Gods' Concubine

SEVEN

  Exhausted by his day spent inspecting the abbey, Edward fell into a dreamless sleep as soon as he closed his eyes. The bowerthegn likewise, prompted less by exhaustion than a little too much ale taken at supper. Judith, who often slept on the pallet at the foot of the king and queen’s bed, was not here. Caela had told her she could spend the night with Saeweald, if she wished; that she, Caela, had no need for her.

  In truth, Caela did not want Judith—who did not know of Asterion’s appearance—awake and near, fretting over Caela’s obvious and unexplained worry. And so Caela lay awake, staring at the canopy over the bed, replaying the events of the day over and over in her mind.

  Her hands lay on top of the bed covers, and they twisted and warped the material until, eventually, broken threads began to work themselves loose from the weave.

  The night deepened.

  Well past midnight, when even the owls were silent, Caela’s hands paused, and she raised herself up on one elbow.

  A trapdoor had materialised within the floor.

  “Praise the lady moon!” Caela whispered and, rising from the bed, hastily threw a gown over her nakedness, slipped her feet into some shoes, and snatched at her cloak which hung from the back of the doorway.

  The trapdoor opened, and an arm and hand emerged, beckoning Caela.

  She stepped through the trapdoor, unhesitant, as the arm disappeared.

  She walked with the Sidlesaghe through a tunnel that seemed not of this world, or of any that Caela could remember. Above them and to either side curved walls made of red clay bricks, of a uniformity of shape and colour and of a size that Caela had never seen before.

  Even stranger, the floor of the tunnel consisted of a thick layer of gravel upon which her feet continually slipped and slithered. Stranger yet, through this gravel ran two ribbons of shiny metal as wide and as high as the palm of her hand.

  Every so often Caela noted that the ribbons of metal quivered violently, shaking to and fro, and when they did then a moment later there invariably came a rush of air so violent that it almost blew Caela off her uncertain feet.

  “We walk through a part of the Game that is yet to be,” said the Sidlesaghe. “Sometimes this happens.”

  Caela nodded, curious but not unbearably so. Asterion, his naked form and his malevolent words—rich with unknown meaning—kept repeating themselves over and over in her head.

  Eventually they came to an opening within the wall on their right. It was the height and just over the width of a man, and the Sidlesaghe turned and entered the aperture.

  Caela followed, swallowing down her apprehension.

  The footing was firmer here, gravel no longer, but what felt like brick.

  Whatever relief the firmer footing afforded was consumed almost immediately by the fear caused by the dark. Caela put her hands to either side of her, using the enclosing brick walls to orientate herself and to give her some comfort within the blackness. She could not see anything, but could hear the Sidlesaghe’s footsteps ahead of her.

  Occasionally, she bumped into his back, and whenever she did that Caela lifted one of her hands from the brick walls and rested it momentarily on the Sidlesaghe’s shoulder, seeking reassurance in his nearness and warmth.

  They walked for what seemed like hours, but which, Caela realised, was probably only a fraction of that time, until a faint light emerged before them.

  A doorway into the night.

  Caela gave a great sigh of relief as she followed the Sidlesaghe into the cold night, taking a moment to recover from her claustrophobia before she looked at her surroundings.

  They stood within London, near the northern approach to the bridge. Immediately before Caela was the bridge itself, the two stones of Magog and Gog standing to either side of its entrance way.

  The Sidlesaghe put a hand in the small of Caela’s back, and she walked forward.

  As she did so, the stones wavered in the gloom, and metamorphosed into Sidlesaghes, slightly shorter than Long Tom, who had brought her through the tunnel, but otherwise virtually indistinguishable.

  “We saw Asterion,” said the one who had been the stone Magog.

  Caela nodded, her hands pulling the cloak closer about her shoulders.

  “He spoke,” said he who was Gog.

  “It was vile,” said Long Tom.

  “What did he mean?” said Caela, looking between the three Sidlesaghes. “What did Ariadne promise Asterion?”

