Gods' Concubine

by Sara Douglass

  “But you still love him.”

  His eye went very dark, and his face stilled. “Oh, aye, I still love him. He is my son. My flesh.” Silvius hesitated, and when he spoke again his voice was soft, pleading. “Caela, will you come see me some time, and allow me to come to you? I have been so lonely…”

  “ Of course.” I would be glad of it, I thought, to speak with Brutus’ father.

  And it would serve both Brutus and myself in good stead, when it came time for Brutus-reborn to make his peace with his father, and with himself.

  Thus I reasoned, although, in truth, when I looked at Silvius, all I really saw was Brutus’ face. It was a selfish foolishness on my part, but I had been a woman helplessly in love, and despite who I had become, a part of that love still lingered.

  “Tell me,” Silvius said, “now that you are in touch with your true nature, and know of where you must go—”

  The doubt at his knowledge of that last must have shown on my face, for he laughed.

  “Of course I know what you plan, and where you want to go. I have sat in the heart of the Game, remember? Do you think that I do not know? You want to complete the Game yourself, with your lover, and make of it a shining thing, rather than the corrupt monster of Genvissa and Brutus’ construction.”

  I let most of my doubts go at that point, and laughed slightly. “Is there anything you do not know?”

  He made a show of thinking, and I grinned even more. Silvius had a sense of fun about him that his son had never demonstrated. I felt doubly attracted to him, and now it was not merely because of his resemblance to Brutus.

  “Aye,” Silvius said eventually. “Do you know,” he touched the pale flesh about his biceps, “that even though I was once a Kingman, and had kinship with the bands of Troy, I cannot feel where Brutus has put them. Can you feel them?”

  I frowned, then shook my head. “No. He will find them, eventually. Surely.”

  “Aye. He will. Meantime, there is but you and I.”

  He smiled, and it made him look so handsome, and so appealing, that I felt my heart race a little, and I knew that he realised it.

  “Caela,” Silvius said, then he stepped close to me, and leaned forward once more, and laid his mouth on mine, and the last thing I remembered as I rose towards wakefulness was the taste and strength of his tongue in my mouth, and I swear that taste stayed with me all through the day, and at times that memory made me tremble and wonder if Silvius was everything that Brutus had not been.

  SEVEN

  “William? William?” Matilda shook her husband’s shoulder, concerned at his tossing and muttering. Sweet Christ, of what was he dreaming? “William!”

  He jerked away, sitting upright so abruptly he almost knocked Matilda out of the way.

  “Ah,” he said, blinking. “I am sorry, my love. A nightmare engulfed me, and for a moment I thought I was lost to it.”

  “A nightmare?” She slid an arm about his waist, pulling him gently against her, and kissed his shoulder. “Tell me of it, for then it will lose all power over you.”

  He licked his lips, and for a moment Matilda thought he would not respond, but just as she was about to broach the silence he began to speak in a harsh tone.

  “I dreamed I was in the Labyrinth, trying to save…I don’t know who, but someone who was so important to me that I would have died if it could have given this person freedom.”

  “The Labyrinth?” Matilda said softly, kissing his shoulder once again.

  “She was trapped—”

  Matilda held her breath at that “she”.

  “—and I could not find her. The blackness swarmed all around, and I thought it would overwhelm me…had overwhelmed her…ah, Matilda, this is making no sense, and I am sorry for it. It makes no sense to me, either.”

  “But why dream of a Labyrinth?”

  He gave a half shrug. “It no doubt has meaning that the local village wise woman can decode for me.”

  “Perhaps it represents England, and you fear that England will be a trap.”

  “Perhaps,” he said eventually.

  “William,” Matilda said, unnerved by her husband’s dream, “there is something I should say to you.”

  She saw a flash of his white teeth as he grinned. “What, wife? You feel the need to confess a passion for the stableman? For the houndsman? You need to tell me that none of my children were fathered by me, but by a variety of rough-speaking peasants?”

