Naked (14 page)

Could I marry him? My fingers clenched on the garland.

Taking my hand away from it before I spoilt her work, Aine clasped it in her calloused fingers, her grip reassuring.

“Here, my lady. Let me add one more herb. Close your eyes for a moment.”

“But…”

“Just close your eyes, child.” Her tone was the same that had made me always wash behind my ears. Obedient, I pressed my lids tight as she reached up and added something to the garland.

“There. You can open them now.”

For a brief second, I swore I caught sight of a woman standing by the window. I blinked. It must have been a trick of the light, yet longing overwhelmed me.

Unshed, I gulped the tears that threatened. “Oh, Aine. I wish my parents were here.”

Would I have been marrying Leofric if they were? Or would I have been marrying Edmund?

“Your mother would have been proud.” Aine said, as if sensing my unspoken question. “You must be a peace weaver now. But remember, my lady, the threads of the marriage cloth are strong. Your vows will bind you to the earl and he will be bound to you. You’ll have to take the joys and sorrows that come once you are wed.”

Joy and sorrow
. I had witnessed both in my parents’ marriage.

“Lord Radulf and Lady Morwen—their love was tested, through trial and time,” Aine went on, as if guessing my thoughts. “That’s the way marriage grows. It must grow through grief, it must grow through pain, and it must grow through anger.”

“Through anger?” This was unexpected advice. I grimaced. The way we had already begun, it seemed anger would certainly be part of a marriage to Leofric of Mercia.

Aine smiled. “You don’t think anger fiber of the marriage cloth? It’s one of the strongest strands. Don’t be afraid of its power.”

Standing up, I reached for my belt, a thin leather plait to waist my long linen tunic, woven fine and embroidered around the yoke in patterns of green leaves and gold thread. A broad band of blue around the hem in honor of Our Lady. Made creamy with age, it had been my mother’s. Remade to fit me. Aine had tutted over it, wishing she had more time.

But it was beautiful.

“No, my lady. Not that belt.”

Aine reached for a linen packet and passed it to me.

Weighing it, the parcel was heavy, the linen rough-woven. Inside, I found a chain belt, long loops of carved yellow metal, clasped with two golden eagles.

“Lord Leofric sent it.” Aine answered the enquiry that must have been writ all over.

“Do I think right? Is it made of gold?” My question trailed away as I ran my fingers over the loops.

“It must be, in full or part. No other metal has that weight, my lady. Here. Let me help you put it on.”

The belt clung to my hips, the clasp falling just below my navel. In an instant, it made my tunic rich and grand.

Aine grunted in approval. “Quite the Mercian Lady now.”

“I’m Lady of Coventry first.” Quickly I slid my mother’s silver keys onto the belt. No Mercian belt, no matter how fine, would make me forget my allegiance to the Middle Lands.

*   *   *

The ceremony. A blur.

Surely someone else, not I, Godiva, walked through the streets of Coventry from the manor, down the main street, past houses hung with cloth ties and wreaths, to the cries and good wishes of the townsfolk who gathered outside every door and window. Surely someone else heard Walburgha’s bawdy shout for my happiness, saw Wilbert’s grin as he hushed her, and noted Tomas the tanner’s scowl. Surely someone else entered the church ablaze with beeswax candles, and walked slowly to the altar, where Lord Leofric stood in front of Brother Aefic.

Under the cross, the old monk remained solemn-faced even while the crowd made a joyous hum as I passed through.

Beolinda stood at the left side of the altar, early rosebuds in her hands.

And Leofric. My groom. A sheep’s snowy fleece across his broad shoulders. At his side the hilt of his sword gleamed, as was the custom. If any sought to take his Saxon bride, they would pay the price.

I lifted my veil.

He took me all in, submerged me in his river glance: my garland of blooms, my braided hair with day’s eyes tucked in here and there, my summer cloak clasped high and proud around my neck by the watchful sparrow-hawk, the double eagle–headed belt clasped around my waist. A smile, perhaps some softening of his features, some flicker of appreciation … I cannot deny I sought it, hoped for it. Would not any woman at the end of her bride walk hope for the same? But he turned away toward the wooden cross that hung on the wall in front of us.

