the strongest of Leofric’s bodyguard, cried out, “Thurkill is injured!”
“Did you see Thurkill hit?” Edmund demanded.
Leofric scowled. “If I’d seen him injured he’d be dead by now.”
“You’d kill a man lying hurt?” The question tumbled from my lips before I could stop it.
“As you should have done just now.” The tenderness he’d shown me when he’d tended my wound vanished. “If you’d finished the job properly you wouldn’t have needed my aid.”
His words jabbed like spikes. “It’s dishonorable to kill a man who lies defenseless!”
“Death is a greater dishonor.” Without another word he stalked away.
“Victory for Godiva!” Edmund waved his sword toward the sky. In the distance I spotted ravens swooping in. “The Danes retreat! The battle has been won for Coventry!”
He flung his arms around me.
“The Danes retreat!” Whoops and yells rang out as another cry went up. “The Saxons! The Saxons!” Men of the Middle Lands and Mercia alike embraced each other. With relief I saw that Wilbert, hoisted, cheering between two Coventry men, seemed to have recovered from his fright.
Too numb to join the cheers, I clambered up from behind the catapult frame and stared.
Victory had come at a cruel cost. Sorrow flapped its black wings over the torn field where the killed and wounded lay in blood and mud. Choking on my tears, I registered familiar faces that would never smile again. The youngest of the miller’s sons. A farmer, still clutching his hoe.
Leaving Edmund, I hurried over to where a Saxon lay fallen, struggling to stay alive.
Blood gushed from a deep gash across his chest as I knelt down beside him. Aine, with her salves and herbs, might be able to save him, as she had done for many Coventry men before.
“My lady,” he gasped.
A death rattle. I recognized it. There’d be no saving him. I took his bloodstained hand in mine. “Don’t try to speak.”
Still, he struggled on. “The Danes, my lady. The Danes.”
“Defeated.” As I said a prayer over him his face relaxed into repose. “Requiescat in pace. Rest in peace.” A sign of the cross.
Drawing on all my remaining energy I stood up and forced myself to address the men. “Saxons! Tend to our wounded. Bury the vanquished. Bring all those who are hurt to Coventry and come, too, those who have fought for honor this day, from Mercia and from the Middle Lands. We shall feast tonight!”
At my bidding, the Saxons started to lift our dead and injured men. Even undertaking this somber task, their overall mood remained jubilant. To speak of feasting at such a time was not in my nature, but my father had once told me it cured battle fever. The men continued to clap each other on the shoulders, with nods and cheers.
A sole man didn’t cheer. Lord Leofric stood apart. Sword gripped, he stared across at the retreating Danes and shook his head.
8
Then fled she to her inmost bower …
—Tennyson (1842): Godiva
“You’re quiet, Lord Leofric.”
The Earl of Mercia stared at me, his expression brooding. Dressed in a dark tunic and cloak, his armor gone, he sat to my right at the high table but appeared to take no joy in the celebrations.
Below us, the long trestles brimmed with warriors and townsfolk. Up to two hundred could eat in the hall and there must have been close to that number tonight. Extra benches had been laid out, not for just the returning warriors, but for their relieved wives and families.
The sounds of mirth and merriment mingled with the smoke of the roast boar rotating on the spit above the main fire. Serving boys ran back and forth filling bowls with pottages of peas and barley, whole fish cooked in embers, baked eel, and platters of carrots, parsnips, and beans, herbed with thyme and dill. Each table held loaves of fresh round bread, pats of pale gold butter, hens’ eggs, and round cheeses as well as clay jugs of ale and mead.
Leofric’s throat contracted as he took a gulp of ale.
“Did you see Thurkill hit?” Edmund demanded.
Leofric scowled. “If I’d seen him injured he’d be dead by now.”
“You’d kill a man lying hurt?” The question tumbled from my lips before I could stop it.
“As you should have done just now.” The tenderness he’d shown me when he’d tended my wound vanished. “If you’d finished the job properly you wouldn’t have needed my aid.”
His words jabbed like spikes. “It’s dishonorable to kill a man who lies defenseless!”
“Death is a greater dishonor.” Without another word he stalked away.
“Victory for Godiva!” Edmund waved his sword toward the sky. In the distance I spotted ravens swooping in. “The Danes retreat! The battle has been won for Coventry!”
He flung his arms around me.
“The Danes retreat!” Whoops and yells rang out as another cry went up. “The Saxons! The Saxons!” Men of the Middle Lands and Mercia alike embraced each other. With relief I saw that Wilbert, hoisted, cheering between two Coventry men, seemed to have recovered from his fright.
Too numb to join the cheers, I clambered up from behind the catapult frame and stared.
Victory had come at a cruel cost. Sorrow flapped its black wings over the torn field where the killed and wounded lay in blood and mud. Choking on my tears, I registered familiar faces that would never smile again. The youngest of the miller’s sons. A farmer, still clutching his hoe.
Leaving Edmund, I hurried over to where a Saxon lay fallen, struggling to stay alive.
Blood gushed from a deep gash across his chest as I knelt down beside him. Aine, with her salves and herbs, might be able to save him, as she had done for many Coventry men before.
“My lady,” he gasped.
A death rattle. I recognized it. There’d be no saving him. I took his bloodstained hand in mine. “Don’t try to speak.”
Still, he struggled on. “The Danes, my lady. The Danes.”
“Defeated.” As I said a prayer over him his face relaxed into repose. “Requiescat in pace. Rest in peace.” A sign of the cross.
Drawing on all my remaining energy I stood up and forced myself to address the men. “Saxons! Tend to our wounded. Bury the vanquished. Bring all those who are hurt to Coventry and come, too, those who have fought for honor this day, from Mercia and from the Middle Lands. We shall feast tonight!”
At my bidding, the Saxons started to lift our dead and injured men. Even undertaking this somber task, their overall mood remained jubilant. To speak of feasting at such a time was not in my nature, but my father had once told me it cured battle fever. The men continued to clap each other on the shoulders, with nods and cheers.
A sole man didn’t cheer. Lord Leofric stood apart. Sword gripped, he stared across at the retreating Danes and shook his head.
8
Then fled she to her inmost bower …
—Tennyson (1842): Godiva
“You’re quiet, Lord Leofric.”
The Earl of Mercia stared at me, his expression brooding. Dressed in a dark tunic and cloak, his armor gone, he sat to my right at the high table but appeared to take no joy in the celebrations.
Below us, the long trestles brimmed with warriors and townsfolk. Up to two hundred could eat in the hall and there must have been close to that number tonight. Extra benches had been laid out, not for just the returning warriors, but for their relieved wives and families.
The sounds of mirth and merriment mingled with the smoke of the roast boar rotating on the spit above the main fire. Serving boys ran back and forth filling bowls with pottages of peas and barley, whole fish cooked in embers, baked eel, and platters of carrots, parsnips, and beans, herbed with thyme and dill. Each table held loaves of fresh round bread, pats of pale gold butter, hens’ eggs, and round cheeses as well as clay jugs of ale and mead.
Leofric’s throat contracted as he took a gulp of ale.
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