Godiva (16 page)

CHAPTER 17

G
odiva was speechless. Then she had an impulse to laugh from nerves, but repressed it. Instead she crossed herself.

“No, I did not gather that from your message,” she said awkwardly.

Edgiva collapsed again onto the bed. “And I was afraid I was too obvious.”

Godiva collected herself enough to sit beside the abbess and attempt to play the wise maternal role. She was not much experienced at that, besides which her mind was racing wildly now. “Are you certain?” she asked.

Edgiva gave her friend a look. “
Yes,
” she said. “I am the nurse for every expectant mother and would-be mother for a day's ride in all directions; I am very familiar with the symptoms. 'Tis early yet, and I am able to hide most of the signs, but Audry is suspicious of how much peppermint I'm consuming, and she will soon become suspicious of other things.”

Godiva was too overwhelmed to think. “Do you . . . what are you going to do about it?”

She took a shaky breath. “I thought perhaps I should get rid of it, and so I tried to. I could not do it. I could not make myself do it. It felt wrong.”

“Ah.” Godiva still could think of nothing to say.

“But I cannot come to term at the abbey.” She gave Godiva a pleading look. “May I come with you to Coventry, or Brom Legge, or wherever you are going, and stay in your protection until I have delivered?”

This was not remotely the direction she had anticipated for this meeting—or for any meeting with Edgiva, ever. Edgiva misread her hesitation and looked distressed. Godiva smiled reassuringly and rested a hand on her friend's forearm.

“Of course you may come with me. But will not that be suspicious? What lie would make such a sojourn seem acceptable?”

Edgiva stiffened. “I will not lie. There are truthful reasons enough for me to come to you.” She reached for her small diary beside her bed, and thumbed through the pages, looking for something. “In fact, beyond you. Do you remember I told you in Winchester, there is an unusual yellow flag I have encountered only in powdered form, that I have heard grows in the fens of North Gyrwe, that are best taken when the sun is in Taurus but the moon is waxing in Virgo—”

“And these yellow flags don't grow near Hereford Manor?”

For a moment Edgiva looked confused. “No,” she said, and then the meaning of it hit her, and she looked horrified. “Sweyn has no idea of this,” she said, closing the codex. “And he must never know. This child will have the blood of both Godwin and the king. It will be a political pawn the moment it draws breath. I know what that is like, and I would not visit that fate on such an innocent.”

“Then what would you do with the babe? Surely you don't think
I
should raise it? Would you give it to a cloister?”

“There is time enough to determine that,” she said impatiently. “As long as it is raised away from intrigue. Which means Sweyn must not know of it.”

“But what if he wants to claim it? What if he wants to claim
you
?” Godiva asked. “You want each other—I am right about that, yes? Did he take you by force?”

“No,” she said quickly, and reddened. “But it was sinful of us both. It is a child of sin. I have nobody to confess to and receive penance from to cleanse my soul. I do not trust any confessor with such a secret. Not even my own dear Beor. He is brother to Godwin's confessor, and sometimes I fear they get drunk and discuss matters they must not. And Audry, by the saints, poor child, she believes that I have transformed my own base human nature and become a living saint, and so she believes herself elevated by her nearness to me. I try to dampen that in her, but she cites the
Life of Gregory
and cleaves to it. This would destroy her; she cannot know. And Lyfing's dead, and Aldred is too unknown and weak to trust. So there is no one I can turn to.”

“You have me.”

“Not that kind of confession, Godiva,” Edgiva said dismissively, looking exhausted. “I must receive penance.”

“You don't think carrying a child to term in secret and then parting with it is penance enough?” Godiva said without thinking.

“How does that cleanse my soul?” Edgiva demanded.

Godiva stared at her. “How could God be decent if he demands more from you than what you are already going through?”

Edgiva's breath was growing roughly ragged. “I must receive ritual penance from—”

“From who?” Godiva interrupted impatiently. “Those men in Rome? The archbishop? The ones who tell you that after a thousand years, suddenly women must no longer participate in mass, or touch the Holy Writ? How is confessing to one of them better for your soul than confessing to me? I will not tell a soul without your leave.”

Edgiva sighed shakily again. Her face contorted, her shoulders shook, and she allowed herself a moment of outright sobbing. Godiva stroked her hair and contemplated the mess of it all.

“Why would you not take him to husband?”

“I am a cloistered woman,” she said fiercely, “and my body belongs to God.”

“Well, now you have loaned it out without his permission,” Godiva pointed out. “Are you telling me, Edgiva, that you would leave here, deliver the babe, and then return here as if nothing had happened? Besides that making you a hypocritical sinner, where does Sweyn fit in? You cannot avoid seeing him again.”

“I will never let the two of us be alone again together.”

“I am sure you made that vow moments before you found yourself alone with him the first time. Such vows are meaningless. If you are that desperately drawn to each other, then you will find yourself alone again, and this will all repeat. You condemn yourself to great unhappiness. Tell him and see if he will wed you.”

The abbess looked horrified. “And what if he does not?” she spat. “What if he claims the babe is none of his? Or what if he takes the child, but casts me out? Then what becomes of me? I am neither abbess nor wife.” Her body convulsed with a sob.

“I promise you that will not happen,” Godiva said, putting an arm around Edgiva and rocking her, feeling a sudden surge of motherliness. “If nothing else, Leofric and I will see you installed in some nunnery we patronize.”

This did not soothe her. “I am vowed to Leominster by the rule of Benedict; if I go to another abbey I will be even more of a sinner than I am now.” A fresh wave of sobs.

