Free Naked by Eliza Redgold

Mercians.”
    “It’s all right.” I smiled at Walburgha. “I’ll allow a riddling challenge.”
    It would lighten some mournful hearts in the hall, I hoped. I stole a glance at Lord Leofric. There seemed no chance of lightening his mood, but perhaps he too imagined it would lift those of his men.
    It didn’t lift Edmund’s. Tight-lipped he left the hall, a pitcher of water spilling on the table as he got up. It dripped onto my tunic. I wanted to run after him. But I couldn’t leave.
    Bustling to the edge of the dais, Walburgha cried out so loud that even amidst all the hubbub she could be heard.
    “Hear me, good folk! There’s to be a riddling challenge between Mercia and the Middle Lands!”
    Applause and laughter broke out up and down the hall.
    Walburgha beckoned to her husband. “Come now, Wilbert!”
    Emptying his tankard at a gulp, Wilbert came forward to the sounds of cheers as he climbed the steps to the dais. He appeared slightly sheepish, but in strong accents he began to recite with comical gestures:
    “I am a wondrous creature, a joy to women,
    a help to neighbors; I harm none
    of the city-dwellers, except for my killer.
    My base is steep and high, I stand in a bed,
    shaggy somewhere beneath. Sometimes ventures
    the very beautiful daughter of a churl,
    a maid proud in mind, so that she grabs hold of me,
    rubs me to redness, ravages my head,
    forces me into a fastness. Immediately she feels
    my meeting, the one who confines me,
    the curly-locked woman. Wet will be that eye.”
    Wilbert guffawed. “So what’s the answer to the riddle? What am I, Mercians?”
    In a huddle, the Mercian warriors consulted each other, laughing.
    “Don’t you know the answer?” The Coventry blacksmith called out after a few minutes.
    Appearing shamefaced, the Mercians shook their heads.
    “Why, it’s an onion!” Wilbert shouted triumphantly.
    “They don’t know their onions!” Walburgha shrieked. “They didn’t guess aright! Coventry has won this round!”
    More good-natured laughter rang through the hall.
    “Bring your best riddler forward, you Northern knaves!” Wilbert called.
    After more discussion and laughter between the Mercian warriors, a man with long hair and the thickest arms I’d ever seen came forward. “I’ll riddle for Mercia,” he cried.
    He leapt up, and taking his place on the dais next to Wilbert, intoned loudly:
    “A young man came walking, to where he knew she
    was standing in the corner, he stepped up from far away,
    the hardy retainer, raised his own
    garment up with his hands, thrust under her girdle
    something stiff as she stood,
    worked his will; they both quivered.
    The noble one hastened, at times his able
    servant was useful, but he tired
    after a while, though stronger than her before,
    weary of that work. There began to grow
    under her girdle what good people often
    adore in their core and acquire with coins.”
    Great roars of hilarity ensued as the Mercian riddler finished. I’d been unable to retain a giggle of my own. The man’s gestures had been even more comical than Wilbert’s.
    “What say you, folk of Coventry?” the Mercian riddler called. “Do you know the answer?”
    “’Course we do!” Walburgha shouted instantly. “Just give us a minute.”
    “But the answer’s easy.” Wilbert broke in. “It’s a butter churn!”
    With obvious reluctance the Mercian riddler nodded. Uproar broke out among the townsfolk of Coventry.
    “We’ve won the challenge!” Walburgha beamed with delight. She waved a scolding finger at the Mercian riddler. “You’ll have to pay the price!”
    “What’s the price?” he asked, taken aback.
    “We should make you take a penitent’s ride through the streets for the shame of such poor riddling!”
    From the high table I thought it fit to intervene. “That’s a bit harsh, Walburgha!”
    Wilbert seized a jug of ale. Froth foamed as he thrust it toward the Mercian. “Drink this then! It will improve your riddling!”
    To the