Of course not. The stars and planets were here, and worshiped and studied, long before Our Lord was born. A newer wisdom need not defame an older one.”
“Sounds like the sort of thing Bishop Lyfing would say,” Sweyn said, approvingly.
Edgiva smiled. “I take that as a compliment.”
Sweyn then began to boast to her of his excellent treatment of Hereford’s serfs and slaves. This had been her fervent cause at the Great Council some eighteen months earlier; she was surprised he remembered, as he had not seemed so very interested himself back then. He was only telling her now because he wanted her approval, surely.
He had it. Merely by existing, by having that smile, that voice, those eyes. She was appalled at herself for this. With the exception of her dearest childhood friend—whose behavior she forgave in her heart over and over and over again—Edgiva was exacting in her appraisal of people. Especially of men. Let a man prove his character through actions, not words, and he earned her regard. It should not be the case that he win it with a grin. Grins did not deserve regard. Grins were just grins.
She adored his grin.
She abruptly turned the talk to the heregeld, and whether Godiva was likely to convince enough lords to actually sign their mark to a petition.
“Godiva, I believe, can convince near anyone of near anything,” said Sweyn. “I speak as one of her perennial victims.”
“You have a weakness for a pretty face,” said Edgiva, not daring to look at him. She supposed her face was not unattractive, but she had never, until this week, cared much about that. Nor about her undelicate hands or unmusical voice.
“It is not just her pretty face,” Sweyn said. “She is the most disarming person I have ever met. Even when she approaches me with that look of purpose in her eye, and I steel myself for it, determined to ignore her charm, somehow within two birdsongs she has wrested something from me I was not prepared to give—and I do not begrudge her for it. In fact, I feel pleased with myself for having pleased her. I do not understand how she does that, but she does it very well. She is Leofric’s most potent weapon.”
Edgiva felt a strange tightness in her gut, an alien sensation she supposed must be jealousy, although she would much sooner have attributed it to riding in this chill. To be jealous of anyone was a sin; of one’s dearest friend, a worse one. She clutched the support bar of the pillion harder and wished as she bobbed along that she could will the feeling in her gut away.
“I enjoy Godiva’s cheerful subverting of men’s scheming,” she said. “I do not admit that to her, but I see the games of intrigue the lords and bishops do play, and I do not like them. I do not like the duplicity. What she does is no worse, and ofttimes, much better. There is generally beneficence to her scheming. She would never plot to hurt anyone or undermine them. However much she meddles, it is always with a happy intention.”
“Excellently put, Mother.”
“But sometimes I do fret for her,” Edgiva continued. “Sometimes Godiva believes she is merely lighting a little candle somewhere when really she is heaving oil upon a bonfire. I am so grateful for her taking up my cause against the heregeld, but I am aware it is a complex matter, and Godiva is not at her best with complexity of any kind.”
Sweyn laughed. “True enough, that. And Edward seems not to like her. Were she any woman but Leofric’s, I hate to think what he would scheme to do to her.”
Edgiva winced then. “Edward troubles me,” she admitted quietly. “Kinsman though he be.”
“He is better than Harthacnut,” said Sweyn.
“That saying has sustained Edward on the throne for three years now,” said Edgiva. “Soon he will need more praise than simply being better than Harthacnut.”
They changed to fresh horses at a posting station and set off at a hard trot; the ceasing of conversation made Edgiva no less aware of what a beautiful color of light brown Sweyn’s hair was, or how well his short cloak sat pushed back over his shoulders, or how dashingly his eyebrows swept up at the edges, or how obedient his mare was under him. Sometimes she was dizzy.
They had left very early, and reached Hereford by nightfall, as it began to drizzle. An outrider had been sent ahead, and food—not quite a supper—was waiting in the hall. Sweyn’s bower contained a small guest chamber adjacent to his own sleeping quarters. Most visitors were quartered in the hall, but when Godwin or the king came through, Sweyn took this smaller room and yielded his own to his superior. His chamberlain offered Edgiva the smaller room and she accepted it, both gratefully and warily. Alone for a few moments, she offered God a psalm and St. Christopher a prayer of thanks for safe arrival. Then, as a reassuring ritual more than an act of faith, she rapidly recited nine Pater Nostrums. She finished with a plea to the Great Mother for inner calm, as the women of the forests had taught her in her herbal foragings. It was no skin off St. Christopher’s nose to share the gratitude; was Gaia not also Terra Mater to St. Christopher?
A serving girl called Aisly brought her a basin of water and a stiff, dry towel. With weary gratitude, she washed herself before dressing again for dinner. Over her tunic she refastened her still-dusty scapular, belt, wimple, and veil. All of it was dark and drab; for the first time in her life, Edgiva wished she had something pretty to draw attention to her face. How Godiva would cackle to know that! . . . And how she would then have lovingly helped Edgiva to indulge the vanity.
