Gift of God: Lady Godiva - Chapter 9

“No, Earl!”

It was neither Milton nor the barber who cried out. It was Lady Godiva.

“I’m sorry, Godiva. I’m exhausted.”

Leofric was utterly spent. He hadn’t merely been stabbed, he had fought more than twenty men alone in the forests of Coventry. At least they’d been human, he thought with a wry, self-mocking smile.

All he wanted now was rest; whatever his wife intended to ask of him, he had no wish to hear it.

“I’ll do it.”

Do what? Every eye in the room turned to Godiva in disbelief, Leofric’s included. But the shock lasted only a moment.

“Get up, and tell me what to do…”

Godiva was fire. Like the beautiful shade of her hair, she seemed to blaze.

“Madam!”

“Miss!”

The gentle, delicate Lady Godiva was nowhere to be seen.

“M-Madam!”

There was more than resolve in her gaze as she looked at the barber. Desperation for Leofric burned fiercely within her.

“I’ll be your hands. Now stand up.”

“M-Madam…”

The barber stammered. This was not the Lady Godiva he sometimes glimpsed in the streets. There was no fragile grace, no flower ready to bend. She was nothing but strength. Even if her lips trembled and her bright eyes shimmered with moisture, it was not weakness.

“Yes, Madam. I will.”

The barber answered with reddened eyes.

“Milton, you as well.”

“Yes, Madam.”

Milton rose hesitantly from his place.

“Nanny, come here.”

“Yes, miss.”

Soon, surgical instruments were laid out across the table. Though the others bustled about, Leofric did not move. Leaning against the wall, he watched Godiva intently. Drawn by that gaze, she stepped toward him.

“Leofric…”

Deeply devout though she was, Godiva knew prayer alone would not save him.

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

I won’t lose you too—like my father… She swallowed the rest of the words. Ill omens had no place before her husband. Instead, she took his hand.

“Please, don’t refuse me.”

Exorcisms, prayers, herbs, folk remedies—none of the old traditions for treating wounds mattered now. All that mattered was her husband’s safety. She could not simply entrust that ravaged chest to God and stand aside. This was a gamble. Godiva filled her violet eyes with Leofric.

“All right, Godiva.”

Leofric spoke as though sighing. Then he sat back down in the chair.

“I leave it to you, Wife.”

At his answer, her violet eyes wavered.

“My lord, you should lie down on the bed…”

The barber spoke hesitantly, awed beyond words. That a man in such a state had not uttered a single groan was beyond imagination. The lord was extraordinary.

“No. I want to see my wife.”

At his low reply, no one dared object. They quietly stepped back, yielding the space to Godiva. And so the stitching of the wound began. The tip of the needle was heated in the fire, and Milton’s medicinal tincture was poured into the deep gash. Godiva cleansed her hands with spirits; the volatile liquid reddened her pale skin.

“Madam, this is a special thread brought from the East. And the needle as well.”

The thread felt almost alive. The needle, slightly curved, was clearly different from one used for embroidery. Godiva looked up at the barber. This man seemed unlike the barber-surgeon who had once treated her brother Thorold. He was certainly no quack.

“First, Madam…”

Godiva calmly followed the barber’s instructions. She threaded the needle and placed her hand against Leofric’s chest. Deliberately, she did not look at him. Instead, she steadied her fear by feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm.

“Begin.”

The barber pressed the wound together, aligning the layers of skin so the flesh would not protrude. Fortunately, it was a clean stab wound, not ragged. As clotted blood and fluid welled from the cut, Godiva bit her lip and watched.