Gods' Concubine

Swanne stared unblinking at Damson, her lips slightly parted, shocked into total silence. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that Damson could have said to stun her more. “You…what?” she finally managed.

  “The Game has changed,” Damson said. “Altered.”

  Swanne said nothing, still staring at Damson as if she had turned into a frog before her eyes.

  Damson took a deep breath, as if coming to a decision within herself. “The Game has grown in the two thousand years that Asterion kept everyone within death. It has merged with the land itself, allied with it. Now Game and land have a single purpose.”

  Swanne still said nothing. Her mind was racing, trying to take in all Damson was saying, and what this was leading to. Mag? Wanted to be the Mistress of the Labyrinth? Why?

  In her lap, Swanne’s hands twisted over and over.

  Again Damson took a deep breath. “The Game wants myself and Og to complete it as the Mistress and Kingman.”

  Swanne’s mouth dropped open even further, and her eyes widened impossibly. It was not so much that the Game and land had apparently decided between themselves that Mag and Og should complete the Game as Mistress and Kingman, although that was unbelievable enough, but that Og still lived! Og? Alive?

  “Og…” she managed to get out, more a groan than a word. “Og is…alive?”

  Damson gave a single nod.

  Swanne slumped back into her chair, unable for the moment to accept it. “But Loth slew him when he slew his mother, Blangan.”

  “He almost did, yes. But Mag was in that Stone Dance as well that night, secreted within Cornelia’s womb, and she cast an enchantment upon him that has kept him alive, just, all these years. He rests, waiting.”

  Swanne noted that Damson-Mag still did not say “I”, but “Mag”. Why that distance? “Where?” she said.

  Damson hesitated, then apparently decided that truth would persuade Swanne more quickly than falsehood. “In the heart of the Game.”

  “Gods,” Swanne whispered. Her mind was still whirling. Asterion should know this! Soon!

  Damson mistook Swanne’s shock for indecision, and she leaned forward and took Swanne’s hands in her own.

  Swanne did not resist.

  “Swanne, please, let me help you. You and I share no friendship, nor even a semblance of respect each for the other.”

  True enough, thought Swanne.

  “But I can help you. I can free you from Asterion. I know he masquerades as Aldred.”

  Swanne wanted to scream at the stupid bitch that Asterion was not Aldred, but managed to hold her tongue.

  “If I aid you to freedom, Swanne, I would that you teach me the ways of the Labyrinth in return.”

  “Foolish” could not possibly encompass the inanity of this suggestion, Swanne thought, allowing a frown of indecision to crease her forehead, as if she truly considered what Damson offered. Hand to her my powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth? How could she ever have thought that I would do such a thing?

  “A deal, Swanne,” Damson said, now grasping Swanne’s hands very tightly and leaning in very close to her. “In return for your freedom from Asterion, you hand to me your powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth.”

  “I…” Swanne said, and then her eyes altered slightly, as if she saw something behind Damson.

  In an instant Swanne’s hands twisted in Damson’s, grasping them in a cruel grip.

  Damson pulled back, but could not break free from Swanne’s grasp, and in the next moment her own face went as slack in shock as Swanne’s had been for most of their conversation.

  Two heavy hands had fallen on her shoulders, pinning her to the stool.

  “Well, well, Mag,” said a chilling male voice. “What a posy of surprises you have turned out to be.”

  Damson struggled on the stool, but she was caught in the twin grips of Swanne and Asterion.

  Swanne looked to her lover, an expression of unfeigned love and rapture on her face. “Asterion,” she breathed. “Oh, how I have missed you.”

  Both expression and words were enough for Damson to let out a shocked cry. “No! Swanne! No! What are you doing?”

  Swanne turned her face back to Damson, her expression now twisted with hate and loathing. “Think you that I would ever hand you my powers? Think you that I have any intention of completing the Game with William? Nay, this is my lover, my partner, my mate, and this time, my dear darling Mag, you are to be given no chance of flight at all.”

