Gods' Concubine

by Sara Douglass

  She was very cold, and Asterion jerked his eyes towards the brazier.

  Instantly a fire roared into life, making Swanne tremble under Asterion’s touch.

  “Shush,” he said, and pulled her tense body close. “I do not mean to treat you harshly.”

  She made a small noise, part laughter, part groan.

  The expression on Asterion’s great bull head changed into something curiously like a smile. “Ariadne loved me, you know,” he said. “Perhaps you might, too.”

  “She wanted you dead,” Swanne said.

  “Oh yes, she did, and thus this.” Asterion’s hand again rested on Swanne’s belly. “I am not going to make the same error with you as I made with Ariadne. But she did love me. A long time ago, when we were but half-brother and -sister, and mated within the great mystery of the Labyrinth.” He paused, and smiled, this time more obviously. “It was hardly as if she were a virgin when Theseus first took her, you know.”

  For the first time since she’d managed to struggle from under Aldred’s body to this spot at the end of the bed, Swanne looked at him. And for the first time in many days there was something other than fear in her eyes. A questioning, perhaps.

  “Think about it,” said Asterion. “Ariadne was the Mistress of the Great Founding Labyrinth. I was…almost her Kingman, if you like.” His bestial mouth brushed the top of her head, and Swanne winced. “And you well know what relations exist between a Kingman and the Mistress of the Labyrinth,” Asterion said, drawing back a little.

  “You were not the Kingman of that Labyrinth,” said Swanne. “You were the blackness and malevolence she kept trapped within its heart.”

  He laughed. “Ah, you know your history too well, Swanne, my love. Be that as it may, Ariadne nevertheless visited me in the heart of the Labyrinth on many an occasion. We were lovers, Swanne, and that is what made her betrayal of me to Theseus the more…dreadful.”

  His voice had hardened into ice on that last word, and Swanne shuddered.

  “And yet still I gifted her all that I had,” Asterion went on. His hands were running all over Swanne’s body now, and as they moved they smoothed away all the pain and aches she felt. Without realising it, Swanne leaned very gradually against him. Finally, she relaxed enough to rest her face against his broad chest, and to feel, without fear, the play of his soft, warm breath over the crown of her head.

  Swanne closed her eyes. Oh gods, it felt so good to have all the pain and fear soothed away. She felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards Asterion for easing all the pain Aldred had caused, and she did not even pause to consider that thought strange.

  “You are so very much like her,” Asterion continued, his voice now very soft. “Your hair. Your face. Your form.” Again he paused, although his hands still kept moving, slowly, gently, soothingly. “Your ambition.”

  Totally relaxed, Swanne did not even tense at that last phrase, and Asterion smiled to himself over the top of her head. She had learned to hate and loathe Aldred, and that was good.

  Better would be the day when she automatically relaxed whenever he appeared.

  Best would be that day she allowed herself to love him. That she would, Asterion did not doubt. And once she loved him, Swanne would grant him any wish if he promised to keep Aldred at bay; a captive creature was all very well, but Swanne would do twice as well for him should love drive her actions rather than force. Aldred’s brutalisation had been harsh, but it had been necessary.

  “What do you think I plan?” he asked Swanne, in that moment before she fell asleep.

  She jerked a little, not in fear, but merely in half-surprise at the question.

  “To destroy the Troy Game,” she murmured against his chest. She had lifted one hand, and now it rested against his skin, the tips of her fingers slightly tangled in the black hair that curled over his breast.

  He took her shoulders and tipped her back so that she could see his face. “No,” he said. “I do not seek to destroy it, Swanne. Whatever gave you that idea? Some strange half-truth that Ariadne passed down through her generations of daughter-heirs? I do not seek to destroy the Game, Swanne. I seek to control it.”

  She frowned, and would have spoken save that Asterion laid the fingers of one hand over her lips.

  “And if I want to control the Game, my love,” he said, his voice throbbing with reassurance combined with heady promise, “I will need a Mistress of the Labyrinth.”