  She did not grin as he had expected her to. “Matilda?”

  “William, perhaps England will be a trap.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Hardrada lusts for England. You know this.”

  He nodded. “The King of Norway has long cast envious eyes south. What of it?”

  “It is possible that he conspires with Tostig, Harold’s brother.”

  “Against Harold?”

  “Who else?”

  “How do you know this?” William asked eventually.

  “Womanly gossip, my love.”

  He regarded her silently for some time, then nodded. If she would not tell him then he would respect that for the moment.

  For the moment.

  EIGHT

  Swanne glanced over her shoulder, saw that Harold was ensconced in some doubtless dry conversation with Earl Ralph, Edward’s nephew, Wulfstan, the Bishop of Worcester, and Harold’s younger brother, Tostig. Swanne knew there had been some bad blood between Harold and Tostig recently, but they seemed to have resolved whatever differences they had in the past few days, and now were back to their old, easy friendship. There was an empty chair set next to Harold’s: Swanne’s chair, but she had no intention of filling it this evening. Just behind the group of men, sitting attentive on a bench, were Harold and Swanne’s eldest sons, Beorn and Alan. Saeweald was sitting with the boys, and managed to catch Swanne’s eye during her brief glance.

  She arched an eyebrow at him, then deliberately turned her back, walking slowly and gracefully down the hall towards a gathering of southern thegns listening to the sweet voice of a Welsh bard. Swanne smiled as the group rose to greet her, then accepted a seat from one of the thegns.

  This would be a more pleasant means of spending the evening than having to pretend to smile at Harold. Truly, now that events moved apace, and William was surely so close, she would not have to submit to him for much longer.

  The king had retired early, well before vespers, whining about a headache and a congestion of his belly. Freed from the necessity of attending the king during evening court, Harold and his retinue had moved, thankfully, to the earl’s own hall and chambers at the southern end of the palace complex. Caela, Swanne assumed, as she settled down and allowed the thegns and bard to fawn over her, was trapped with her husband, wiping either his brow or his arse, whichever needed the most attention at the moment.

  Her grin broadening, Swanne relaxed and tried to concentrate on the song the bard was now singing for her. In truth, she’d not had many settled moments these past few days. Something had happened…something had shifted.

  Oh, yes, part of it was Caela suddenly recalling all that had been—for no apparent reason—but that was not the whole of it.

  Was it something about the land? The very soil and the forests and the waters? It made Swanne uncomfortable. Once she would have known. Once she had been the MagaLlan, and nothing occurred within and to the land without her being fully appraised of it. But Swanne’s powers as MagaLlan had passed with her previous life, and her darkcraft lay untouchable, and something was moving beneath her feet that she was not privy to.

  Asterion, no doubt.

  Damn you, William, Swanne thought, keeping the smile light on her mouth and the desperation from her eyes, reach out to me! Let me know that you, at least, are well.

  William still had to reply to her request that he tell her where the golden bands of Troy were. Damn him for delaying the information! They were all in danger of dancing to Asterion’s call…and Swanne had no doubt a
t all that Asterion would be trying to locate those bands before William arrived in England to claim his throne and his heritage.

  Hadn’t that been what Asterion had been doing these two thousand years while delaying their rebirth?

  She had to find those bands now! Before Asterion.

  Swanne could not entirely prevent the shiver of apprehension that shot from the base of her spine to her neck. If Asterion found those bands, then he would effectively prevent her and William from dancing the final Dance of the Flowers and completing the Game. It was all Asterion had to do. He need not even face William.

  He only had to find and hide, or destroy, those bands.

  From the corner of her eye Swanne saw the door at the end of the hall open, and glanced over.

  More churchmen! Was the entire land swarming with them? The Archbishop of York, Aldred, and Eadwine, Abbot of Westminster Abbey, had entered, smiling and nodding, and—damn them!—were making their way towards Swanne and her group of musicians and admirers.