  She let go Damson’s hands and, although Caela-within-Damson tried to wrench herself free of Asterion’s hands, and tried to use every piece of power she had against him, he held both her form and her power in check with infinite ease.

  Swanne rose and, with deliberate slowness, reached with one hand into the pocket of her robe.

  Very gradually, very deliberately, keeping her own eyes steady on Damson’s frantic face, she drew her hand forth.

  In it she clasped the twisted-horn handled knife of Asterion.

  “Do you recognise it, you witless bitch?” Swanne whispered. “Do you remember how you made Cornelia plunge this into me? Well, now you feel what it is like, Mag, to have cold metal end your ambitions and hopes.”

  And with that she hefted the knife, then plunged it into the soft, tender skin at the juncture of Damson’s neck and shoulder.

  SEVENTEEN

  Saeweald, Ecub and Judith were keeping company with Caela’s body as it lay still on the bed.

  Within, Damson’s soul slept unknowing.

  Suddenly, all three gasped as a bright red spot appeared at the base of Caela’s neck, which then flowered into a crimson pool of blood.

  “No!” cried Saeweald, and lunged forward.

  “Oh gods,” Swanne moaned, as if in the ecstasy of lovemaking, “how I have longed to sink this knife into Mag! At last! At last!”

  Behind Damson, Asterion was almost doubled over with laughter although he kept his hands firmly on Damson’s shoulders.

  Swanne twisted viciously on the knife until the blade sank completely into Damson’s body. “I only wish you were Caela, bitch, then my happiness would be complete.”

  Damson’s hands were grasping at Swanne’s, but they were slippery with the blood that now pumped out of her neck, and she could not dislodge Swanne’s grip on the knife.

  “No,” she said in a horrible bubbling whisper. “No, Swanne, please…”

  But Swanne was not listening. Her eyes were wide and glassy, her mouth open, and her hands twisted again and again as she leaned so hard on the knife that she forced even the twisted-horn handle into Damson’s body.

  Saeweald grabbed at Caela’s shoulders, shaking her as violently as he could. “Come back now!” he shouted. “Now! For Og’s sake, Caela! Now!”

  Behind him Judith was screaming something, and Ecub was shouting, but Saeweald took no notice of them. “Return home now!” he shouted. “Now! Now!”

  Caela’s soul obeyed, even though it did not want to, even though it was almost fatally mated with that twisting, murderous knife in Damson’s body.

  It left Damson, and fled shrieking back to its own body, passing Damson’s soul halfway.

  That soul seemed curiously resigned, even peaceful, even though as it neared its own body it knew what awaited it.

  Death.

  Caela’s body came to life under Saeweald’s hands, and she grasped instinctively at her neck where blood was pumping forth, even though her skin was apparently unbroken.

  “No!” she cried out, then fell insensible as the blood flowed from her.

  “Stop the bleeding!” Ecub said, rushing to Caela’s side as Saeweald tried to staunch the flow of blood.

  “It won’t stop until Damson’s heart stops beating,” Saeweald said in a curiously flat tone. “Pray that that happens soon.”

  There was a single, appalling silence.

  “Or Caela will die with her.”

  Swanne was panting as she leaned with all her strength into the knife.

  D
amson had stopped struggling, and was regarding Swanne with flat, hopeless eyes; beyond her Asterion was hopping from foot to foot, his eyes almost popping out of his head as he watched Swanne. This was so much better than he’d planned!

  Damson’s hands were fluttering at her sides, scattering bright drops of blood over both Swanne and Asterion. Her mouth had fallen silent, even though it still moved.

  The blood continued to pump from her neck.

  “Curse her sturdy heart!” cried Saeweald, as he uselessly tried to stem the flow of blood from Caela’s neck. “Why can’t the damned peasant woman die?”

  Judith took one futile step towards the door, as if she meant to run to Aldred’s palace and wrench Damson’s head from her body.

  If Caela died now then all was lost, for the Mag force within her would finally vanish.

  Damson gave one great shudder, and Swanne let go the knife and took a step back, staring wide-eyed at Damson.

