Gods' Concubine

  He hesitated, and William looked at him sharply.

  “What do you not say?” he said.

  “Only that Queen Caela was struck with a most untimely blood flux of her womb at court two weeks before I left,” said Yves. “Some said that she had miscarried of a bastard child, but the midwives who examined her said she was a virgin still. Edward,” again Yves gave his short, strange bark of laughter, “has his reputation as intact as his wife’s virginity.”

  Matilda had been watching her husband as Yves spoke, and she frowned, puzzled, at what she saw in his face. Regret? Unhappiness? Uncertainty? She could not read it, nor understand it completely. Again she resolved to discover all she could about this enigmatic queen.

  “Harold?” William asked, and Matilda relaxed, for now there was nothing in William’s face at all but ambition and cunning.

  “His strength grows, my lord,” said Yves. “He knows, as does everyone, that Edward has his eyes more on the next world than he does on this one.”

  “And how does Harold conduct himself, knowing the throne shall be vacant in so little a time?” said Matilda.

  “He sits, and watches, and gathers his forces. The witan is all but sure to elect him to the throne on Edward’s death—”

  “But William has the greater claim,” said Matilda, unable to suppress an outburst of loyalty. “Edward all but promised it to him when my husband sheltered Edward in his court during the man’s exile, and through Emma, Edward’s mother, William and Edward are close cousins. There is no one closer in blood than William.”

  Yves shrugged. “The witan will not want a foreigner marching in and forcing the Saxon earls to his will.”

  “They may have to accept it!” snapped Matilda.

  William smiled at her, then looked at Yves. “I thank you for your care in bringing this,” he tapped the bundle, “to me. Will you accept my hospitality for the next few days as I decide whether or not to respond?”

  Yves rose, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. He bowed, first to William, then to Matilda, and left the hall.

  The instant he had turned his back, both William and Matilda looked at the bundle he held.

  “I will open it later,” William said, and slipped it inside his tunic.

  “We will open it together,” Matilda said firmly, and William sighed.

  TWO

  CAELA SPEAKS

  How can I explain how I felt at that moment? When I opened my eyes and saw the Sidlesaghe look down at me, and smile, and say “Resurgam, pretty lady!” with such joy and welcome.

  I felt relief. That was the first, overwhelming emotion. Sheer, thankful relief. We’d managed it—Hera, Mag and I. The first and most critical part of our journey was done.

  And who was I? Why Caela, of course, as I had been Cornelia, but far more than that.

  Far more.

  How can I put into words what that felt like? It is as if…it is as if you had wandered naked all your life, and then someone approached and placed a mantle about your shoulders. This mantle protected and nurtured, and because of the warmth and comfort it gave it made one much more than one had been when naked. Moreover, the threads of the mantle magically wound themselves into your flesh so that it became an integral and living part of you.

  The mantle had not truly changed who you were, it had just made you more.

  I lay at the tide’s edge that still, cold night, and I felt the land beneath my back and the waters about my legs. It was not just that I felt their solidity or wetness, I felt them. The essence of them: how they felt, how they turned, their wants and needs and loves as well. I could feel the land closing in upon itself for its winter death sleep; I could feel the seeds of spring and the bones of the dead sleeping within its flesh; I could feel the roots of the trees stretching down, down, down; and I could feel the chatter of moles and the bark of foxes and the sweetness of the worms who inhabited its flesh.

  My flesh.

  In the waters I could hear the laughter of distant lands, and feel the siren song of the moon, for love of whom the tides and inlets danced. I could feel my heart in its depths, and feel the love of the water sprites who, with the ancient ones, the Sidlesaghes, had overseen my birth.

  I was aware that the sprites still hovered close to the surface of the water, and that the Sidlesaghes lined the banks of the river, seemingly in their thousands, and that Ecub and Saeweald and Judith stood close by staring down upon my naked flesh in varying degrees of stupefaction and awe, but for the moment I concentrated only on myself.

  I closed my eyes, and did what Judith, Saeweald and Ecub had been wanting me to do for so long.

  I remembered.

  I remembered that terrible night when Genvissa had torn my daughter from my body, and I had died. I remembered how Mag had come to me then (even as Loth was sobbing over my cooling flesh) and how she had talked to me, and shown me the way ahead.

  I remember how dismayed I had been, not only dismayed at the thought of how far we had to go, the intricacies involved (where so much could go wrong) and the dangers inherent in that journey, but of how unworthy I was of the responsibility. But Mag had loved me, and held me, and promised me that all would be well. That all I had to do was to believe and to trust, and to summon the courage to dare.

  I lay there at tide’s edge, my eyes closed, my heart full of contentment, and felt the land and waters move about me. When, as Cornelia, I had stabbed myself in the neck, thus causing my own death, Mag within my womb had died with me. When I had been reborn as Caela, so Mag—or her potential, rather than her precisely—had been reborn also, but not within my womb.

  Within me. As much a part of my flesh as that imagined mantle.

  There was no difference between us now. I was not only Caela, Cornelia-reborn, but also everything that Mag had been.

  Mag-reborn. That strange mantle, seamlessly wound through my flesh, that made me more than I had been previously. Not different, just more.

