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  She blinked, and her face set into hard, cold lines. “Of no one who concerns you, my dear.”

  And with that she turned and left us.

  THIRTEEN

  Swanne walked from the queen’s apartments, her gait smooth and elegant, her shoulders back, her beautiful face held high. She walked until she reached the head of the staircase where windows overlooked the Thames, and there she stopped, folded her hands before her, and stared out the window.

  She had felt nothing in Caela’s womb. Nothing, and yet, for all the time she had known Caela in this life, the woman’s womb had always held a faint trace of Mag.

  Swanne sighed, ignoring the stares of servants and officials who hurried by, and once more a small frown wrinkled the otherwise smooth skin of her forehead. Swanne had been reborn into this life with her powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth intact, but with her two other sources of power strangely muted. In her former life as Genvissa, Swanne had been the powerful MagaLlan, high priestess to the goddess Mag, commanding powerful magic which she drew from the goddess herself. In this life her powers as MagaLlan were virtually non-existent. This had not surprised Swanne. Mag was all but dead, clinging to life only in the dim recesses of Caela’s womb (and, as a virgin, Caela would have provided the goddess of fertility and motherhood with no power at all) and the ancient power of the land that Swanne had known as Genvissa was hidden under a heavy cloak of time and forgetfulness. There was no source of power for a MagaLlan, and Swanne spent no time weeping over what she had lost.

  What did frighten Swanne was that the dark power of the heart of the Labyrinth which she’d inherited from her foremothers, and which Ariadne had won from Asterion, was all but gone as well. Why? Was that Asterion’s malicious hand? Or because her mother in this life had been but an ordinary woman, and Swanne had needed the direct blood link from a mother who wielded the darkcraft in order to wield it herself? She didn’t know, and that frustrated her.

  Her power as Mistress of the Labyrinth should be all that she needed, but Swanne had wanted the darkcraft as well. Badly.

  If she had it now, then perhaps she’d have more idea of what was happening about her. She’d certainly have more hope of influencing and directing it.

  Whatever power she did or did not command, Swanne had managed enough of it to be able to recognise the faint trace of Mag within Caela’s womb.

  Today, even that faint trace was gone.

  Its absence could have been attributable to a number of causes. Mag had simply faded away completely. Swanne had perhaps lost touch with enough of her own remaining power to lose contact with Mag. Something, or someone, else had destroyed Mag within Caela’s womb.

  Swanne knew it was the latter. Caela had been attacked yesterday; the remaining faint trace of Mag had been deliberately murdered.

  And there was only one person who had the power to accomplish that and had possible reason to want to accomplish Mag’s death.

  Asterion.

  Swanne stared out at the grey waters of the Thames. It was a cold, blustery day with sheets of rain driving in from the north-east at periodic intervals. Winter was not far away.

  “Why?” Swanne whispered. “Why?”

  Why would Asterion want that final, helpless remnant of Mag dead? Swanne well knew of the old alliance between Mag and Asterion, using Cornelia to destroy Genvissa and stop the completion of the Game. Swanne could also understand why Asterion might want to tidy up loose ends; if nothing else the Minotaur was a methodical creature, and he most certainly needed neither Mag nor Caela’s all but useless hand.

  So why not kill Caela and dispose of both of them at the same time? Why leave Caela alive?

  Why go to all the trouble of removing Mag in such spectacular fashion when he could just as easily have murdered Caela and left no loose ends at all?

  What are you up to, Asterion? Swanne thought. To be honest, Swanne had no idea why even she was alive. Asterion wanted to destroy the Game. If that was all he wanted, then that was easily accomplished.

  Kill her. Kill the Mistress of the Labyrinth. If there was no Mistress of the Labyrinth then there was no Game. As simple as that.

  Or kill William, Brutus-reborn. If there was no Kingman, then there was no Game.

