Naked (3 page)

I slipped a veil over my hair. I kept it tucked in my belt, next to my knife. I ought to wear it more, I supposed.

Cool and quiet, inside the church, a splash of holy water on my skin. No one else knelt inside. The curved, clay walls an embrace. Above the carved oak altar soared the painted cross. Its colors depicted gospel scenes, chosen by my mother. Our Lord with children
. Suffer them to come unto me
. Her favorite verse.

Let children come.

My parents had longed for a son.

Years. Hidden tears. I’d vowed to be both son and daughter to them.

The sign of the cross on my forehead, my shoulders, my heart. I prayed, though I couldn’t give words to what I prayed for. I could only hope my prayers would be answered.

Some time later I went outside.

I yanked off my veil.

“Oh!”

By the lych-gate lounged a pale-skinned young man.

“God’s greeting, my lady.”

“To you also, Tomas.” I tried to hide my dislike of the town tanner. It wasn’t his fault he stank of curing hides. His expression was bland, yet even as a child I’d discerned something shifty in his protuberant eyes. They reminded me of pale green feaberries, that some in the town called gooseberries.

An awkward silence developed as he made no move to step out of my way.

“Will you be holding the
althing,
the shire meeting, my lady?”

“The
althing
will be held next week as usual. If you have any matters to bring, you can bring them to me, just as you do to my father.”

The tip of his tongue darted as he licked his lips. “And will we pay you the taxes, too?”

“Of course.” I bent my mouth into an unwilling smile. “Whether my father is here or not, the taxes must still be collected.” There were many taxes paid in the shire by farmers and townsfolk alike, as well as a market tax. In turn we paid taxes, including a
heregild
to the Danish king on our throne, something my father bitterly resented. They’d been raised time and time again.

“Only asking, my lady.” At last he shifted to let me pass by. The smell of hide-cure invaded my nostrils.

As I walked away, his feaberry eyes seemed to burn into my back.

*   *   *

Townsfolk streamed into the hall as the new church bell rang from down the street. Amongst them was Wilbert, his tools in his pocket. Walburgha, too, a hemp kerchief tied under her chin. The innkeeper. The blacksmith, ruddy-cheeked from the forge. Tonsured Brother Aefic, still visiting from the monastery at Evesham. Tomas the tanner, lurking at the rear.

Country folk, too, had come. Farmers, their wives, and their children, from all across the Middle Lands. On foot, in ox-carts.

More than a hundred, I estimated.

Up on the dais I prepared to address the crowd. I’d clothed with care. A clean white shift embroidered at the hem with swirls and circles. A pale blue twill tunic, to shade with my eyes. Sky-colored, my mother called them. Sometimes grey. Sometimes blue. My leather-plaited belt, with my knife and white linen veil square tucked into it. A string of blue wool, tied to fasten my braid. My wolf-collared cloak. And my sword. The treasure my father had given me, with the hawk-eye upon the hilt. Such as he always wore at an
althing
. For justice.

Nerves flickered in my belly. All were quiet as they waited for me to speak.

“Welcome, good people of the shire of the Middle Lands. The
althing
has begun. As was my father’s practice to hear your concerns and collect the taxes, so today this is my duty. Be assured that any appeals will be heard fairly. Also be assured that my justice against wrongdoing will be swift.”

A scan of the crowd. Walburgha and Wilbert nodded their approval. Surly Tomas lowered his feaberry gaze.

“Who will speak first today?”

“My lady…”

Wilbert had just stepped forward when a scuffling came at the door. An oak crash, hard as a fallen tree, it was flung open.

Edmund rushed in, but an Edmund I’d never seen before. Grey-faced, disheveled, travel-stained.

“Godiva.”

He came beside me on the dais so quickly I hardly saw him move. A hush fell over the hall.

The scent of metal and sweat came as he reached inside his cloak. Silver and amber.

An extraordinary substance. It can withstand fire.

Into my hand he pressed the sparrow-hawk.

Into my heart.

“Tell me.” A harsh caw of pain, such as the black-winged ravens made. Battle birds, callers of omen, bringers of grief. “I must know what happened.”

Edmund pushed back his cloak. On his shoulders his metal wings gleamed. Torn through in places, patches of the cloak were dark red. I didn’t dare imagine what they must be.