  Her eyes widened, then clouded with confusion. What was he intimating?

  “I will need a Mistress of the Labyrinth, and I will need a set of kingship bands. Brutus’ Trojan bands are the only set left. Swanne, you want to control the Game, and for that you need a Kingman and you need his bands. How are we at odds here?”

  “But…” she murmured behind his fingers.

  “But…what?”

  “But you want to destroy me.”

  “Nay,” he said, laughing softly, and planting a brief kiss on her forehead. “I adored Ariadne. I can adore you, as well.”

  Swanne’s forehead creased as she tried to order her thoughts…but she was so warm, and so grateful to be free of pain and fear. “William,” she managed to say finally.

  Asterion’s face became dismissive. “Ah, William. He is not here, is he? He pouts uselessly in some draughty Norman castle. Of what use is such a Kingman to you?”

  His mouth brushed her forehead again, the touch firmer this time, and with his touch he used a barely discernible element of his darkcraft. Love me, Swanne.

  Swanne suddenly realised she did not find the touch of that great beast’s mouth loathsome at all.

  His mouth brushed against her forehead yet once more. Love me, Swanne. Trust in whatever I say.

  “When he arrives in England, my dear, we shall have to negate him.”

  “Really?” Swanne said, so under Asterion’s enchantment now that she was not even mildly curious at her total lack of concern at Asterion’s proposal.

  “Yes, really. There is room for only one Kingman, after all, and to have William scrambling about would be such a nuisance.”

  She was silent.

  “Do you really think,” he said, whispering so that she could barely hear, “that William is stronger than me?”

  His hands were moving, firmer, insistent. “Do you really think,” he said, directly into her ear so that his bull breath slid deep into her soul, “that William is preferable to me?”

  Love me, Swanne. Do whatever I want.

  She moaned, and could not think at all. All she could do was lean into Asterion’s hands, against his chest once more, and allow herself to be drawn back to the bed.

  She felt no fear, only a vague gratefulness that he was not angry at her, and the words he whispered were not those of terror.

  “You have the darkcraft within you,” he whispered. “I put it into Ariadne, and she has passed it to you. Can you imagine, Swanne, my darling, what kind of Game we could build, what kind of power we could command, if we used the darkcraft to control the Game?”

  He rolled on top of her, and Swanne felt herself part her legs with something that seemed a little like eagerness. Caught in Asterion’s sorcery, her mind had now completely forgotten that Asterion also used Aldred’s body from time to time. Instead, they had become two separate personalities to her. Aldred caused her pain and humiliation. Asterion relieved that pain, and offered her soft words…and power.

  “Why William,” he repeated, sliding sweetly and gently into her, “when you have me?”

  “Not William,” she whispered.

  “No, my sweet. Not William. When he arrives in England, will you kill him for me?”

  Swanne moaned, not simply from pleasure at the feel of Asterion’s body within hers, but because she could feel him sliding a small piece of the dark power into her with every thrust.

  Oh, that was so sweet!

  “Will you kill him for me?”

  “Yes! Anything, anything…” She gasped, and moved sinuously under the
Minotaur, encouraging him with her body.

  “And all you will have to do, my love, is to seduce him back to your bed. That won’t be too difficult, will it?”

  Swanne couldn’t think, let alone reason. “No. Anything. Please, give me more of the darkcraft…please.”

  “When you have killed William, I will give it all back to you.”

  She moaned.

  She would do anything for him now. Anything.

  Asterion whistled as he wandered along the river path. He’d had to escape Westminster and the confines of petty men, and so had chosen this somewhat muddy walk for the solitude it gave him. He wanted to shout and to scream his power, but in the interests of maintaining some dignity restrained himself to the occasional hop and skip as he walked along.

  The Troy Game was all but his.

  The bands he could get anytime.

  He had his Mistress of the Labyrinth.

  All that stood in his way was William.