  I knew that around me stood those who needed a word, and who needed reassurance, but first I wanted to do one more thing…I allowed my memory to roam free. Oh, but it encompassed so much! I could remember when this land was still young, when it was still bound by a thin land bridge to the continent to the east, and when great bear and elk and wolves scampered across that bridge to fill this bounteous land.

  I remembered when Mag had walked across that land bridge, and was welcomed to this land by the Sidlesaghes who now stood about me, welcomers once more.

  I remembered a day, the joy of turning around and seeing standing there the magnificent white stag, and knowing that he would be my one mate throughout eternity.

  And I remembered that bleak day when the Darkwitch Ariadne came to this land, and Mag welcomed her, not realising her malignancy and her contempt.

  Finally, I remembered the arrival of the Trojans, carrying with them Mag nurtured within the womb of the wife of their leader, Cornelia. Mag, arriving once more to this land, bringing with her…me.

  Filled with joy, I looked deeper.

  And found an empty space. A well of nothingness. An incompleteness.

  Had something failed? Had my transformation not been complete?

  Startled, and not a little scared at that discovery, I opened my eyes. I would think on it later when I had peace and solitude. This was only the beginning, after all. I could not expect everything all at once.

  The Sidlesaghe reached down his hand and I took it, and rose, glimpsing as I did so the gold and ruby bracelet that glinted about my wrist. I half smiled at that, seeing in it everything that Cornelia had suffered but yet would become, then I looked to my three faithful companions who had been reborn into this life with me, and, in turn, I took their faces in my hands and kissed them softly on the mouth.

  “You are Mag?” stammered Saeweald.

  I hesitated. I was not Mag precisely, but did not know how best to express myself. So, foolishly perhaps, I let him think what he wanted, for it was easier.

  “
Aye,” I said, and felt a faint flutter of discomfort deep within my belly.

  “But…I had no idea. I would not have—”

  “Wait,” I said. “This is not the place nor the time to discuss it.” I turned back to the Sidlesaghe, and I kissed him also. “Long Tom,” I said, for that was truly his name, “thank you for greeting me. I am sorry I was so nervous and that I attempted to obstruct you.”

  Long Tom smiled, and, as I had in my dream, I saw a faint suggestion of light spill from his mouth. “We are happy to see you as well, lady. Do not worry for what you may have said. We are happy only to see you.”

  My smile slipped. “I need to speak with you.”

  “Aye, and we with you. But not now. I will come to you again. We will walk the paths.”

  “Aye,” I said, “that we will.”

  Then I turned back to Saeweald and the two women, and I grimaced, and I said, “May I borrow a cloak or some other covering from you? This night is chill, and there is a long walk back to the palace.”

  And so, huddled beneath Saeweald’s cloak, the Sidlesaghes fading into the night and the physician, the prioress and my attending lady beside me, I went back to the palace via the gravelled flats of the Thames until we reached the wharves of Westminster, thence up the paths and steps to the palace itself where doors opened and sentries stood unnoticing. We went to the very door of my bedchamber and there, I smiled again, and kissed them all once more, and said, “We shall have a chance to speak tomorrow. Be still until that moment.”

  Then I opened the door, and walked inside and, shucking away the cloak, crawled into my empty, cold bed (Edward was, most apparently, still on his knees before his altar, and the bowerthegn who usually slept by the door must also be with him).

  I lay down naked, and I closed my eyes, and I put my hands on my breasts, and I dreamed—not of the young boy Melanthus whom I had thought to love in my previous life as Cornelia, nor even of Brutus-now-William, but I dreamed of my beloved white stag with the blood-red antlers, pounding through the forest towards me.

  One day, I thought. One day, beloved.

  And then I began to weep.

  Silently, deep into the night.

  THREE

  Matilda watched through hooded eyes as William, as naked as the day he had been born, stood before the fire in their bedchamber, reading the letter that Yves had delivered earlier.

  They had retired some hours ago, made love (which Matilda hoped had driven all thought of Adeliza from William’s mind for the time being), talked, and then William had waited until he thought Matilda asleep.

  Now he stood before the fire, his head bent over the letter, frowning.

  He couldn’t allow Matilda to see this! William thanked all the gods that existed that he’d delayed opening the communication until Matilda had been asleep. Previously, Swanne had been circumspect in her communications, but now she had abandoned caution. Swanne wanted him to tell her where the kingship bands were. She wanted to move them before Asterion could get to them. She needed to do it before William arrived, or else it would be too late. She wrote of the strange events of the day the Troy Game was enacted in Smithfield, and of the children who played at the Game on the flagstones outside St Paul’s. They needed to act fast, before everything disintegrated out of their control. Her unwritten fear, which William discerned easily, was that Swanne was just as worried about the Troy Game’s intentions as she was about Asterion’s.

  William understood Swanne’s fear about Asterion. It was evident that matters were careering to a head: Edward was sliding towards death, the new abbey was almost complete…and the Londoners were dancing the Troy Game? Children playing it across paving stones?

