Naked (4 page)

He bowed.

“Then I’m too late.” He muttered as if to himself.

Too late? What did he mean, too late?

“I met your father at the Witan Council.” Raising his head, his deep blue stare submerged mine. “He spoke of you.”

Strange trembling started in my limbs. “I ask again. Why have you come?”

A swipe across his forehead. “To warn you.”

Edmund thrust forward. “We know Thurkill the Tall approaches.”

The black horse hoofed. The earl’s stare became cold.

“Thurkill.” He spoke the name like a curse. “The worst of the Danes.”

I remembered what my father had told me. “He’s no friend of yours, I believe, Leofric of Mercia.”

“Be assured of that. Thurkill has long been the plague of my homeland. How far is the enemy from Coventry?”

“Days,” Edmund said. “No more.”

Lord Leofric studied him. “He’s close by.”

“I’ll be ready for him,” I said fiercely. “Thurkill the Tall will never take the Middle Lands.”

Silence lengthened like a shadow between us.

“Will you give us Saxon hospitality tonight, Lady of Coventry?” he asked at last. “Our journey has been long. My men follow after a hard ride.”

I didn’t know this man, except by reputation. But my father had spoken well of him.

“You’re welcome in this hall, Lord Leofric.”

Edmund pulled me aside in a furious whisper. “What are you doing, Godiva?”

My gaze stayed on the Earl of Mercia as he swung down from his horse. “He’s a Saxon lord.”

Edmund’s mouth thinned to a blade. “That doesn’t mean you can trust him.”

*   *   *

“Try to sleep, my lady.”

An open window. A darkling night. A starless sky.

Grief had come like a thief in the shadows, stealing my fighting instinct from me.

In front of my people I’d needed to be brave. But now …

Fader … Moder …

“I can’t sleep, Aine. I keep picturing them and what must have happened.” Wrapping my arms around my shift, I shivered. Undyed twill, thick-woven. But I remained chilled. “My mother…”

This had been her bower.

Her missal on the prayer kneel. Gold and painted pages open. Made by the monks at Evesham, who loved her so well. Her jewel chest on the table. Garnets. Sapphires. Moonstones. On the wall, the flat-pounded silver roundel. Into it her bright reflection would never smile again.

Aine wrapped a lamb’s wool shawl over my shift. Red. One of my mother’s.

“Hush. I’ll make you a cup of herbs to help you sleep. Think on it no more,” she urged, as she drew me over to sit by the fire. “You’ll go mad. Turn your thoughts away.”

With a pestle and mortar she pounded chamomile, valerian, and hyssop, the mother of herbs. In a cauldron over the flickering flames she boiled and stirred.

Soothing fragrance filled the air, but my aching thoughts would not still. Restless, I got up and paced the bower, the rushes crushing beneath my bare feet.

I mustn’t think the worst. That way disaster lay. Victory alone must be my aim. But I’d been shocked to discover how few swords and bows were left in our weaponry with the cream of Coventry’s warriors gone. We would have to rely on axes, like the sharp one Walburgha had promised, farmers’ pitchforks, hastily hewn spears.

Names, faces, axes. I counted. I had only a few fighting men left. But all the men of the Middle Lands would struggle to the death.

Lord Leofric. Earl of Mercia. He slept in our hall tonight with some of his warriors and what remained of my own. The rest of his force camped just outside the town. For the moment, at least, it meant Coventry had some defense. But he would be gone on the morrow.

With anxious fingers I wound the edge of my shawl; its wool blood against my skin. “We haven’t got enough men.”

Aine came beside me. I could have sworn there was more silver in her hair than yesterday. Lines had deepened on her weathered skin, but her expression remained watchful.

Lifting my fingers one by one, she unwound them from the shawl, closed them on the cup. “Drink.”

Unshed tears choked me as I took a sip. It tasted bitter even with the honey Aine had added. “How can I fight Thurkill the Tall and an army of Danes without my parents to guide me?”

In despair, I spilled the cup.

Aine moved with a suddenness that startled me. Her knowing eyes were fierce as she gripped my forearms. “You must be brave, my lady. You’ve been readied for this since you were born. You are a Saxon, whose women do not give up. Your father, has he not always taught you to keep the Saxon way? You have a duty whatever your own feelings.”

“I’m frightened,” I whispered, ashamed.