  What was happening that she couldn’t understand? Swanne’s frown deepened, and she chewed her lower lip as her thoughts tumbled over and over. The Game had changed, she could feel that herself. Even incomplete, was it a danger to Asterion? Did he fear to be trapped by it even though she and Brutus-reborn hadn’t managed the final dance? Was the only way Asterion could destroy the Game to use either her or William?

  “The bands,” she muttered, keeping her face turned full to the window so that none of the passers-by could see her mumbling to herself. “It must be Brutus’ kingship bands. Asterion needs those, either to destroy them, or to use them to destroy the Game. Damn it, Brutus, where did you hide them? Where?”

  Suddenly irritated beyond measure by her inaction, Swanne abruptly turned away from the window and walked as fast as possible, without attracting undue attention, down the stairs, through the Great Hall and back to the quarters she shared with Harold.

  She could put to good use the free time she now had by Harold spending the morning mooning over his sister’s sickbed.

  Harold listened to the sound of his wife’s footsteps fading away. Gods, had she seen what was going on? Another moment or two and Harold had been sure he would have thrown all caution to the wind and taken his sister there and then.

  What a fine sight that would have been for Swanne, had she been a few moments later. Her husband, squirming frantically atop his own sister’s body. It would have cost him everything.

  It would have cost Caela more.

  For the first time in his life Harold cursed the high birth of himself and his sister. If they had been lowly peasants, they could have simply moved to a far distant village and lived as man and wife.

  But the Earl of Wessex could not just abscond with the queen…

  “Harold? What did Swanne mean? ‘He has made his first move.’” Caela was looking at him with a puzzled expression.

  Harold pulled his thoughts back into order. Where had his self-control gone? “Do not ask me to interpret what she means, Caela, for I cannot.”

  “Sometimes she makes me feel as though she carries about with her such a great secret that it could destroy all our lives,” Caela said. “Sometimes when she looks at me…ah!” She gave a small smile. “I do not know what to make of your wife, Harold.”

  “Nor I, indeed,” he said, then paused…“She envies you, I think. She thinks she would do better wearing the crown herself.”

  Caela studied him silently for a moment. “And will she wear it, Harold?”

  Harold took Caela’s hand between both of his, using the excuse to drop his eyes away from her scrutiny. By all the gods, what did she mean with that question? He rubbed at the back of her hand with his thumbs, gently, caressingly, deciding to take Caela’s question at face value, and using the time it bought him to think over all the issues it raised.

  Ah, the throne. Edward was an old man, likely to die within the next few years, and still he had to name a successor. In theory, the members of the witan elected a new king, but in practice whoever was named by the former king had a powerful claim.

  Edward was driving his witan—and most of the Anglo-Saxon nobles in England—into despair over the issue. It was essential that he name a successor, if only because there were so many men who wished to claim the throne: not only Harold, who had the strongest claim, but the Danes, the Norwegians, the Normans, the French…half of Europe, come to that, entertained ambitions to add the English throne to what they already held. If Edward continued to prevaricate then he risked tumbling England into chaos on his death.

  Caela watched Harold’s face, knowing what he was thinking. “You are the only one who can take the throne, Harold. Even Edward must know that.”

  Harold snorted softly. �
�And has Edward actually spoken to you of this?”

  “Does Edward speak to me of the succession?” Caela laughed softly, bitterly. “Nay, of course he does not. He has ‘spoken’ only with his body, keeping it from me, that I may not breed him a Godwineson as his heir.”

  For an instant Harold entertained the vision of Edward making love to Caela, and his heart almost went cold in horror. “Then he is a fool. Better, surely, that a child of his own body take the throne than risk the slaughter of half of England as rival princes fight it out.”

  There was a lengthy silence, neither looking at the other, which was finally broken by Caela.

  “I have not seen Tostig,” she said, “yet I know he lingers about Westminster. Have you…” her voice drifted off at the expression on Harold’s face.

  “We have fought,” he said, “and now Tostig wastes his time in sulks. I wish that he could put aside his disagreement with me long enough to wish you well.”