  “Who can tell?” said Gog. “Perhaps it was a falsehood, sent to disturb you and Swanne. Perhaps it was a truth.”

  “If it is a truth,” said Caela, “then it will be a dangerous one.”

  “We agree,” said all three Sidlesaghes simultaneously.

  “We have little time,” added Long Tom.

  “The bands,” Caela said.

  “You must move the first one tomorrow night,” said Magog. “Long Tom shall aid you.”

  Caela shivered, and Long Tom placed a surprisingly warm hand on her shoulder.

  EIGHT

  Rouen

  They had left the castle at Rouen before dawn, heavily cloaked against the frost, their horses’ hooves dull thuds on the straw-strewn cobbles of the castle courtyard and then the frost-hardened mire of the streets that led to the city gate. They were a small party: William of Normandy; Harold of Wessex; Walter Fitz Osbern; Ranuld the huntsman, on horseback himself for this dangerous adventure; Thorkell, a thegn from Sussex, and Hugh, a thegn from Kent, both of them close companions of Harold’s who had accompanied him on this journey to Normandy; and, finally, two men-at-arms from William’s own personal guard at Rouen. All eight men were heavily armed with swords and knives and the men-at-arms also carried with them wickedly sharp, long pikes, two apiece, which they could share with any other of the hunters as need be.

  The gatekeepers were awake and alert, having been forewarned of this expedition the previous night. They bowed as William rode up on his black stallion, then put in motion the grinding and clanking which signalled the raising of the portcullis. William and Harold and their companions sat waiting silently, their eyes set ahead, their expressions drawn, their thoughts on what lay before them while their horses stamped and flicked their tails with impatience, lowering their heads and testing the strength of bit and rein and the hand of the man who held them.

  The portcullis rattled into its place in the heights of the gate, and the riders kicked their horses forward.

  “Which way?” William said over his shoulder to Ranuld, riding several paces behind.

  Ranuld nodded toward the line of trees that stretched along a creek some two miles distant. “There, my lord. The report I had last night said they nested along that creek bed.”

  “Take the lead,” William said, and Ranuld kicked his horse forward, guiding the party towards the distant trees.

  For the first few minutes of the ride they kept to the road, and William pulled his horse back until he rode side by side with Harold. He’d given the Saxon earl one of his best stallions, better even than the one William himself rode, and William noted that Harold controlled the spirited bay easily and gently. The horse was unmanageable for most riders, and William had given it to Harold as a test.

  Strangely, as he’d watched Harold gather the stallion’s reins and mount, William had found himself hoping that Harold would be able to control the beast. He didn’t want to see Harold tossed into the mire of the stableyard, or suffer the humiliation of having the horse bolt from under him while half the garrison watched from dormitory doorways or leaning over the parapets.

  And why not? Brutus would have relished the chance to arrange Coel’s humiliation.

  Wouldn’t he?

  The horse had given one initial plunge as he felt Harold’s weight settle on his back, but then Harold had taken control, soothing the stallion with a calm but firm voice, reining him in with a determined yet gentle hand, and stroking the horse’s muscled neck when he’d finally settled.

  Then Harold had turned amu
sed eyes to William, knowing full well that he’d just been set a test.

  William had given the earl a single nod—that was well done—and then mounted himself, leading the party out.

  They’d not spoken since. But now, riding through the hoar-frosted countryside beyond Rouen’s walls, William felt the need to talk.

  Honestly.

  Harold had been with William now for some time, and this time had, after their initial conversation, been spent in hedging and wary verbal circling, interspersed with long and significant periods of eye contact over the rims of wine cups. Neither wanted to concede anything to the other, but both wanted to scry out the strengths and weaknesses of the other as much as possible.

  They were, after all, likely to meet on the battlefield, and this time spent together was as much a part of that distant battle as would be the eventual clash of sword on sword.