“I am certain Sweyn would marry you,” Godiva said. “I think that is best. He is just down the road from you; how can you spend your life knowing the father of your child is nearby yet out of reach?”

“That is the price I pay for my sin.” She sniffed.

“But you make the child pay a terrible price as well, and it is innocent!” Godiva argued, almost shaking her. “It could be raised an earl's heir on a great estate, while you are consigning it to anonymity, bastardy, and probably poverty for life!”

Edgiva looked taken aback. “I had not thought of that,” she said. She got up and began to pace, anxiously fingering her rosary, a bootless effort in such a small room, as she could take no more than four strides in any direction. “This is why I am glad you have come, and why I wish I could get away from here,” she said. “I need to think this out in calm and quiet, and I cannot do that here, for here I am completely and entirely preoccupied with all my duties, every day, all day long. When I am not leading the Divine Offices, I am holding chapter meetings, or teaching Audry, or preventing Rheda from undermining Maire's authority, or assuring Maire that Rheda is not trying to undermine her authority . . .”

She stopped pacing, stopped talking, and bit the heel of her hand, staring out the window.

“I long to get away from everyone and everything and think this through. I cannot do that here. I cannot. I hardly had the time to write you the note that I did; there were people clamoring for my attention even as I tried to think of how to phrase my message to you. I wish I could run away into Mercia and have you counsel me when my mind is calm.”

“I will,” Godiva said.

The abbess bit her lower lip anxiously. “But I am sure Leofric will have strong opinions of this babe, because of its bloodlines.”

“I do not believe he would threaten you or an innocent child because of that,” the lady of Mercia said. “If anything, I believe he would share my belief that you should marry Sweyn. A hidden bastard is more in danger of becoming a pawn than a known bastard. Secrets are always of interest; if you wed and have the child openly, then whatever scheming might happen will at least happen where you—and Leofric—can each keep an eye on it. Do not worry about Leofric. If I did
not
include him in this counsel, it would be far worse.”

Edgiva relaxed a little. “Perhaps, then.” Her fingers began worrying the rosary again.

“Anyhow, I truly did come here to ask you back to Coventry with me.”

That was not true. But Godiva knew her friend: Edgiva's excuse—going herb hunting—was truthful and yet (as had been drummed into them by the nuns in their youth) a lie by omission. In declining to mention the small detail that she was pregnant by the Earl of Hereford, Edgiva was being deceitful without uttering one deceitful word. Edgiva did not like to be deceitful, ever, about anything. She did not do it well. While lying by omission to her charges, she would fumble from her own self-chastisement. Better Godiva invented an excuse that Edgiva believed completely, so that the abbess did not undo herself.

“I even brought a pillion so you could ride behind me, I was that determined to bring you back.”

“Why?”

Without hesitation, Godiva declared: “There is an illness in our court that none of our wisewomen or surgeons can improve, and so I have come to beg the great healer, Edgiva of Leominster, to give assistance. You must come at once.”

Edgiva frowned. “I cannot leave here for that reason,” she said. “Were I to answer every such summons, I would be eternally traveling. I will send potions, or tinctures, or herbs, and when Audry is old enough I might send her, but for me to go myself—”

“There is a tremendous gift in store for your abbey if you come,” Godiva said.

“So you are bribing the abbess to take better care of you than of another who is poorer,” Edgiva retorted.

Oh, why must she always be so
upright, Godiva thought.
Even now, as an
adulteress,
she insists on trying to remain
upright. “ 'Tis one of our servants,” she said. “One of the lowliest. A serf. A slave. There is some outbreak of a mysterious disease and it affects only the farmers. You come not to save a nobleman with gold, but a whole flock of Christ's beloved. Nobody else can do a thing for them. Please help us, Mother Edgiva.” She held out a hand in supplication.

“You are lying to me, Godiva.”

For a long moment, they exchanged looks until Godiva broke, and shook her head. “Yes. I am.” A shorter pause. “There you are, scolding me again.”

“You are trying to deceive me!” Edgiva countered.

“But I do want you to come with me. For my own selfish reasons.”

“Those being?”

“I require your advice. Edward has cornered me into an awkward position, and I need a trusted religious woman to guide my actions.”

“Why cannot we discuss it here?”

“It is so extremely sensitive, I will not speak of it anywhere but within my own chambers,” Godiva said, deciding conveniently at that moment that this was true. “I have come here in person to collect you, because I dare not even send a messenger.”

Edgiva frowned again, wary now. “Something so severe surely requires counsel from a bishop, not a mere abbess.”

Godiva laughed bitterly. “I sought counsel from Aldred already, but Leofric believes his advice is not reliable. You are the only one whose objective grasp of Church doctrine we can trust.”

The abbess smiled bitterly. “That is ironic, given my reputation for relentlessly protesting Church doctrine.”

“It will all make sense to you when we are back in Coventry,” Godiva promised. Edgiva looked at her unsurely. “Please, Edey. I beg you. It has to do with opposing the heregeld, so in a sense, it is your concern as well as mine.”

Edgiva heaved a sigh and rubbed her teary face roughly with her broad palms. “Very well. I shall instruct Audry to pack my travel satchel and Sister Maire to manage in my absence. I confess I am very grateful to receive this summons.”

“Shall we arrange a wagon or shall you ride behind me? I am riding astride but my saddle has the pillion.”

Edgiva shook her head. “I will take my own horse.” She began to put on her veil and wimple. “I do not want to take the abbey's wagon when the spring planting is under way. Besides, I prefer to control my horse myself; the nausea is more abatable that way. There is a mare in the stables. I will take her. What entourage do you travel with?”