  Swanne’s smile slipped, but she had it back in place by the time Aldred and Eadwine sat themselves down a few places from her, bobbing their heads pleasantly to all about. Eadwine began a muted conversation with the thegn beside him, while Aldred waved the bard to continue as he sat back, and, closing his eyes, folded his hands over his huge belly. His expression relaxed into one of total enjoyment, and Swanne had to admit that perhaps the archbishop did find the soulful music of the Welsh bard a more enjoyable entertainment than the constant wail of sinners and beggars and the incoherent mumble of monkish prayers that must surely fill most of his days.

  The great door opened again, admitting yet another party, but this time Swanne ignored it as she finally relaxed under the spell of the bard’s beautiful voice.

  It would be another group of clerics, or sycophants perhaps, come to scry out the lay of the land in the court of, possibly, the king to follow Edward.

  If only they knew, Swanne thought, closing her eyes herself and allowing her body to sway slightly to the rhythm of the bard’s music. If only they knew.

  William, her lips formed slowly, and, briefly, the tip of her tongue glistened between her teeth.

  Asterion saw her from his place within the hall, and read her thoughts, and kept his face bland and pleasant, and his thoughts to himself.

  When Swanne reopened her eyes, it was to notice that the entire world seemed to have changed.

  No longer was she the sole object of attention within her circle of clerics, thegns and musicians.

  Instead, all of their eyes—indeed, every eye within the hall!—was watching as Caela and several of her attending ladies walked slowly and assuredly up the hall towards Harold and his company.

  It must have been Caela and her party who had entered the hall after Aldred. But why wasn’t Caela with her husband? What was she doing here? Swanne had never known Caela to do something like this.

  It was far too bold for the contemptuous wretch.

  And the way she walked. She was so confident, so majestic.

  So sure of herself.

  Every eye in the hall was riveted on Caela, and not merely because of her surprising entrance.

  Because of the way she walked. That wasn’t like Caela at all. Not even a Caela who had suddenly recalled her previous life.

  Swanne felt her heart thudding within her chest. There was something about the way Caela moved, something in the way she held herself. Something Swanne should have recognised, and yet it remained curiously just out of reach. Damn her!

  She swivelled about on her seat, and stared towards Caela who was, by now, within ten paces of Harold.

  And the empty chair beside him.

  Nausea and cold disbelief gripped Swanne in equal amounts. Caela was about to take Swanne’s place at Harold’s side.

  Apart from making an inelegant and highly embarrassing dash to get to the chair before Caela, there was absolutely nothing Swanne could do about it.

  Caela was about to take Swanne’s place at the top of the hall. Caela!

  That Caela, both as Queen of England and as Harold’s sister and equal, had every right to take that chair did not enter Swanne’s mind. That she herself had disdained to sit with Harold did not cause Swanne a moment’s thought. All she could think of was that Caela was going to take her place at the head of the hall.

  Then, just as Caela reached the group of nowstanding men, she turned around in a move so elegant and lissome that Swanne had trouble believing that it was Caela standing there at all, faced Swanne, and extended one long, white graceful hand and arm behind her to the chair by Harold’s side.

  “If I may, sister?” she said, smiling with sweetness at Swanne. “This is your seat, after all.”

  Swanne was so furious her entire body tensed, and she almost growled. Caela had her trapped. Swanne simply could not refuse her permission without appearing scandalously ungracious.

  Every eye in the hall was on her.

  A moment passed.

  Something changed within Caela’s smile, something so subtle that Swanne was sure no one else would have noted it. Swanne realised that Caela was deliberately provoking her. For the sheer enjoyment of it.

  “As my queen wishes,” Swanne said. Then, as Caela bowed her head in acceptance, and started to turn back to Harold, Swanne added, “And, if you wish, you can also take my place in your brother’s bed. We all know how much you have both lusted for it.”

  Absolute silence filled the hall. No one could believe Swanne had said that. Rumour and innuendo was one thing, outright accusation another.

  As one, eyes turned from Swanne to Caela.