  Through all of this, William had not forgotten Matilda’s injunction to be Harold’s friend. His wary circling had been a way of sensing Harold’s character as much as sounding out the man’s strengths and weaknesses.

  And William had discovered that he did, indeed, like Harold. The earl was as honest and true a man as ever William had met, in either of his lives, and William had come to regret bitterly his actions of his previous life.

  William checked to ensure that Ranuld, and the riders following, were not within easy earshot, and said, “Tell me of Swanne.” He made no attempt at dissimulation, for that would have been an insult to Harold’s own integrity. “Did you ever love her, and she you?” Is that why she lied to me about you, because then she loved you?

  Harold shot William a wry look. “What is this, William? She has not told you everything that has passed between us?”

  No. “She has only mentioned that she is your wife, but nothing more.”

  Harold raised his eyebrows, although his gaze had returned to the road before them. “I am her husband, I am the man who should rightfully succeed Edward, and I am thus the one she betrays the most both as husband and as future king. How strange that she has ‘not mentioned’ me, apart from naming me husband.”

  He turned his head, looking at William once more. “If Matilda betrayed you with, for instance, the Duke of Gascony, and plotted to hand him your duchy, would you not expect her to hand him some reason for this betrayal? Would you not expect Gascony to ask, ‘Why, madam, do you betray your husband and your homeland in this manner?’ I find it passing strange, William, that Swanne does not ‘mention me’. You never thought to ask?”

  “I asked her once, many years ago. She said you were but a man. Nothing more.”

  Harold laughed bitterly. “Just a man. Nothing more. When I first married her I loved her more dearly than I had thought possible. She bewitched me. You have surely heard of her loveliness, if not seen for yourself.”

  William nodded, his eyes now on the road before them.

  “Gods, William. I could not believe I had won such a trophy to my bed. In the early years together she provided me with bed sport such as I’d never enjoyed before.”

  William winced.

  “And then…” Harold hesitated.

  “And then…?”

  “And then, as the years passed, I realised that Swanne’s loveliness was only a brittle thing. A sham, meant to bewilder and entrap. Swanne uses her beauty and love only as a weapon.” He paused. “I do not think Swanne knows what love is. Not truly. William, how is it you have fallen under her spell? What did she use to entrap you?”

  Power. Ambition. The promise of immortality. “I am not ‘trapped’,” William said.

  Harold grunted.

  “I hear tell you lust for your sister,” William said, stung into attack. To his amazement, Harold only laughed.

  “You would have done far better to recruit Caela to your cause, William. Caela could have been born the lowliest of peasant women, and still she would have been a queen.” He looked directly at William, forcing the duke to meet his gaze. “She has true power, William, not Swanne, and that is beauty of spirit, not darkness of soul.”

  “Caela is well served in you, Harold. She has always been so.”

  “And I in her,” Harold said quietly, and for a time they rode in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts.

  “Harold,” William said eventually, “you cannot fight me. When Edward dies, I have the closest blood link to the English throne. I will have the stronger claim. Don’t oppose me.” Please.

  Harold grinned, easy and comfortable, and William felt his stomach turn over. Gods! Was this guilt? A conscience?

  “A tenuous blood link,” said Harold, “through your great-aunt, and well you know that the English throne is not handed automatically from father to son…or from king to—what are you?—great-nephew through marriage. The witan approves and elects each new king. If there is a strong son with a good claim, then it will lean toward him…but they will not elect you, William. Never.”

  They lapsed into silence again. Ranuld had led them from the road, and now their horses were cantering through stubbled meadowlands, the hay long since cut and carted for winter fodder. The pace had quickened, and everyone’s heart beat a little faster.

  The treeline of the creek bed loomed.

  “I will invade,” William said. “Believe it.”

  Harold shrugged. “Then you will meet the might of the Saxon army. You will meet England.”

  “For sweet Christ’s sake, Harold, I have a battle-hardened force second to none! I have spent thirty years fighting for this duchy, and I will loose all that experience on you.”