  Asterion sobered a little. William was highly dangerous. As dangerous as Theseus had once been—and Theseus’ danger had been fatal.

  Asterion needed William negated. Murdered. Assassinated. Whatever. Dead.

  Then nothing would stand in his way. Nothing.

  Asterion’s face resumed its cheerful aspect and, as he imagined what awaited William the instant he gave in to his lust for Swanne and slid inside her body, he chuckled and then burst into laughter, startling the waterfowl which had been hiding in the rushes.

  NINE

  CAELA SPEAKS

  Edward had died.

  I was finally free.

  At least, that is what it felt like. No longer the queen, merely the relict of a dead king, all interest in me evaporated the instant Edward breathed his last. I could have torn the robes from my body and run shrieking about the palace complex and, at best, I would have been regarded with only mild irritation for creating a noise.

  Instead, Alditha became the focus of attention (after Harold himself, naturally). Harold had spread the word of his betrothal to her the day of Edward’s death and now she, the future queen, became the darling of the sycophants.

  She was not the loathed wife.

  She was not the detested bedmate.

  Alditha was respected and treated with deference by her future husband, and thus the entire court respected and deferred to her.

  I did not mind in the least. Not for the world would I have had any other woman suffer what I did in Edward’s court. I visited her as soon as Edward had been respectably laid out, and to her credit Alditha admitted me within an instant, dismissing all the flatterers who crowded around her chair and kissing me on the cheek before embracing me tightly.

  “I will not have you move from your quarters,” she said. “There is no need.”

  “There is every need,” I said, “for they stink of death. Mother Ecub, the prioress of St Margaret the Martyr, has offered me lodging and privacy, and I shall move there without delay. You do not need me cluttering up your court, my dear.”

  Harold had entered then, and as he bent to kiss Alditha I was pleased—if smitten with a pang of jealousy—that there was clearly not only friendship between them, but the ease of physical intimacy as well. Harold had not been wasting his nights at all.

  He had the grace to colour slightly when he met my eyes and saw the understanding there. He put a hand to Alditha’s shoulder, and said gently, “You have done well by me, sister. I am grateful.”

  “And I,” said Alditha. Then she added, “I think.”

  Harold and I both burst into laughter, and the awkwardness dissipated.

  “I heard you say you were moving to St Margaret the Martyr’s,” said Harold. “Caela, there is no need.”

  “I do need to quit this palace,” I said. “It has nothing but bad memories for me.” And traps, and eyes and ears. The freedom of Ecub’s establishment promised to be exhilarating. “You may visit me there whenever you wish, Harold. Kingdom and new wife permitting.”

  Again we laughed, all three of us, and spent some pleasant minutes in idle conversation. Then Harold had to leave—the kingdom waited, and plans for his coronation—and I also did not linger. Alditha had many matters to occupy her as well, and I did not want my presence ever to become a strain.

  As we stood, I leaned forward and pressed my cheek against hers and, presumptuous, laid a hand lightly on her belly. “You will have twin sons by Yuletide this year,” I whispered. “Do not fear for them.”

  Then, with Alditha staring bewildered after me, I took my departure.

  Aldred crowned Harold in Westminster Abbey the next day, an hour after Edward had been laid to his eternal rest inside his cold stone casket inside his cold stone abbey.

  I hoped it comforted him, all that cold stone imprisoning him within his death.

  Alditha was crowned alongside Harold, the abbey alive with music and garlands and pennants and the shouting of the Londoners outside. I stood to one side in the shadow of an aisle, Judith, Ecub and Saeweald beside me, watching, both glad and saddened for Harold.

  I could almost hear the sound of William sharpening his sword across the narrow straits of the sea.

  I closed my eyes, fighting to keep back the tears. Gods, what this land needed was Harold as its king, not William!

  I felt Judith’s hand touch my elbow in concern, and I opened my eyes, and gave her a small smile.

  Then I looked back to Harold, just as he was standing to receive the acclaim of the witan and the nobles.

