Godiva (26 page)

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.”

CHAPTER 24

G
odiva 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.”