  Damson gave a soft moan, shuddered again, then fell forward, snapping her head back as her chin caught the edge of the stool which she’d pushed in front of her during her struggles.

  Her neck snapped, and with it snapped Damson’s life, and the connection which bound her to Caela.

  “It’s stopped!” Saeweald said. “She’s died at last. Thank all gods in existence!”

  Judith came back to the bed. “Is she still alive?”

  There was a long, terrible pause.

  “Just,” Saeweald eventually said. “And only just.”

  Swanne looked over Damson’s body to Asterion.

  Both of them were covered in blood.

  “My lover,” she breathed, and he stepped forward over the corpse and took her in his arms.

  Later, while Saeweald, Judith and Ecub were still grouped about Caela, willing her every breath, Silvius rushed through the door, not even bothering to knock.

  “Gods!” he cried. “What has happened?”

  The next morning as the waterman was poling his craft from the fish wharves just below the bridge towards Lambeth on the southern bank of the river, he saw a bloated white body half submerged in the water.

  It did not immediately perturb him—the Thames was the final resting place for hundreds of unfortunates every year—but as he passed it, the current surged, turning the corpse over.

  It was Damson, her head almost severed from her body.

  EIGHTEEN

  It took Saeweald five days and nights—days and nights when he hardly slept—before he could be sure that Caela would live. He dribbled broths down her throat, he placed medicated lozenges in her mouth to slowly dissolve, he coated her tongue with honey.

  And finally, finally, she began to respond to his treatment.

  Ecub and Judith also kept vigil within Caela’s chamber, as did Silvius. More than anything else, all three wanted to move Caela back to the relative safety of St Margaret’s. This small religious house within London’s walls was too close to Swanne and whatever had happened in that chamber (and how they wanted Caela to wake, and to talk, so that they would know what had happened!). But Caela lay so close to death that there could be no thought of moving her.

  Not yet.

  On the sixth day, so wan she looked like a three-day-dead corpse, Caela opened her eyes.

  Saeweald, waving Silvius, Judith and Ecub away from the bed, gently fed her some broth with a spoon, then wiped her face with a clean towel.

  “Caela,” he said gently. “You’re back with us.”

  She started to weep. “Damson is dead.”

  “We know,” Saeweald said. “But—”

  “I killed her. I killed Damson.”

  “Enough,” said Silvius, who had finally managed to find a place beside Saeweald. “It was not you who killed—”

  “I put her in harm’s way,” said Caela, and then wept so violently that Saeweald again motioned Silvius away with a frown, then held Caela’s hand while she cried away her grief and guilt.

  When, eventually, her tears had abated somewhat, Silvius said: “What happened?”

  “Swanne…” Caela said, her voice hoarse. Saeweald fed her some more spoonfuls of broth, and she smiled at him gratefully.

  The smile died almost the instant it had appeared.

  “Swanne had Asterion’s black knife,” she said, “and with it she murdered Damson. Swanne has allied with Asterion. He is her new lover.”

  There was a chorus of voices, shocked, stunned, angry, disbelieving.

  “Wait,” Caela whispered. “There is worse. Swanne and Asterion mean to control the Game between them.”

  “Asterion does not want to destroy it?” Silvius said.

  Caela gave a weak shake of her head, prompting Saeweald to murmur in concern and to glare at Silvius, as if his question had seriously weakened Caela.

  “He means to control it,” Caela said. She began to cry again. “Become its Kingman in place of William. Silvius…I am sorry…Silvius…I told Swanne, before I knew of her bond with Asterion, what the Game has planned. Oh, Silvius, I am so sorry. I should have—”

  “Be still,” Silvius said gently. “It could not be helped. They trapped you.” He took Caela’s hand in his, stroking it gently.

  Then, suddenly he stilled and his face went pale.

  “What?” said Saeweald, staring at Silvius.

  “The Mag force within Caela has gone,” he said, his voice hoarse with disbelief and horror. “The Mag within her has gone.”