“I will confess this all when I am home,” she promised herself softly. From the packet of medicinal herbs she always carried with her she pulled out a small leather-bound codex, her only private possession, and looked around the room for a quill and ink. She could not find one, so she spoke to the book instead of writing in it. “I will do penance and I will cleanse it from my soul. And I promise,” she added with a wince, “to be more compassionate when others come to me bewailing this condition of the liver. I have never understood their complaints as I do now. Thank you, Mother Mary, for visiting upon me this atrocious experience. I understand now why I have been subjected to it.”
Because Earl Sweyn had been gone for days—and because he returned with an esteemed religious lady as his guest—there was a festive air to supper, however drab the oysters were that had been carted in barrels up from Gloucester. The vegetables and bread were mushy from being reheated several times whenever the porter thought the earl was arriving. But the seasonings were splendid compared to the dull fare of the abbey, or even of the king’s kitchen. The table was decorated with primrose and sweet violet blossoms and painted eggs taken from a growing pile resting in straw near the entrance to the kitchens.
She was seated beside him, as the honored guest. Throughout the meal, she was distracted by his presence. She wished that he were not so handsome, that his voice were not so resonant, that his shoulders were not quite so broad. She began to resent him for it. Halfway through the meal, he rose to circulate among his reeves and servants, to greet them after his absence. Her whole right side felt colder and somehow lonely when he was no longer near her, and she felt far too happy when he returned, even though he did not acknowledge her. She tried to turn her mind from noticing him at all and recited the Pater Nostrum in silence to regain her composure. Over and over again she did it, until she was successful; Sweyn moved away again at one point and she did not even notice. There, you see? she told herself. ’Tis nothing. I am well.
On the Road
The earl and lady of Mercia, and the earl’s son Alfgar, reached holy Evesham that evening as a light rain began. The abbot of St. Mary’s graciously received them after Compline services were done.
They had ridden on good horses at a moderate pace that was too hard for idle chatter. But still Leofric seemed more taciturn than usual. In the small, low-ceilinged room where the couple would sleep that night, as they were rinsing the road dust off their faces, Leofric did not look at her, and responded to attempts at conversation with indistinct, disinterested grunts. She stretched her limbs gracefully but broadly, directly in his line of sight, lunging from one knee to the other to relieve the tension of a day in the saddle. Leofric always, always, watched her when she did this, enjoying the flash of ankle she revealed. This time he ignored her. Was he upset with her for testing Sweyn? For prompting those other lords to support Edgiva’s charter?
“What have you done with my husband?” Godiva asked him finally, standing straight and removing her travel veil.
He was taken aback. “What?”
“I am in possession of one husband, who, while not known for expansive lightheartedness, is still a commendable partner for conversation and even the odd bit of banter. Whoever you are, you have taken possession of his body and I demand to know where you have put the rest of him.”
Leofric attempted, wanly, to smile. “He is off worrying about things,” he said. “And he did not want you to worry with him.”
“But I always worry with him. I am extremely good at lightening his load.”
“Perhaps this time you are his load.”
She frowned as she unpinned her wimple. “Oh, I see what this is about, then. Too much flirtation, is it? Even though it was to advance a good cause that surely you support?”
“Not too much by my estimation. Too much by the king’s.”
“Yes, he had quite the chance of encountering me at moments that looked much naughtier than they were. Poor frightened Aldred—”
“God’s wounds, it was not chance, Godiva,” Leofric said. “Last evening he assigned two servants to tail you and to report back to him whenever you were in a conversation with any man, even in a public place. I almost believe he wanted me to notice.” He gave her a tight-lipped grimace. “He knows you worked your charms on all the thanes you wrested vows from for the petition. You are quite out of the favor of His Majesty. Which means I might be also. At a time when he is looking for excuses to bare his claws. So as good a cause as it may be, in the name of Woden, leave the heregeld problem to Edgiva.”
Hereford
After the ordeal of dinner, Edgiva had written her daily entry into her codex, undressed down to her shift, and was about to release Aisly when there was a rap on the door between Sweyn’s chambers and the one she was to sleep in. Aisly opened it to reveal the earl, absent his usual short cloak.
Even in the dim lantern light, Sweyn looked uncomfortable. It was not a mood that suited him. His boundless energy seemed trapped in his feet, and so as he spoke he rocked back and forth as if on a boat.
“Forgive me if it is forward to come to Mother’s chambers this late,” he said, not looking at her. Of course it was forward; it was far more than forward. With a sense of panic, Edgiva gestured to Aisly for her dark wool mantle, which the girl tossed to her; Edgiva hurriedly placed it round her shoulders and pulled it closed. Sweyn noticed none of this, staring at the floor, seeking some excuse to stay. “I have some thoughts on how I may help you oversee Godiva’s attempts to champion your petition, and make certain she does not endanger herself. As we both have matters attending us tomorrow, this seemed the only time to speak them . . . Would you like to hear them?”
Aisly looked at Edgiva.
“Let him come,” Edgiva said, badly affecting disinterest.
