Godiva (3 page)

CHAPTER 3

A
fter several more catatonic hours of charters being witnessed and signed, and copies cut at odd angles from one large piece of parchment; of arguments resolved, appeals heard, declarations and resolutions drafted; of Edward (to Godiva's mind) reveling in a bias toward all churchmen's petitions and against all women's, finally the bells tolled for Vespers and the Great Council adjourned. The hall emptied out with a rapidity reflecting how fetid the air had become. Leofric went in search of his son Alfgar, who was attending as a thane; Godiva wished to join them, but there was something more urgent that required her attention first.

She allowed herself a luxurious, broad-armed stretch, sensing everyone in her vicinity giving her a passing glance. They all looked stiff and calcified inside their winter leathers; she loved the feline feeling of her garments. Even King Edward—who flashed her an unaccountably surly look as he passed by toward his private chambers—was not as comfortable in his furs as she was in all her silk.

Edgiva and Godiva, from years of habit, found each other just outside the main hall entrance. The sky was grey, the air moist and chill, but it was such a welcome change from inside the hall that it lightened them as if it were a sparkling midsummer morning. They stood together in silence, left hands lightly clasped, Godiva's fragile-looking one in Edgiva's sturdy one. They watched the straggling noblemen and noblewomen and bishops exit into the wan spring afternoon, taking in lungfuls of cool, clean air.

When traffic had drained beside the doorway, Edgiva dropped her friend's hand and gave her a solemn look. Godiva steeled herself for rebuke.

“You did not stand up with me,” Edgiva said.

“Everyone knows our history. My support would bear no weight beyond a childish loyalty to you.”

“Or a wifely loyalty to your husband,” Edgiva returned without rancor. “Which is your Christian duty. When Leofric stood up, why did you not join him?”

“Because I knew what he was up to,” Godiva said. “He wanted to put it to Godwin and Fatty—”

“His name is Siward—”

“He wanted what you wanted—for all three of them to equally endorse you. I'd have interrupted the
rhythm
of that,” said Godiva. “But surely now that they have all pledged, it will be easier next time for you to rouse more people—”

“Starting with you, the wife of one of the earls.”

“Please stop scolding me,” Godiva said. “You do always
scold
me.”

Edgiva softened her tone. “I do, yes, and I should not. But it hurts my heart that you do not bother to use your position to forward a cause so obviously right. And so dear to me.”

The lady of Mercia felt petulant, and then felt shame for feeling petulant. “Very well. Not only shall I support you next chance, I will see to it that others do as well. I think you should follow young Sweyn's suggestion. Charter a petition.” Godiva grinned conspiringly. “And I shall convince all the lords to put their marks to it.”

Edgiva's lovely blue eyes rolled in the direction of her thick dark brows, barely visible beneath her veil. “Convince,” she echoed. “I know what that means.”

“Never mind, then,” said Godiva quickly. “I do not meddle where I am not asked to.”

Edgiva looked abashed. “I am sorry to sound critical. Of course I would be grateful, although you know that I . . .” She hesitated.

“—Judge me,” Godiva concluded for her firmly, without bitterness. “Yes, I know you judge me for my methods.”

Edgiva winced. “Judgment is a harsh word,” she said softly. “I leave judgment to God.”

“Really? I leave it to you.”

Edgiva closed her eyes and took a moment to consider her words. “That is a failing in me, if I have treated you as if I were your judge.”

“I forgive you,” Godiva said, thrown. If Godiva herself were as impeccable as Edgiva, she would cling to that distinction dearly, and deny any insult to her reputation. But Edey—in such a collected, reasoned Edey manner—resisted nothing, including Godiva's occasional complaints.

A fawn-toned figure stopped just outside the doorway, behind Edgiva. “Greetings,” Godiva said cheerily to Sweyn. Edgiva turned in his direction, then immediately stopped and turned back toward Godiva. The color rose on her face.

Sweyn's eyes moved between them for a moment—that is, between Godiva's face and the back of Mother Edgiva's veiled head—and then with a careful smile, he took a step to join them. “I am quite beyond my depth in the presence of the two most beautiful ladies of the Council.”

Edgiva blushed further and licked her lips. Godiva saw her check the urge to cross herself; instead, her left hand reached for her rosary, and nervously she fingered the fragrant pink beads. She studied the ground by her feet, as if hoping to find there written directions for conducting herself.

“You were a good man to stand up with me today,” she said, not turning even a little bit toward Sweyn. “Although your father and the others made it a mockery, I am grateful for your action.”

“They did not mock it, Mother,” consoled Sweyn. “Of course they are genuine in wishing the heregeld to be abolished. I know no living soul who favors it. Even Edward himself, I think, finds it an unfortunate relic.”

“So why does he not renounce it?” Edgiva demanded.

“For a king to renounce a source of control over his subjects is not a small thing,” Sweyn said. “Especially for this king. He would need to replace it with some other means of control.”

Godiva stopped listening to their conversation; she was rather watching them both.

She knew Sweyn's postures very well. There was a certain movement of his lower torso, a subtle arching of his back and hips, that Godiva could always elicit from him when she put her mind to it. The unspoken truth of this subtle movement was:
I will agree to whatever you ask, if you will only place yourself closer to me.
It did not matter that no man could actually have her. It was a natural response, etched into men by the most ancient of gods. Encouraging it was a kind of sacrament, an homage to the dance between body and soul. And, of course, a useful political tool for a woman surrounded by men.