  To be honest, William was not surprised at the manifestation of the Game above the stones. It had existed for two thousand years; it was no shock to find that the people who lived their daily lives above it should also find their feet moving unwittingly in its steps. Swanne’s belief that the Game was trying to take matters into its own hands, however, was an overreaction. William could not conceive for a moment that the Game would ever try to divorce itself from its Mistress and its Kingman.

  But the bands…on that subject William was prepared to share Swanne’s concern. The golden bands of Troy were vital. If Asterion had them, then all hope that William and Swanne could work the final Dance of the Flowers and complete the Game—thus trapping Asterion within its heart—were gone.

  If William could retrieve them, however…

  William’s body tensed, his eyes staring unfocused into the fire. If he had the bands, if he wore them, and if he and Swanne had the time and space to raise the flower gate…

  Then all would be won, and he and Swanne would live forever within the stones of London.

  Strange, that he should feel no joy at this thought. “I must be getting old,” William muttered. Once, every bone in his body would have been screaming with joy at the thought of controlling the Game completely.

  William collected his thoughts and concentrated on what Swanne asked him: Tell me where lie the bands of Troy, and I shall take them, and keep them safe for you. What do you want otherwise? That Asterion should snatch them before you can collect yourself enough to arrive?

  The tone of that last sentence irritated William immensely. What did she think: that he had idled his life away in his court of Normandy? Drinking fine wines and laughing at the antics of court jesters? By the gods, did she not know that he’d had to battle rivals and enemies for the past thirty years? That’d he spent most of those thirty years merely spending each and every day ensuring his survival? That there had not been a single chance—not one—to turn his armies for England and for London so that he could, at last, take his rightful place on its throne?

  William fully realised that his troubles had been caused by Asterion’s meddling. He knew that Asterion had his own dark, malevolent reasons for ensuring William kept his distance from London for all these years.

  And William knew, with every instinct in his body, that the fact that these internal problems within Normandy had miraculously receded over the past couple of years meant that Asterion was preparing the way for the confrontation all knew was coming.

  “What news?” said Matilda from their bed, surprising William so much he visibly jumped.

  “Little,” he said as lightly as he could, and tossed the paper into the fire.

  It crackled, flaring in sudden flame and burning to ash within moments.

  “You did not want me to read it?” Matilda said.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Swanne was incautious.” William looked Matilda directly in the eye. “She spoke of things I did not want you to see.”

  “What things?” Matilda hissed, finally allowing her jealousy free rein. She rose from the bed, snatching at a robe to cover herself as she did so, hating the fact that her body was still swollen from the child she had so recently borne, and hating Swanne even more bitterly for the fact that all the news Matilda received of her spoke of a beautiful and elegant woman despite the six children she’d birthed.

  “She did not speak of love,” William said, walking over to Matilda and kissing her gently on the forehead. “But there are matters so terrible that you will be safer not knowing of them. I speak nothing but truth, Matilda, when I say that what Swanne wrote has irritated me. I did not throw that letter into the flames because I am a shamefaced adulterer, but because I was angry with her who wrote it.”

  “I should not have taxed you over the matter,” Matilda said, more angry with herself that she’d allowed her jealousy to cause her to speak tartly.

  “You had every right,” William said very softly, his lips resting in her hair. “You are my wife, and I honour you before all others.”

  “But Swanne is the great love of your life,” Matilda said, keeping her voice light.

  “When I spoke those words to you, fifteen years ago,” he said, “then I thought I spoke truth. Now I am not so sure.”
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  “What do you mean?” Matilda leaned back so she could see his face.

  William paused, trying to find the best words with which to respond. “You have taught me a great deal during our marriage,” he said eventually. “You have taught me strength, and tolerance, and you have given me maturity. What I thought, and felt, fifteen years ago, are no longer so clear to me.”

  Again Matilda arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying that I have suddenly become the great love of your life?”

  William laughed, knowing from all their years together that she jested with him. “What I am saying, my dear, is that ‘great love’ no longer appeals to me as once it did.”

  She held his eyes, her jesting manner vanished. “When you win England—”

  When, not if. William loved her for that.

  “—a marriage to Swanne would consolidate your hold on the throne, especially if, as we expect, the witan elects Harold as king to succeed Edward. When you have dealt with Harold, what better move for you than to marry his widow?”

  “I will never renounce you!” William said. “Never! You will be Queen of England at my side. Believe it!”

  Matilda, studying the fervour in his eyes, believed it, and was content.

  FOUR

  Judith thought the change in Caela so stunningly obvious that the entire realm would have taken one gigantic breath and screamed its incredulity, but she supposed, on second thoughts, that maybe most people who came into contact with the queen on the following day thought her “eccentricity” merely a result of the turbulent state of her womb.

  She woke Caela as she usually did, just after dawn, with a murmured word and the offering of a warm flannel with which to wipe the sleep from her eyes.

  Caela took the flannel, smiling, and wiped her face. Then she stretched cat-like under the covers, pushed them back and rose in one fluid, beautiful movement, apparently unconcerned at her nakedness.

  Edward’s bowerthegn, or bedchamberlain, aiding his king to dress, stilled, and stared.