“Do you remember what your mother told you, the stories of heroes, men and women both, warriors in days gone by? She told you those stories for a reason.” Aine smoothed my hair. Her face softened. “Remember your mother. Even in her grief when her poor babies died, she thought of the people of Coventry. I saw it time and time again. You need to do the same. You mustn’t let your parents or your people down. You are Lady now.”

The silver keys.

“I’ll do my duty.”

My tone as dull as unpolished metal.

“Do more than duty. Show your strength,” Aine urged. “Let all know you mean to hold the Middle Lands against Thurkill the Tall. You must show no weakness now.”

“No weakness!” I cried. “No weakness! Am I allowed no time to recover from this? Must I disguise my sorrow? In the midst of my grief am I supposed to think of aught else than those I have loved and lost?”

In her quiet way she surveyed me. “That’s the spirit, my lady. You shout. Be angry as you ought. Rage against what has happened. Rage. Anger is powerful, it will keep you safe.”

Without warning my tears released, gushing down my cheeks, dampening my hair. “Why are they gone? Why? I need them so much!”

She took me in her arms. “There, there. I don’t know why, my lady. But gone they are and here you are. And here, God willing, you’ll stay.”

A knock on the bower door.

My heart leapt like a candle flame.

“Who goes there?” Aine called.

“Leofric of Mercia. I must speak to Lady Godiva alone.”

4

Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed

—Tennyson (1842):
Godiva

Aine flung open the bower door, indignant as a ruffled fowl. “Have you no pity? Lady Godiva ought not to be disturbed.”

“It’s all right, Aine.” I clambered to my feet, wiping the telltale trails of tears from my cheeks.

My mother’s bower.

Now my own.

Dwarfing it with his size, the Earl of Mercia came inside. His blue stare cast over the wood-paneled room, at the stars painted on the clay ceiling, the gold-glinting tapestries on the walls, the bed puffed with feathers and linen, its oak frame carved with vines and day’s eyes, and came to rest on me.

The communication unspoken. The hall would be full of warriors, at rest for the night. His words were for my ears only.

“You may leave us,” I said to Aine.

Her cheeks puffed. “My lady…”

“You may leave us.”

With a huff of disapproval she edged out the door.

Never had I been unattended with a man in the bower before. Not even Edmund. Yet I wasn’t afraid.

As he removed his cloak I took the opportunity to study him. Instead of his armor he now wore a brown tunic, the shoulders leather-padded. Even without his battle guise power vibrated around him like the sparks of a blacksmith’s anvil. Six feet tall; not the height Thurkill was rumored to be, but enough to tower over me.

Approaching the fire, he met my inquisition with a half-curve of a smile, aware of my scrutiny. His teeth were the strong white of the Saxon.

I stared down at the rushes.

“My sympathy is with you.” The words were simple, but as I glanced up I realized they were sincere. His half smile had faded, leaving two deep lines bracketing his mouth.

Pain swayed me but I remained firm-footed.

“Your grief runs deep,” he said, as if he’d felt my tremor.

“My grief will know no bounds if I lose the lands of my father to the Dane who murdered him.” I lifted my chin to halt a tear-fall. “Tell me. Do you know how many men Thurkill the Tall has with him?”

“They will greatly outnumber yours.”

His certainty infuriated me. I yanked my braid over my shoulder. Gripped it firm.

“Men will come from all across the Middle Lands to defend Coventry. They’re already traveling, now I have made a call to arms.”

“The numbers you can raise won’t be enough.”

The cnihts
. My father’s fierce bodyguard, trained and tested. Skilled with shield, bow, and blade. Gone. Their weapons, too.

Names, faces, axes. I winced. “Many of our warriors have been lost, some of our best, but—”

“The Middle Lands no longer possess the army you need,” he interrupted. “You need highly skilled men to beat back the Danes.”

This man had fought and conquered. A daring campaign, my father had called it. Leofric of Mercia knew of what he spoke.

“You don’t understand the bravery of my men,” I insisted. No one must suspect I shared such doubts. Sacrilege. “They won’t give up, no matter what the odds.”

“They may be brave but Thurkill is ruthless. His sights have long been on the Middle Lands. You must know that. Make no mistake, he wants this jewel, and he comes prepared.”

Tight as a bit between my teeth, I gritted a vow. “He will not take it.”

Lord Leofric dismissed my undertaking. “Let me speak bluntly. We speak that way in Mercia, in the north. I came to make an offer to your father. I’ll make you the same.”

