Chapter 1
“Earl, this is….”
Leofric, Earl of Mercia and lord of Coventry, glanced sideways at his young wife.
The new headpiece suited her beautifully, resting against her golden-brown hair as though it had been made for her alone. The most beautiful woman of our age—so some chronicler had once written.
And it was not beauty of face alone. Though born to a noble and wealthy house, his wife was ever humble and frugal. God had given her everything; she was like an angel.
“Leofric.”
She breathed his name softly through parted lips. He did not wish to be anything more than her husband. Grand, cumbersome titles had no place in the privacy of their chambers.
“My lord… Leofric. I don’t need any more of these.”
Her violet eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
“Tell me, Lady Godiva. What troubles you?”
Leofric gathered her wandering little hand into his large one. Married not even three months, his young bride still trembled at the slightest touch. Her shy shrinking was charming, yet at times it irritated him.
He pulled her close so she could not move; her small body disappeared into the breadth of his embrace.
“I went into town today.”
She whispered it from so near their lips almost touched.
“Again?”
He did not like that. Narrowing his silver eyes, he studied her. As his gaze sharpened, her violet eyes flickered more anxiously.
“The people of Coventry… they need your care.”
“And what did they say?”
“Nothing. I saw it. With my own eyes… Even without words, I could hear everything.”
Her heart truly ached. Gaunt, wretched faces. Hollow eyes that would not leave her mind. She felt sorry—so terribly sorry.
“You need not concern yourself with the plight of serfs.”
“My lord.”
Leofric, the Earl of Mercia, was a powerful man. One of the three most influential figures in England.
King Cnut of the Danes—who ruled this land alongside Denmark and Norway—called him friend, and Prince Harold relied upon him wholly. He styled himself Dux, commander of armies, and would later be recorded in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle as “a man wise for God and for the world.”
Yet he did not possess a heart as tender as Godiva’s. He led forward; he did not look far below.
“Taxes are collected as required. It is not your concern.”
“Prices rise by the day. How can those worn, ragged hands possibly bear it? The people have nothing.”
Seventeen-year-old bride, shy Godiva. She too was wealthy, owning three hundred and sixty acres of vast land, including Newark in Nottinghamshire.
Yet it meant nothing. If she were to sell even a single piece, her brother Thorold and her husband Leofric would never allow it. Wealth she could not use was scarcely wealth at all.
“Godiva, this is sin.”
He bit the words out as though chewing them.
“Sin? Leo—”
Her toes barely touched the floor; her vision blurred. Without understanding why, Godiva felt her breath stolen. He was so close the edges of her lips tingle. Her pale hands sank into the deep blue of his cloak. Her delicate lashes trembled.
“No.”
“…?”
His voice was rougher than usual—clouded in a way she heard only when their lips met, when something darker edged his tone. With moist eyes she looked up at him.
“Do not hold sorrow in those eyes, Godiva.”
Amethyst. A precious stone. Leofric thought of her as such.
Gems might be fetched from distant lands, but something so pure, so flawless, existed only once in the world. He lifted her chin, feeling the warmth seep into his palm. For a fleeting moment, his moon-bright silver eyes dimmed to gray.
“Think only good thoughts. Forget those wretched peasants.”
“But, Leofric…”
Godiva spoke with a trembling tongue. His hand brushed beneath her chin, over the soft and sensitive hollow of her throat, making it difficult to form her words.
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