“An ambush.”

Blunt words, the blow of an axe. I reeled, my legs hardly able to hold me upright.

In my clenched fist the brooch pin tore at my flesh. My father’s body would have had to be cold for it to be taken from him. It had clasped his cloak and his father’s before him.

“Who did this? Who killed my parents? Was it the Danes?”

“Thurkill the Tall.”

My heart thudded its terrible truth.

The worst of the Danes.

“He caught us unawares.”

“My father was never caught unawares by anyone.”

“We were outnumbered three to one. The Danes were hiding and heavily armed. We did all we could to fight them off and your father—”

“Yes?” I whispered.

“He died fighting, Godiva, defending your mother.”

Pain knifed my gut. As if a blade had found me instead. “My father would have fought to the last to protect his own. And my mother. Did she—did she suffer? She didn’t deserve to suffer.”

Edmund evaded my eye. “She didn’t suffer long.”

Was he telling me the truth?

“This loss is immense for the Middle Lands, and for all Engla-lond.” Edmund moved beside me. “Lord Radulf was a fine Saxon and a great warrior. His
wergild
will be great.”

The price of a man’s
wergild
was equal to his honor. A payment to the family left behind. A Saxon custom the Danes abused. “No amount of money can replace my father.”

Shocked townsfolk gathered around us. Wilbert, wiping his nose. Walburgha, flooded with tears.

“I’m sick at heart I couldn’t save your parents. As a
cniht
of the Middle Lands, I would have laid down my life for them.” Edmund’s arm shielded my shoulders. “And for you.”

If he’d been lost, too … I shuddered, leaning against him. “I know you would have done everything to defend them. All that could have been done.”

“And I’ll continue to do so, I swear. We’ll avenge them, Godiva. Both Lord Radulf and Lady Morwen. You’ll have my sword in battle at least.”

My pulse began to gallop with fear. “In battle? What do you mean?”

“I bring worse news.”

“God’s breath! What worse could there be than our lord and lady gone?” Walburgha wiped her cheeks with her kerchief.

“Thurkill the Tall is on his way to Coventry.”

3

Light horrors thro’ her pulses …

—Tennyson (1842):
Godiva

“The Danes!”

Cries of horror flew above my head. I raised my hand.

The townsfolk quieted.

“How close?” I demanded.

“Just days away.” Edmund’s angular face stretched taut. “Thurkill and his men have crushed our eastern borders. They’re moving across the Middle Lands, taking the villages, one by one.”

More cries to the beams like frightened pigeons. “The Danes!”

“They’ll kill us!”

“We’ll all be burned in our beds!” Walburgha shrieked.

Wilbert raised his chisel. “We’ll fight ’em!”

“We haven’t got a chance.” Tomas the tanner scoffed. “The town will be cinders.”

“The Lord be with us,” prayed Brother Aefic.

“We must flee!”

“To where?”

Flight wouldn’t save us.

And the Danes would take no more from me.

We charge the care of Coventry to you while we are gone.
I’d made my mother a promise in this very hall.

Fight. Save our people.

Shifting away from Edmund, my fingers fumbled as I attached the brooch to my cloak. I stepped up on the dais.

“People of the Middle Lands!” From the pit in my stomach I raised up my breath. “Don’t be afraid! By my oath, Coventry will never burn.”

The babble dropped, died away. Lids wide. Mouths ajar.

“Good men and women! I am the daughter of Lord Radulf and Lady Morwen.” My speech faltered on my mother’s name. I heaved another breath. “Terrible is our grief at their murders. I vow to avenge them and all the people of Coventry, against those who took the lives of their lord and lady.”

Lifting my cloak, I revealed the shining silver sparrow-hawk. The amber gleamed.

“The hawk-eye is mine! No one will take these lands as long as I live. To arms! Call men who would bring the Middle Lands honor. Summon all those who can come, with whatever weapons they have.”

“Get our axe, Wilbert!” Walburgha called shrilly. “Nice and sharp it is, our axe, Lady Godiva.”

“We will need your axe. Every weapon will be needed. Go quickly to your homes and families. Make ready!”

Panic. Pushing. Babbling. They began to pour out of the hall.

Talisman—tight, still clutching the brooch, I descended from the dais. Edmund put his fingers on my cheek. I moved away, my shoulders squared.