And so, beneath the cross where my mother had prayed so many times, I moved to stand beside him, my body taut as a bow-string.

Perspiration pooled at the base of my spine. The church was warm, too warm, almost suffocating.

Brother Aefic began to speak in Latin, yet I could barely comprehend the words. It seemed a foreign language, not one I had spent years learning as a child.
Deus
 …
nuptialis
 … phrases floated above. We, too, spoke as part of the ceremony: Leofric, controlled, unmoving. I, determined not to tremble, in a tone that rang around the rounded walls, clear as a bell. I didn’t look at him; I didn’t need to, so strong was his presence beside me. Only after the end of the ceremony did he give a swift breath out.

Brother Aefic led us to the church door. We stood on the threshold, half in, half out, the towns folk gathered by. In the old Saxon way, he took our hands and placed them in a hand-fast, the simple touch, the sacred human knot that had for centuries been enough to hold a man and woman together for life. It wasn’t the Latin Christian words the monk had spoken, but Leofric’s clasp that made me come to myself at last.

His grip said more than any words.

To this man, I am wed.

*   *   *

“Do you follow the wedding cake custom in Mercia, Husband?”

Leofric sat beside me at the high table on the dais. Fire glow lit up the tapestries and bronzes hanging on the walls, gilding the timber beams richly carved and painted in scarlet and ochre. More symbols had been added now. On the beam above and on the wood panels of our chairs double-headed Mercian eagles had been carved next to the wings of the Coventry sparrow-hawk.

Husband.

How new the word tasted. Determined not to let it ferment, I had seized it immediately, yet to my surprise in my mouth it tasted sweet as honey mead.

Leofric’s hand rested on the high table, covered with the finest linen, but now scattered with crumbs and empty platters. “It’s the same in my home,
Wife
. We, too, have cakes and ale.”

What was in his tone? Irony? Mockery? Or something else?

“They make honeycakes, too?” I forced myself to focus on the ritual being carried out in front of us. One by one, each of the wedding guests came to the front of the hall carrying a small, flat cake. Placing the cakes on top of each other, it formed a tier that grew higher and higher by the minute. Down the hall servants were filling cups and horns with
bride-ale
, brewed for this day alone.

“The recipes are the same in Coventry and Mercia, no doubt,” Aine commented. She was sitting beside me at the high table in spite of her protests. With three places left absent by my parents and Edmund on the bench, I needed Aine there, no matter what her rank. She was more committed to the proprieties of our status than I. It was with some reluctance she had taken her place on the dais, her best red tunic bringing out the russet of her cheeks. Farther down the table, Beolinda sat flirting with impassive-faced Acwell, the strongest of Leofric’s bodyguard.

Walburgha bustled up and placed her golden cake on the growing tier. Her cake was bigger than the others. The tier wobbled alarmingly. She admired it with satisfaction.

“Made that for you this morning, my lady. Added extra honey for sweetness to mine.” Leaning over the table she winked. “Delicious, it is, and may it bring you luck in your marriage, and many fine children, we hope.”

“Thank you, Walburgha.” My reply sounded faint.

Beaming, she addressed Lord Leofric. “Mind you take care of our lady. No one is near good enough for her, that’s what we’ve always said, but I suppose, you being an earl, you’ll do, even if you are from Mercia and not from these parts.”

Leofric inclined his head. A glimmer of amusement, soon gone.

“Good luck to you, Lady Godiva!”

“Best wishes to you both, my lord and lady.” Wilbert came up behind his wife and taking her by the arm steered her to their place at one of the trestle tables.

“God’s blessing.” A farmwife from a nearby village added her cake to the tier. I often stopped to visit her as I rode to Arden.

“Thank you.” I smiled.

My people were so happy, so pleased to see me wed. After the battle-scars and losses of good men in the fight with Thurkill, they needed the festivity, the cheer. I suspected they were also comforted by our new alliance with Mercia and Leofric’s reputation and strength. They didn’t guess at the battle being fought inside me.

Drumming started on the tabletops.

“A toast!” The cry came from a Mercian warrior at one of the tables below.