“And what’s that?”

“Mercia’s aid.”

“The warriors of Mercia to fight alongside the men of the Middle Lands?” My braid loosed. I hadn’t expected this. “I thank you, my lord, for the offer of assistance but there’s no need.”

“If you believe that, you’re a fool.”

“How dare you!” My words were fire-smoke. We both knew it.

The scent of leather came with him as he shifted closer. “Heed my warning. You can’t hold Coventry. Where is Thurkill now? He’s with his Danish warriors, invading your border farms and villages. Women and children scream for pity while we stand here. Men and boys are being struck down as they try to defend their homes. Thurkill will show no mercy. Right now, he’s wielding his Dane-axe, the most vicious of them all.”

Hadn’t I been imagining such hideous scenes, each bruise, every blow? “You’re trying to frighten me. I won’t be frightened.”

“You should be.” The earl’s gaze raked like a pitchfork over my skin. “Thurkill has a taste for Saxon women.”

All at once my shawl seemed flimsy. I shivered. “I won’t be taken by Thurkill the Tall, not while a Coventry man stands. They’re the most courageous you could find.”

“I don’t doubt the courage of your men. But Thurkill the Tall has defeated many just as brave.”

Another struggle to contain my tears. “Such as my father.”

Deep sorrow passed over his face so quickly I thought I’d imagined it. “And my brother.”

“Your brother was lost to Thurkill?”

The harsh lines bracketing his mouth deepened to scars. “Mercia was mighty before Thurkill came. Northman, my elder brother, was raised to rule. Now I’ve been made earl, I’ve vowed that I will make Mercia strong again, in his memory. Nothing will stop me.”

Unexpectedly, I yearned to reach out and smooth the clefts around his mouth. To stroke his hair in the way I stroked my horse’s soft mane. I didn’t know this man. Yet my instinct was to comfort us both.

“I understand,” I said gently, as if I soothed Ebur. “My feelings are the same for the Middle Lands.”

“Then you must accept Mercia’s aid.” On restless feet, he shifted away. “It was agreed at the Witan Council that Saxon lords must unite.”

If my plait were hemp it would have frayed. I fretted it again. Could I trust him? It was always a risk allying with another lord, even a fellow Saxon. My father rarely entered into alliances with others, Saxon or no, except under the auspices of the Witan Council.

But my father wasn’t here.

“Lord Leofric.” Swallowing my apprehension I released my braid and offered my hand. “Let us combine our forces for the Saxon honor of both our families and our lands.”

Firm and dry, his grasp closed over mine, his skin calloused with hard riding. Huge. Fingers long and powerful. At release they trailed hot across my palm.

My breath came fast. “Then we’re agreed?”

“There’s no time to waste. Tomorrow I must talk with your best warriors and plan our attack. Who is your father’s sheriff? Who will lead your men into battle, with your father gone?”

Along with my shawl, I gathered my dignity around me. “I will.”

His boots stirred the rushes, as impatient as a horse pawing the ground. “You misunderstand me. Not who will lead them as their lady, but who will take up arms.”

“You misunderstand
me.
I will lead the battle against Thurkill the Tall.”

Amazement flared in his eyes. “You’re no more than a girl!”

“Girl or not, I mean to fight.” Seizing my sword, I raised it high above us. The shawl slipped from my shoulders, pooled red at my feet. “I’ll face Thurkill the Tall with my own sword. I’ll not cower and hide indoors until the battle is over. In the fray I’ll fight for my own lands. I have no brothers, Lord Leofric. I was raised a warrior.”

Both son and daughter.
I’d vowed to be.

Hilt-handed, he’d instantly moved away from the exposed blade. “Girls don’t fight in Mercia.”

“You’re not in Mercia now.”

“So I see.” He let go his hilt. But he stayed back, surveying me. “In Mercia, men wield weapons while women weave.”

It was an old Saxon saying. One I disliked.

“I can weave and I can also wield a weapon.” I swished my blade. “Can you do both?”

A fleeting grin creased his cheek. “No.”

“My mother taught me to weave and my father taught me to fight.” I lowered the sword point to the floor. The flat of the blade caught the firelight. “I ask nothing of my people I don’t ask of myself.”

He rubbed the golden night-stubble on his jaw. “I know not of another noblewoman who fights.”