  A stray shaft of sunlight hit his head, highlighting the golden crown atop his brow, and I frowned, for it seemed to me that I was seeing something very important at that moment, yet not understanding it.

  “Caela,” Ecub whispered in my ear, and she nodded to a spot within the crowd hailing Harold.

  There stood Long Tom, looking at Harold with eyes shining with reverence.

  He must have felt me watching, for the Sidlesaghe shifted his gaze from Harold to me. He frowned, and nodded in Harold’s direction, and then raised his hands and applauded as everyone else in the abbey was doing, his eyes constantly dancing between Harold and myself, and then the tears did slip down my cheek, because I knew Long Tom was trying to tell me something, trying to show me something, and I was fool enough not to understand what.

  That night, my first at St Margaret the Martyr’s, I climbed to the summit of Pen Hill, and there waited Long Tom. I asked him what he had been trying to tell me in the abbey, but he only shook his head, and would not answer the question.

  “We are worried,” he said, changing the subject when I tried to press. “The land feels ill. You do not feel it?”

  I shook my head. In truth, the past week I had slept so little that I doubt I would have felt it if my right arm had been torn from my body.

  Then I was consumed by guilt, because I should have felt it. I was the land, and if it was not right, then I should have felt it.

  “It has an imp within it,” he said, and moaned so pitifully that I began to weep. “We cannot see where, but that imp will eat at us and this green land and its forests and waters until all are gone.”

  “Long Tom, I can see and feel nothing. Why? What is wrong with me?”

  And to that he did not respond, either, saying only, “You must move another band tonight, sweet lady. It is all we can do.”

  I did, moving a band that Brutus had hidden in the north-eastern part of London’s wall to a point far to the south of the river, a place called Herne Hill where waited for me a similar scene as had greeted me at Holy Oak, save that this time I handed the band to a man sitting behind a curious wheel in one of those frightful black beasts, this time stationary at the entrance to a similar red brick building as had stood at Gospel Oak.

  My heart raced the entire time, but there was no sign of Asterion.

  Somehow that worried me more than anything.

  TEN

  Yves had been and gone, and now William stood before Matilda with the unfolded letter in
his hands.

  He was staring at it without expression.

  “Does it…?” Matilda said, wanting to snatch at the letter but unable to tear her eyes from her husband’s face.

  “Yes,” William said, finally raising his own gaze from the letter to look at Matilda. “It confirms the rumours we’ve heard for the past two days. Edward is dead. And Harold has been elected and crowned and anointed King of England.”

  Matilda drew in a sharp breath. “He moved fast. But then we always knew he would.” She nodded at the letter. “And Swanne? How has she positioned herself?”

  William’s mouth twisted wryly, and he handed the letter to Matilda to read. “This is not from Swanne, but rather Aldred.”

  Matilda took the letter, her eyes scanning the thick inked lines. “The Archbishop of York?”

  “Aye.” They had already heard that Harold had set Swanne to one side, and neither was surprised at this intelligence. William wondered, however, just how deeply Swanne had taken that to her heart.

  He wondered, very privately, and with an intensity that ate at him during those long wakeful moments in the heart of the night, if it was her anger and undoubted humiliation which had caused the “shift” he’d felt in the Game over the past few weeks.

  Something had happened—distinct from the movement of the second and third bands which William supposed could be attributed to Silvius—and it had happened as he had felt a simultaneous “withdrawing” from Swanne. Apart from their two brief meetings they’d never been in close contact, but William had always been able to sense her, feel her.

  Now that sense had faded.

  What was happening?

  Well, at least now he had the excuse he needed to move. William took a deep breath, grateful at least for Edward’s dying.

  At last…at last.

  He looked to Matilda’s face and saw the excitement there, and for the first time he wondered what would happen to her in this forthcoming battle. Dear gods, let her not be hurt!

  He reached out and touched her face tenderly, and was rewarded by the slight pressure of her cheek against the palm of his hand.