  Unwittingly, Harold echoed Matilda’s words. “And you are prepared to waste another thirty trying to seize England, William? For I assure you, thirty years of spilled Norman blood is what it is going to take.”

  Furious now—although at quite what, William was not sure—he kicked his horse forward with a terse, “As you will.”

  They descended into the all-but-dry creek bed, their horses slipping and sliding down the steep slope before splashing into the bare inch of water that wound its sludgy way around the larger of the stones in the channel.

  At the head of the party, Ranuld reined his horse to a halt and held up his hand. “Prepare yourselves,” he said once the seven men had pulled up behind him. “They are not far.”

  He extended the hand he’d held up until it was pointing straight ahead. “There,” he said, his tone quieter now. “See? In those bushes lining that slope?”

  The other men peered, some swallowing in nervous anticipation, others tightening their mouths in grim attempt at fortitude.

  All reached for weapons, and Thorkell and Hugh, Harold’s men, took a pike each from the men-at-arms.

  All eight looked between each other, then forward again to the distant bushes.

  At this time of morning, when the sun was barely risen, the shadows were so long and strong about the shrubs that it was difficult to distinguish detail.

  Then a shadow moved, deepened lightly, and a single ray of sunlight penetrating into the creek bed revealed the roundness of flesh.

  A shoulder, perhaps, or even a haunch.

  The shadow moved, shuffling about, and then, for an instant, the watchers saw a head with thick curved tusks and small, bright, mean eyes.

  William very slowly withdrew his sword from its leather scabbard and, even with that slight sound, the creature hiding in the bushes squealed in anger, and the world erupted into a seething mass of leaves and branches and hot flesh and terrible, grinding tusks.

  The riders scattered, the horses—even as well trained as they were—terrified by the suddenness of the attack.

  A boar, half the size of the horses, its hairy hide mottled tan and black and pink, had roared from the shrubs and charged down the creek bed towards the group of riders. It moved with the agility, grace and power of a master swordsman, and it used its vicious, deadly tusks with as much effect, breaking a leg on no less than three horses on its first charge.

  T
he horses went down in a flurry of snorting fear and flailing legs, tossing their riders on to the sharp stones of the creek walls and channel.

  A man-at-arms was one of those who was tossed. Horribly, he had fallen directly into the path of the boar which had made a nimble turn and was making a returning charge at the disarrayed hunting party.

  The man screamed, rolling away. He got to his knees, his hands reaching for the roots of a tree higher up the bank, his feet scrabbling for purchase, then the boar slammed into his back, driving its tusks deep into the man’s ribs.

  The man-at-arms screeched, so terrified—or so paralysed by pain and shock—that he did not even think to reach for his sword or knife.

  The boar twisted its head and, aided by the immense muscles in its neck and shoulder, bodily lifted the man off the ground and tossed him some feet away.

  The man, still screeching, landed with a sickening thud, his head smashing into a large rock.

  He convulsed, then lay still.

  The rest of the party had either got their horses back under control or, as in the case of the two riderless men who had regained their feet relatively uninjured, had grabbed pikes. The remaining seven men closed in on the boar, which had now turned its ire on one of the luckless horses, disembowelling it with two vicious sweeps of its tusks.

  Harold was the closest and, guiding his horse in with the pressure of his knees and calves, hefted his sword. As the boar swung to meet him, he plunged it with all his strength into the boar’s back.

  The blade of the sword missed the boar’s spinal cord by a mere inch, burying itself into the thick muscle that bounded the creature’s ribs.

  Harold leaned back, meaning to pull the sword free so he could strike again.

  The boar screamed—in rage, rather than pain or despair. Before Harold could twist the sword free, the boar twisted itself, throwing the weight of its body against the legs of Harold’s horse.

  The stallion slipped to its haunches and Harold, still gripping the haft of the sword, was pulled out of the saddle both by the motion of the horse and by the continual, maddened twisting of the boar.