Naked
Authors: Eliza Redgold
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For my beloved daughter, Jessica, who has amazing hair.
I waited for the train at Coventry;
I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge,
To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped
The city’s ancient legend into this:
—Tennyson (1842):
Godiva
Coventry, Engla-lond, 1023 AD
The woman of a thousand summers back …
—Tennyson (1842):
Godiva
Naked.
My fingers shook as I unclasped the golden eagles of my belt. Yet it wasn’t the lukewarm sun that made me tremble.
The metal belt turned warm in my grasp as I traced my fingers around the eagle’s wing.
No. Don’t think of it. Don’t remember.
But his face came to me, leaning over me, reaching for my body in the rose gold of dawn.
In a splash of silver my keys slipped from the belt, onto the dirt.
Aine picked up the keys, prised the belt from my hands.
So hard to let go.
“Your husband should never have forced you to do this, my lady. It’s cruel.”
“Hush.” My words were swollen, like my eyes, with unshed tears. “He has his reasons and I have mine.”
The clasp of my cloak.
My fingers fumbled.
Aine took over as if I were still a child.
The clasp came free.
More silver.
More pain.
The swoop of a swallow’s wing from around my shoulders.
My brown cloak.
Gone.
Aine swathed it over her arm.
My red tunic.
A sunset flash over my head.
Gone.
Now only my white shift remained.
The linen drifted between my legs, gentle as fingers.
Only one man’s hands had touched me there, just as gentle.
No.
Aine stepped forward, stepped back. “I can’t do it, my lady.”
“Please. Help me.”
In surrender I raised my arms.
My lashes fanned closed.
The scent of lavender.
Soft weave across my face.
The shift fluttered away.
Naked.
I shuddered.
“Courage, my lady,” Aine urged. “Let courage clothe you now.”
The first chime rang out to strike the midday hour.
“Let the bells ring. I’m ready to ride.”
Ebur whinnied. Leaning close I sought the rough comfort of his mane.
The church bell chimed again.
Aine made a step with her hands.
My braid flew.
Astride.
As I turned toward the main street I began to recall what had led me to this. To this fateful hour. To this naked ride.
“Your hair, my lady!” Aine shouted behind me. “Your hair!”
Six months earlier
St. Agnes’ Eve, 1023 AD
In Coventry:
—Tennyson (1842):
Godiva
From the top of the hill I could see it all.
The Middle Lands
. The land of my people, the land of my
cyn,
my kin. The land I loved.
Below the town lay, its streets fanned like the bones of a fish, thatched roofs still dappled with late winter snow. Smoke curled from the roof holes, above the cauldrons cooking on the flames, full of hearty
briw
. My stomach rumbled.
Beyond the town, the smaller villages clustered like children at a mother’s skirts. Nurtured by the farming land, green and white fields striped here and there with brown. Sheltered by the wildwoods of Arden. Sacred, magic, too far to see. Where I loved to ride.
At one end of the main street our thatched hall loomed, tall and proud within its pickets, the watchtower pointed high. At the other soared the cross of the new church my father had built. A Christ’s mass gift for my mother, for the town.
“I won’t stop there,” he’d vowed. “I’ll rebuild our church and our hall, not in wattle and clay, but in stone. Here in the Middle Lands we shall have a fortress, a castle fit for a king and queen, with strong walls and a watchtower that can never be burnt. I’ll build in stone, yes, in stone.”
“Better to have castles made of wood than made of air, Radulf,” My mother had teased.
In reply he’d laughed. “Indeed, Morwen. But dreams must come first.”
Dreams must come first.
Leaning forward, I raised my face, as a snowdrop seeks a slant of sun.
I, too, had dreams.
Strong hands clenched my waist.
“What’s this?” A voice hissed in my ear. “All alone, without your bodyguard?”
My boots skidded in the mud as I whirled around.
He kissed me.
He’d kissed me before. A friendly peck on the cheek, a brotherly benison on the brow, a playful lingering on the lips.
Not like this.
Hungry. Demanding
.
His teeth, sharp, teasing, opened my lips, sucked me in, and sent me spinning. Into the whirlpool of his arms he wrenched me closer.
My hands around his neck. His hands under my cloak. Our bodies pressed together. No space between.
The clean metal smell of his mail-shirt. The water taste of his tongue.
Searching. Devouring.
Out of the vortex. Out of his arms. I managed to twist away.
Dizzy.