  “Over what have you disagreed?”

  “Tostig wants me to send my army north to subdue Northumbria. I refused. I cannot afford to waste men and arms in the north when I may need them here.”

  “Tostig has not done well this past year,” Caela said. “If only…”

  “Yes,” Harold said. “If only, indeed.”

  She squeezed his hand. “All will be well, Harold. Surely. You are brothers, and disagreements will be set aside soon enough.”

  “Brothers can be enemies as well as any other men, Caela. I pray only that we will resolve our differences before Edward dies.”

  “And what,” Caela said, determined to change the subject yet again, “have you heard of William?”

  Harold sighed, and sat back, letting Caela’s hand drop to the coverlet. Tostig was a trifling threat when compared to William of Normandy. Not only was William a seasoned warrior with a seasoned army behind him (he’d spent over twenty-five years battling half of Europe to keep Normandy, and he could just as easily turn that army on England), but he also had a claim to the throne. Edward’s mother, Emma, was a Norman woman, and close kin to William; close enough that William might claim through her blood. It wasn’t much of a claim, but it was there, and it was strengthened by the fact that during Edward’s many years in exile (necessitated by the Danish Cnut’s seizure of the throne on the death of Edward’s father) Edward had formed strong bonds with William and had spent many years an honoured guest in the Norman court. Some men rumoured that in his gratitude Edward had promised England to William on Edward’s death—and if Edward would not lie with Caela, then this was the reason: he did not want to breed an heir, breaking his vow to William.

  Personally, Harold did not believe it. No man, surely, could hand over a throne in gratitude for a few years of bread and wine and a bed.

  Could he? Harold shook his head very slightly. Edward was fool enough for anything, and who knew what he might have promised William one drunken night when Edward might have thought he would never regain the English throne from Cnut?

  “Edward has never said anything?” he said to Caela.

  Caela shook her head. “I know only that they exchange letters.”

  Harold grunted. “William is preparing the ground to claim that Edward has always wanted him as heir.”

  “Edward is preparing that ground,” Caela said, “with the Normans he keeps at court.”

  Harold said nothing. God knows Edward had brought enough of Normandy back with him when he had managed to regain the throne on Cnut’s death, and the bonds between Edward and William had been strengthened through treaties over the years.

  Had any of those treaties encompassed a promise that William could have the throne after Edward’s death? No one knew, least of all Harold, and that lack of knowledge kept him awake many hours into too many nights.

  Harold wanted the throne. Moreover, he felt that he deserved it. He alone had kept Edward safe from internal disputes and the ambitions of the Saxon earls. He alone had the moral and military strength behind him to not only take the throne, but to hold it once Edward died.

  He was the only choice, the only Saxon choice, unless England decided it wanted a foreigner.

  Or, if a foreigner decided he wanted England.

  Now, as Edward declined into old age, and as it became obvious that he would never consent to get an heir on Caela, the issue of who was to succeed him was becoming ever more critical.

  “If I take the throne,” Harold said, reverting to Caela’s original question, “Swanne will not be my queen.”

  Caela arched an eyebrow, but there was a strange relief in her eyes.

  “Once, perhaps, I would have fought to the death to have her crowned at my side.”

  He paused, and Caela did not speak.

  “Once,” Harold finally continued, “but not now. She and I have grown apart in these past few years. Strangers, almost.”

  “Then that must explain the birth of your sixth child and third son last year.”

  Harold took a moment to respond to that. “She has ceased to please me even in bed,” he finally said. “We rarely touch…and even when we do, I find myself thinking of…”

  He stopped suddenly, unable to say that you.

  A silence where both avoided each others’ eyes, then Harold resumed. “Swanne cannot be my queen, even should I wish it. We were wed under Danelaw, not Christian, and the Church does not recognise our union. England is too Christian a realm now to try and flout the laws. If I am to be crowned, then I cannot afford to alienate a Church which must anoint my right to that throne.”

