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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