Once through the doorway, Sweyn seemed to want to move toward her, but became rooted to the spot, his energy still shifting back and forth from foot to foot although neither left the ground now. The earl and the abbess stared at each other stupidly, without speaking. His large frame made the small room smaller. The aroma of his sweat mingled with a spicy scent on his clothes and made her wonderfully dizzy.
Finally Edgiva managed to splutter, insipidly, just for the sake of something being said, “I believe we will be triumphant in this cause, for surely it is God’s will for the realm.”
“Then we should celebrate the coming of God’s will. Let us do so over wine.”
She stared at him, every part of her going taut except her face, which went red. She realized her mouth was hanging open. She closed it, and tried to look away from him, but couldn’t. He himself looked slightly terrified.
“Excuse me, milord,” said Aisly, “I’ll just get some from the cellar, if you like.”
“Do not leave us alone!” Edgiva said, more intensely than she meant to. At least looking at the girl meant looking away from Sweyn. “It . . .” She tried to sound lighthearted, and instead sounded brittle. “It would be indecorous.”
“Why?” Sweyn demanded with a nervous laugh. “Is there a risk you might be something other than a chaste observer of your holy vows?”
Edgiva blushed so intensely she felt her scalp tingle. “You pretend to chastise me, sir, but actually you are asking that question with too much hope.”
Sweyn laughed a little, and she found she could hardly breathe. “You must not accuse your noble host of improper intentions,” he said, with forced playfulness.
“I hope my host is noble,” Edgiva shot back, feeling desperate.
There was an awkward pause. Aisly cleared her throat to remind them she was in the room. Sweyn caught her eye and then gestured out the door with his thumb.
When he did that, Edgiva felt her knees weaken and a strange feeling surge through her legs and stomach. “Mother,” the servant said, curtsying, without quite meeting her eyes. It almost sounded like an apology.
Edgiva’s ears were ringing and she felt light-headed. She tried to speak and could not even whisper. She tried to cross herself and was unable to move her arms. She could not look at Aisly; she could not look at Sweyn either. She heard the girl leave. She heard the door close, aware it was now only herself and Sweyn in the very small room. She could feel his eyes on her and was terrified of looking at him. She was dizzy.
“My lady Abbess,” he said, sobering, and walked closer to her. The closer he came, the dizzier she felt. “I do not pretend to understand this.”
“You feel it too?” she asked. She was thrilled. She was relieved. She was terrified.
“I do not think there is a soul in Hereford who has seen the two of us in the same room without noticing.”
“Although I am a decade your senior, you are a man of the world and are no doubt familiar with this feeling,” she said. “While I have never—”
“I have felt desire before, but nothing near to this,” he corrected, and reached out to take her hand. She made a strange sound without meaning to and sat down hard on the thick sleeping mat. Her hand released the mantle, which fell off her shoulders and pooled around her on the bedding. Sweyn knelt down beside the mat. She was disappointed he had not sat on it with her. She looked at him, looked at the empty spot beside her on the bedding, and looked at him again. He smiled, and chuckled apologetically. “I dare not sit beside you,” he said. “If I did, I cannot promise to control myself.”
“Would it hurt?” she asked, and then turned even redder hearing herself ask the question. Of course it would hurt—Godiva had told her all about that, years back. Despite her vows of chastity, it was a detail she had never quite forgotten.
The pressure of his hand gripped hers a little harder and he made a small sound in his throat. “You are a virgin?” She nodded, terrified to meet his gaze. “Then yes, it would hurt.” A pause. “But only the first time.”
She made a feeble attempt to pull her hand out of his. Sweyn’s grip tightened, and Edgiva’s heart leapt with pleasure. “This must be the devil’s work,” she pressed on. She tried to remember the prayer to St. Mary of Edessa against sexual temptation, but she could not. Instead she found herself thinking of the pennyroyal tincture against conception. She tried to remove her hand again, but he squeezed it even tighter. As she’d hoped he would.
“Not the devil,” he said softly. “You are too pure for the devil to have a grip on you.”
“You would rob me of that purity,” she said, looking away, cringing at how badly she wanted to be robbed.
“I swear I would never rob you,” he said, and rose up on his knees so that he was nearer to her. She felt fluttering sensations low in her stomach, the nearer he got. “I would only substitute your virgin purity with something equally . . . significant.”
A long pause as she looked into the darkened corner of the room, and he kneeled upright as near to her as he could balance. She could feel his breath against the skin of her bare neck. She could smell the leather of his jerkin. She had never been so distressed and happy.
“What do you want?” he asked after a long moment.
“I want you to sit next to me on the bed,” she whispered.
“I have warned you—”
“Sit next to me on the bed,” she repeated, more certain.
Another nervous chuckle from him—it struck her as an apology to God—and he released her hand, rose from his knees, and then settled beside her on the sleeping mat. He was trembling even more than she was. She offered him her hand again. He stared at it for a long moment, then took it, but only to place it in her own lap.
Once his hand was in her lap, it remained there.
An hour later, there was blood on the sheets, and Edgiva was in thrall to Sweyn Godwinson.