This was my battle. I had to stand alone.

Fist on hilt, he drew back. “We suffered grave losses, Godiva. Your father had his best warriors with him. There’s a chance we may be overcome.”

“There’s no chance.” Such doubt was sacrilege. “Thurkill the Tall will not take Coventry.”

“Make way! Make way!”

The tower watchman, puffing for breath, pushed through the crowd and rushed to the dais.

“Lady Godiva! Riders approach!”

“Already?” Surprise flashed across Edmund’s face. “That can’t be…”

The sparrow-hawk released from my furled fingers. “How close?”

“Just beyond the town, my lady.”

Too close.

Through the throng of townsfolk, shrieking louder now. Out of the hall.

My cloak, a sail giving speed. Across the courtyard, Edmund on my heels. My sword clanking against my hip.

“Call the warriors!” I shouted to the servants, who scattered across the courtyard like frightened chickens as I pelted past.

Up the ladder. At the top of the tower I leant my chest against the wooden parapet and peered into the distance.

My hand became a shield against the sun. A black shadow appeared, growing larger and larger as each minute passed. The shape drew closer, a spreading swarm across the horizon. I’d have sworn I could hear the drumming of horses’ hooves. It was only the sound of my heart pounding as the shadow became more distinct.

“There.” Edmund pointed.

“I can see them.”

My heartbeat became a gallop.

A glint of gold. A shield struck by the sun.

Drumming hooves in my head.

A single rider broke out in front, hard and fast.

There was only one man it could be.

The wings of a prayer cast over the land. My lips moved.

Spinning around, I scrambled down the ladder and didn’t stop until I reached the ground.

To the steps of the hall.

The warriors.

Stalwart. But so few.

The townsfolk. Clustered behind.

Quiet now. Terrified.

Fight. Save our people!

To the front.

Edmund’s heavy breathing beside me. I reached for my sword.

The carved silver at the hilt dug into my palm.

A cry from the watchtower. “He’s almost at our gates!”

Arched. Wood banded with steel.

“Leave them open,” I commanded.

“What for? We can take a single rider from the tower,” Edmund spat.

“Others follow behind. Let him come.” Murderer. I’d meet him, blade to blade.

Now I could hear it. No longer in my head. Horse hooves came closer. Through the open gates the shadow of a huge animal fell forward onto the ground.

Edmund’s arrow. Elm wood. Iron-tipped. At the ready.

“I can take him!”

“No!”

“Stranger!” Even as I cried out, Edmund raised his bow. “Arrows are upon you. Identify yourself!”

If the rider heard he made no sign. Clad in a silver helmet and armored in brown leather, he galloped under the arches, my warning ignored. His great black horse circled the courtyard, raising dust as he halted in front of the steps.

For a moment he didn’t move. Nor did I, except to tighten my fingers on the handle of my blade.

He lifted off his helmet.

A pair of piercing eyes met mine.

This is not Thurkill.

The knowledge flashed into my brain. The man in front of me was tall and strong. Many years younger than my father, perhaps thirty years of age, his face a tanned brown. His hair, tawny as an owl wing, fell to the studded collar of his armor, its leather stretched across his shoulders. Carved metal plates barreled his chest.

He spoke. “You are Godiva.”

Hawk high I lifted my head. “I am. Who are you? Why have you come to my lands?”

Dirt swirled in the air as his horse hoofed the ground. River deep turned his gaze as he took me in, lingering on the thick braid that fell over my shoulder to brush to my thigh.

“Well?” A flame flickered through me, hotter than fear. A flame I’d never known. “Who are you?”

“I am Leofric. Earl of Mercia.”

A Saxon.

Not a Dane.

Beneath the wolf-fur of my cloak collar my tense shoulders dropped.

Beside me Edmund lowered his bow.

“It’s true, Godiva. I know his face. He was at the Witan with your father.”

Yet I remained sword-ready. “What brings you here, Earl of Mercia?”

He didn’t respond. A cursory glance over Edmund and the other warriors. A question of his own.

“Where is Radulf, Lord of the Middle Lands? I must speak to him without delay.”

“My father has been killed by Thurkill the Tall.” My voice harsh, almost cold. The only way the news could be transmitted, without breaking down. “My mother, too.”