But for all that, he was a sharp fellow, Sweyn. The first year of his earldom, he was malleable as clay and blushed through numerous erections Godiva pretended not to notice. The second year, he was a little cannier, and it required a brushing of her skirt against his outer thigh to get his full attention. Even then, she had failed to dissuade him from aligning himself with a certain Welsh prince whom Leofric detested. This year, his third in power, she'd had to be extremely forward when confronting him about the border violations. But eventually she'd coaxed from him that subtle arching of the hips, which always meant she could now press her advantage and get what she was after.

Now, he was arching his hips directly in Edgiva's direction, and Edgiva was not even looking at him.

She was not looking at him for the same reason that he was arching his hips at her.

Godiva had not seen it coming, but nothing under heaven was clearer to her. As a witness, she found it intoxicating. Excitement fluttered in her stomach, and she wished Leofric were there to hold her round the middle.

“I was telling Edgiva that if she follows your advice and creates a formal petition, I will help persuade the thanes and lesser earls to put their mark to it,” she offered, interrupting their discussion.

Sweyn gave her the weary smile of the vanquished. “I predict you will be effective,” he said.

Godiva fluttered her lashes at him playfully. Edgiva, still examining the ground, asked, “Are you fluttering your lashes now, Godiva?”

“Would you be disappointed if I weren't?”

“Not really,” Edgiva said.

There was a silence, uncomfortable to earl and abbess, entertaining to Godiva. Somewhere across the courtyard, a goose honked suddenly, and several voices laughed in reaction.

“Well. I must find Leofric and Alfgar,” Godiva said suddenly. “I bid you both Godspeed.”

“I shall go with you,” Edgiva said anxiously, her pitch rising almost to regular female tones. “I must thank Leofric for his support as well.” She excused herself from Sweyn, having never once turned in his direction.

Godiva strode off through the crowded yard, intending to exit the manor property and stroll around the green, where she supposed her menfolk would be. It would be a wonderful change from the cooping-up of the last few days. There would likely be as many pigs as people in the streets, but at least the pigs would make less noise and smell more wholesome. And there would be trees and other reassurances of the natural world to keep the spectacle of human politics in perspective.

Edgiva followed close beside her.

“He is in deep,” Godiva said, with a mischievous glance at Edgiva. The abbess's face paled.

“What mean you?” she demanded.

“Sweyn. He is utterly in love with you.”

The abbess looked panicked and crossed herself. “That is terrible,” she said, avoiding Godiva's eyes. “I am an abbess; it is terrible.”

“Yes, it is terrible that you're an abbess, since that will complicate your marrying him.”

Not quite to the manor gate, Edgiva stopped midstride and all her weight shifted to her back foot.
“What?”

Godiva turned to her, smiling. “Edey, it is plain as wheat. There is a
glow
around the two of you. The spirits of the unborn babes who want you as their parents are shrieking at you to disrobe.”

This brought an extraordinary look to Edgiva's face; Godiva had never so successfully horrified her.

“How can you say that to me?” Edgiva finally hissed, and her face crumpled.

“I'm sorry,” Godiva said at once. “I did not realize you . . . realized.” A pause, as two minor countesses minced by, eyeing them curiously. Once they were out of earshot, she asked, “When did this happen?”

Edgiva shook her head. “Suddenly. These past few days. From the moment I arrived and saw him. The last time our paths crossed, when he came to the abbey to receive a Bible from my nuns a month ago, there was no such attraction. I cannot fathom the reason for the change.”

“Has anything happened between you?” Godiva asked hopefully.

The abbess glared and made a gesture to Godiva to speak softer. “Of course not!” she whispered. “I would not allow it.”

“Has he tried?”

Edgiva raised her hands to cover her face and took a deep, unsteady breath. “I do not understand why God is testing me this way,” she said in her low voice.

“So he
has
tried. What has he done? Edey, tell me what he's done, and I'll tell you what it means.”

She lowered her hands and frowned at Godiva. “There are no
acts
. There is nothing in particular worth description.”

She glanced uncomfortably about at the bustle around them: servants running in and out of the gate, a groom adjusting a horse's saddle as the rider waited huffing, a creaky wagon full of food being inspected by the porter while thanes and their wives skirted small piles of manure to get out of the yard. A small clutch of priests were debating something boring in low rumbling tones nearby; Edgiva looked especially wary of their proximity.

“There are only looks,” she whispered, “and . . . gestures . . . and moving his body nearer to mine than is required, and . . .” She was flustered. “He offers to help me with things, mad things a nobleman would never help an abbess with—would you like company while you are praying, do you keep incense burning in your tent, and do you need me to help you light it—”

Godiva giggled.

“And I so desire to say yes! It terrifies me. It is an alien and heinous thing.”

“It is natural and only right!” Godiva countered. “The world must be peopled—”

“But not by
me,
” Edgiva said fiercely.

“Perhaps you are mistaken about that.”

The abbess glanced nervously at the religious men again. “I took holy vows—”

“Edey, you were raised in that abbey,” said Godiva, with impatient affection. “It is the only home you've known. Nobody ever asked you if you felt a calling; from the moment you arrived on English soil, barely out of swaddling clothes, it was understood that Queen Emma's granddaughter Edgiva would be the next Abbess of Leominster. You were never given a choice.”

“Whoever is?” Edgiva argued. “You were not asked if you would
like
to marry and—”

“It is my choice to stay married,” Godiva argued back. “Leofric and I could each divorce the other if we so chose. Our vows to each other were no less holy than yours were to the Church, but if either of us decides it is folly to remain together, we have the right to untie our knot. You should have the same right. The Church can toss you out if you displease her; why cannot you toss out the Church?”