  A terrible, bewildered silence.

  “Swanne has succeeded,” Silvius went on, his voice now barely audible. “She has killed Mag. She has finally killed Mag.”

  Part Seven

  1066

  Among the school-boys in my memory …

  Among the school-boys in my memory there was a pastime called Hop-Scotch, which was played in this manner; a parallelogram about 4 or 5 feet wide, and 10 or 12 feet in length, was made upon the ground and divided laterally into 18 or 20 different compartments called beds…the players were each provided with a piece of tile…which they cast by hand into the different beds in regular succession, and every time the tile was cast, the player’s business was to hop on one leg after it, and drive it out of the boundaries at the end…if it passed out at the sides, or rested upon any of the marks, it was necessary to repeat the whole of this operation. The boy who performed the whole of this operation by the fewest casts was known as The Conqueror.

  Joseph Strutt, Sports & Pastimes of the People of England, late 18th century

  London, March 1939

  “Cornelia is mine, you know,” said Asterion, lounging against the closed door to Skelton’s bedroom as the Major slid home the knot on his tie.

  Jack Skelton ignored the Minotaur as he turned slightly, checking his reflection in the wardrobe mirror to make sure his uniform sat straight.

  “I’ve had her ever since that moment she begged me to sleep with her,” Asterion continued. “Genvissa was right. Cornelia was always a tramp.”

  Skelton turned so that he could look the Minotaur in the face. His eyes were weary, ringed with dark circles, the expression in them resigned, almost hopeless.

  “Then why hasn’t she given you the final two bands?” Skelton said.

  The Minotaur laughed. “Oh, she will, soon enough.”

  Skelton smiled. “Yes? Then why traipse over London after me? Why torment me, if there is no need?”

  Asterion straightened, snarling. “Because I enjoy it!”

  Then he was gone, and Skelton was left staring at the back of the bedroom door.

  “Major?” Violet called from the other side. “Frank’s waiting for you. He has the motor outside.” She paused. “Waiting.”

  “Aye,” whispered Skelton. “Waiting, as are we all.” He raised his voice. “I’ll be but a moment, Mrs Bentley!”

  But Skelton did not immediately move. Instead he continued to stand, staring at the closed door, one hand raised to his shirt where he scratched softly at that spot where Matilda had touc
hed him earlier.

  He could hear a rumble outside, and Skelton knew that it was not, as might be expected, the sound of Bentley starting up his motor.

  Instead he recognised it for what it was: the sound of the wild white stag with the blood-red antlers running through the forest.

  “I’m ready,” he said, and the only one who heard was the running stag.

  ONE

  Mid-September 1066

  The northerly wind blew strong, whipping up the waves in the Somme estuary into man-high, cream-foamed crests that slapped against the hulls of the scores of galleys at anchor.

  On shore, standing atop a tower which overlooked the harbour and the small town of Saint-Valery, William glanced yet once more at the weather vane on top of the church spire.

  The northerly wind showed no sign of abating.

  Matilda, standing with her husband, saw the direction of his glance. “Hardrada is moving.”

  “With this wind? Aye. His ships will be close to northern England by now.”

  The spring and summer had been a curious mix of frantic activity and a soul-deadening wait for intelligence. While William had built up his military expedition and garnered support from the European heads of state and Church (all of which had, thank Christ, been forthcoming), Harold had consolidated his hold on England and built up his own forces to meet the expected challenge from Normandy.

  But Harold Hardrada of Norway was also moving. He had built three hundred ships, a flotilla with which to invade the north of England, and, like William, awaited propitious weather conditions in order to launch his ambition.

  This northerly wind provided Hardrada with his chance. William had received intelligence a week ago that Hardrada had embarked on his voyage. If he wasn’t within sight of England now then he would be within the day. And while the northerlies sped Hardrada towards England it kept William penned in the mouth of the Somme…waiting.

  “And Harold?” Matilda asked softly.

  “Preparing to meet him.” William let go a pent-up breath. “At last. At last we are moving.”