“
Was Leofric hail!
”

“
Was Godiva hail!
”

I was Lady of Coventry. The sacred act that had been my mother’s of offering our feast cup full to the brim was now my task.

I hadn’t expected it to be my wedding cup.

I raised the silver goblet shimmering with amber.

Filled it to overflowing with feast mead. Spiced. Offered it to Leofric.

He grasped it. My fingers, too.

Rough.

Warm.

For a moment he seemed to caress the cup.

Over the edge of the goblet our stares met.

“Good health!
Was hail!
”

He bowed.

Lifted it to his lips. And drank.

“To my bride,” he said, when he was done.

A hint of a smile. A creased cheek.

More mockery?

“To Coventry,” I said.

The smile vanished.

He released the cup.

“Good health!
Was hail!
” The cry came again.

I lifted the goblet.

And drank.

16

Unclasp’d the wedded eagles of her belt,

The grim Earl’s gift;

—Tennyson (1842):
Godiva

Aine pulled the woolen blankets lined with cowhide over the windows. Around the bower candles set shadows dancing around the walls. She had covered the floor with clean rushes, pressed lavender between the linen sheets, piled apple boughs high beside the fire.

Fruit smoke wafted through the air. It didn’t soothe me as I remembered my bold promise that Lord Leofric would be satisfied after the wedding night. How far from that certainty I was now. It echoed with the emptiness of a
beor
boast.

“You’re nervous, my lady.”

I twisted a tendril of hair in my fingers. “I don’t want to be, but I am.”

“There’s no need.” Aine lifted the garland from my hair. “You and Lord Leofric are well matched.”

“How can you say that?”

“I’ve seen you together and I know you well enough. There’ll be passion between you, that is, if you don’t hold yourself back.” One by one, she plucked the day’s eyes from my long braids.

“He forced me into this marriage!”

“But you set your own terms. You’ve made your choice. Listen to me on this, and listen to what your body whispers to you. It will not lie.”

Flushing, I remembered my response to Lord Leofric’s kiss. There’d been no lie there to the heat he raised in me. “I’m only doing this to have children for Coventry. It is my only reason.”

“Then you must be passionate. Passion begets children. Whether you can carry a babe to full term is a different matter, as your poor mother knew, but passion leads to conception of a child. If a woman is cold it’s harder for her to conceive.” She took up a brush. “Now let me attend to your hair.”

While she loosened my braids and began long strokes I feverishly contemplated what she’d said.
Passion.
I had to allow its fire to light in me. For Coventry.

Footfalls came outside the bower door.

“Open the door, Aine,” I squeaked.

Lord Leofric entered. He’d removed the wedding shearling from his shoulders but I saw beneath his cloak that he still carried his sword.

Aine bowed. “Shall I leave you now, my lady?”

I gulped. “Thank you.”

With a final nod of encouragement, she left the bower, closing the wooden door behind her. Slowly, still not speaking, Leofric went to the door and drew the heavy beam across.

There’s no escape. I’m his prisoner now, just as I was with Thurkill.

As if reading my mind he came and stood in front of me where I sat by the fire. “I am no Dane. Do you come to me willingly this night?”

“I will do what I must for my people.”

His mouth. A twist again. “Our agreement does not ask for more.”

Only the crackle of the fire could be heard as he cast off his cloak before turning to me.

“Your hair is the color of mead.”

Honey-colored he meant. It skimmed my thighs.

Honey-limbed I became as he reached out and ran his fingers through the loose tresses, then down my neck, and upward, to cup my chin in his palms. As if to memorize it, he stared into my face. Coiling strands of my hair in his fingers, he pulled me to him, entwining us, his mouth seeking mine.

Passion.
I had to allow it in me.

With my lips and body I rose to meet him. Now my fingers found his hair, sliding through its surprising softness, my lips parting against the hardness of his mouth as he searched me with his tongue. I could still taste spice on his lips.

Down. Through the thin linen shift he found my breast with his teeth. I gasped.

He pulled back. Under my shift he caressed my thighs and my hips as he lifted my shift above my waist. Taking it over my head he dropped it to the floor leaving my body bare.