“That’s what happens when you’re out alone without your bodyguard.”
Encased in their leather my legs stuttered as I tried to move. I refused to ride in a long shift, sidesaddled. Leather tunic and leggings like a man, brown, tight. Boots to my thighs. Sure of my strength.
But he’d caught me unawares.
“Edmund.” I gasped. “You’re my bodyguard.”
Lightning cracked across his face.
When he’d come to Coventry as a child, so thin, so scared, he’d never smiled. Not for months, as I’d tempted him to play in the courtyard, my wooden sword at my side. Still lean, even now, but tall and strong, a sapling grown. A man.
“A
cniht
, a knight, at last.” He’d gone on campaigns with my father. Earned his status. Made me proud. “And now I’m to leave you again. What kind of bodyguard is that?”
“
Cnihts
have to attend the Witan. There’ll be other guards here in Coventry.”
“But do they know you as I do?” Sleek-footed, he shifted near. “Will they guess where to find you? Up on this hill? Out in the wildwoods?”
He touched the tip of the bow slung on his back. “I’m the only one who can hunt you down.”
My stomach eddied.
Still dizzy.
“Godiva. Tell me before I go. You know what I want. Let me speak to your father.”
“I’m not ready.”
Fist on hilt he drew back, his eyes silver shields.
It wasn’t what I expected to say.
It wasn’t what he expected to hear.
He turned away, but not before I’d seen disappointment reflected in those grey mirrors. Anger, too.
“Edmund.” My fingers on his sword arm. “When you’re home from the Witan I’ll give you an answer.”
Darting away I sped down the hill to where my horse waited. “I’ll race you home.”
His boots pounded. “You’ve had a head start. And no acrobatics!”
“Try and catch me!”
On the wind Edmund’s voice chased after me. “One day, Godiva.”
* * *
“Hold still, my lady.”
Aine tugged my hair as she began to braid.
“Where were you this afternoon?”
“Up on the hill.”
“Alone?”
I shook my head. No need to ask who’d been with me, not for Aine. Small and dark, she’d come with my mother from the west, where many of the old ways still held fast. Herb craft and healing and an uncanny knack of knowing what others were thinking before they spoke. Some of the other servants were wary, giving her a wide berth, muttering about magic. But my parents trusted Aine completely.
An expert twitch. The braid over my shoulder, tied firm with wool.
“There now.” She picked up the brown cloak lying on the bed. “All you need is your…”
She stumbled.
“Aine!” I grabbed her arms and held her upright. “What is it?”
Her cheeks had paled. “A sight.”
“Sit down. Let me get you some water.”
Still clutching my cloak she shuddered onto the bench next to the fire.
From the earthenware pitcher I filled a cup and passed it to her.
“Tell me what you saw.”
After drinking deeply she shook her head. “It’s not clear.”
“But you saw something.”
“Someone. A face,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Whose face?”
“It was too quick. All I know is that I’ll be glad when your parents have returned from the Witan.”
“Should I tell them you’ve seen something?”
“No need to worry Lady Morwen.”
“But if you’ve had a premonition—”
Aine stood up. With the cloak she mantled my shoulders. “I don’t know what it was. I’m all right now. Go.”
“You don’t want me to stay with you?”
“Go to your parents.” With a gentle push I was out the bower door.
* * *
Snowflakes dusted my cloak. The wind gnawed and bit. My fur collar muffled against the cold, I raced across the courtyard.
On the bottom step I paused. I’d always loved that moment, just before entering. Outside. Looking in.
Hall-joy tonight.
From within I could hear the talk and laughter. Chinks of light framed the windows, hung from inside with cowhide blankets. At the center of the hall the fire would be glowing, its flame-shadows flickering on the walls. Shield-bronzes gilded, timbers honeyed. Candles ablaze in iron-fist clusters, beacon high on the painted beams. Trestle tables folded out to welcome all.
Soon the mead cups would be full.
Smoke rising from the chimney. Pork roasting on the spit. Even in the open air I could smell it.
I’d been hungry on the hill. Now I was famished.
Through the carved doors.
Safe. Warm.
Snowflakes melted to water drops as I threw back my hood.
On the dais were my parents. Around them thronged the
cnihts,
the most trusted warriors of our bodyguard. Strong men all. Yet none were as imposing as my father, his cloak clasped with the silver sparrow-hawk, amber at the eye. An extraordinary substance, he’d showed me. It could withstand fire.