  Among them, Asterion was absolutely incredulous. If he didn’t mind his way, Swanne would dig her own grave before he could manage it for her! Gods! The intemperance of the woman.

  He narrowed his eyes, intrigued as to how Caela would react.

  Caela tilted her head slightly, her still face composed, and regarded Swanne thoughtfully. “Even if your own tastes have been bred within the dung heap, sister, then you should think twice before ascribing them to others. If you find my purity unbearable, then think not to besmirch it with your own foulness.”

  Swanne froze in humiliation and fury, unable for the moment to respond.

  Caela’s eyes shifted slightly, looking to Archbishop Aldred, sitting a few places from Swanne, and looking as shocked as everyone else. “Perhaps, my lord archbishop,” she said, “you might take my Lady Swanne aside for some instruction in manners. Such careless accusations, bred within privy pits and spoken with spitefulness, are the wont only of barnyard sows accustomed to rolling in muck. They are not becoming to those who believe themselves ladies of the realm.”

  With that, Caela turned her back to Swanne, smiled at Harold (who had been glaring at Swanne with silent promises of later retribution), took his hand and allowed herself to be escorted to the chair beside his.

  Behind her, thegns slowly began to drift away from Swanne’s group, thinning it to such an extent that within minutes there remained only Swanne, the highly embarrassed archbishop, the equally embarrassed, but also angry, abbot, and a Welsh bard, who looked as if he did not know whether to continue singing or not.

  “I am most sorry for that,” Harold murmured as Caela sat down. He was studying her as many others were, surprised that the queen had managed to best Swanne in the verbal exchange. “You spoke well, sister. Swanne has ever had a vicious tongue, and that little jest of hers was unbecoming in the extreme.”

  It was what Harold had to say, even if, in his heart, he was writhing in shame. What had Swanne seen when she’d walked in on him and Caela that single time they’d let their passions rule their heads?

  Caela shrugged, looking utterly unperturbed. “Swanne is…Swanne. It is no matter to me, brother. Now, Judith shall stay with me, and my other ladies may interest themselves as they see fit in the hall.”

  She waved away her attending ladies, save for Judith who sat on a stool Saeweald had placed b
eside Caela’s chair, and nodded greetings to her brother Tostig and the other men who were now resuming their seats about Harold. Tostig was regarding her as thoughtfully as most others were: that exchange was not what he would have expected from the girl he had known so many years.

  “What great conference have I interrupted, Harold, Tostig?” Caela said. “Such grave faces you all wear!”

  Harold glanced at Judith, and Caela reached down a hand to the woman, keeping her eyes steady on Harold’s face. “I trust Judith with my life,” she said. “You may also.”

  Harold looked again to Judith, then to Saeweald, who gave a very slight nod.

  “Very well,” he said, then he sighed, and rubbed a hand over his suddenly haggard face. “Not good news, Caela. I have heard that Harold Hardrada has agents within this court. I fear their intent.”

  Tostig rolled his eyes. “Our brother has turned to womanly fancies, sister.”

  “The intelligence is good!” Harold snapped.

  “What do you fear, Harold?” Caela said.

  “Hardrada wants England, he has made no secret of this. I worry that he will try to smooth his way to the throne with some silent, treacherous action.”

  “Do you fear for yourself, Harold?” Tostig asked softly. “Why, the last I heard, you had surrounded yourself with an army to keep unwanted daggers at bay.”

  Harold gave Tostig a dark look, but did not respond to his taunt.

  “Can you discover who they are?” Caela said.

  Harold nodded. “Within a day or two. My men know where one of the agents, a man named Ölafson, hides. I will have him taken, and questioned.”

  Caela grimaced. She knew precisely what Harold meant by that “questioned”.

  To one side, Tostig’s face had suddenly gone very still.

  “Ah!” Harold continued, “if only I had the knowledge of the angels on my side, and knew when Edward will finally gasp his last. Then I could plan the better to meet any challengers. But,” he shrugged, smiling wryly now, “who can know such things?”