  “You will put her aside?” Caela looked incredulous, as if she could not believe for a moment that Swanne would be content to be “put aside”.

  “If I am to be accepted by the Church…if my claim to the throne is to be backed by the Church, then, yes, I must put her aside.”

  “She knows this?”

  “We have not spoken of it but, yes, I think she knows it.” He made a harsh sound in his throat. “It would certainly explain her growing distance and coldness this past year and more.”

  Caela thought for a moment, then said, “And who will you take for a wife? For your queen?”

  The instant she spoke the awkwardness again rose between them.

  “That was a foolish thing for me to ask,” she said, “considering how stupidly I behaved earlier.”

  “There could never be a better queen for this country than you,” Harold said.

  “I shall find you a queen,” Caela said, her voice forced. “A good woman, and worthy of you.”

  Harold reached out a hand and touched her mouth briefly with his fingertips.

  “I will honour whomever you choose,” he said softly, “but never as much as I honour you.” He hesitated. “If I thought for an instant that I could take the throne and flout Church law,” he said very softly, holding her eyes, “then I would ensure my grip on the throne by marrying my predecessor’s widow.”

  And with that, and before Caela could find breath enough to reply, he rose from the bed and left.

  FOURTEEN

  Each year London held a celebration to mark the (hopefully, successful) conclusion of the harvest. It was held in conjunction with the more significant autumn hiring and poultry fairs, with the involvement of the city guilds, the merchants, and the folk of at least a dozen of the outlying villages. This festival was held on a Saturday (the preceding three days being taken up with the market fairs), and it was one of the few occasions in the year when the city came to an almost complete standstill for the festivities.

  On the Saturday morning the guilds held a great parade through the streets of London, and in the afternoon virtually the entire city repaired for games, competitions and general revelry, to the fields of Smithfield, north-west of the city just beyond the ancient walls.

  Edward and Caela usually attended the afternoon’s festivities at Smithfield, as did most of the court. It was a good chance for the king to display himself (and his wealth and power and might) to t
he general public, and to make generous offerings of prizes to those who won the games. All in all, the day was generally one of light-hearted fun and competition and, as long as the weather held clear and the crowd didn’t become too raucous from the over-abundant supply of ale and beer, Caela generally enjoyed herself immensely.

  This year promised even greater enjoyment.

  The night before the festival Edward had succumbed to a black headache. He’d retired to his bed, and demanded that he be left alone save for two monks who were to sit in a corner and recite psalms. Saeweald had given him a broth and applied a poultice which had eased the king’s aching head somewhat, but when Saturday dawned, and Edward’s head still throbbed uncomfortably and his belly threatened to spew forth with every movement, the king decided to forgo the fun of Smithfield for the peace of his bedchamber.

  The queen should still attend, Harold escorting her—this was, indeed, a true indication of just how deeply Edward’s aching head had disturbed his mind. To make matters even better for Caela (and for Harold), Swanne decided to remain behind as well, vaguely stating some indisposition which she felt would only be exacerbated by the noise and frivolity of Smithfield.

  Thus it was, at two hours past noon, that Caela found herself seated with Harold in a temporary wooden stand on the north side of Smithfield. In truth, she also should have remained behind, her collapse in court being but ten days previously, but she declared that nothing could keep her from attending, and the sheer joy she felt at escaping the confines of Westminster showed in her bright eyes, her constantly smiling mouth, and in every movement.

  She was dressed splendidly in a deep ruby, silken surcoat embroidered all over with golden English dragons, a matching golden veil, and a jewelled crown. Beside her, Harold had dressed somewhat similarly, if in bright sky blue rather than ruby. His surcoat was also embroidered with the English dragon, although his beasts snarled and struck out with their talons while Caela’s merely scampered playfully. Harold wore a golden circlet on his brow, gold-encrusted embroidery covering the tight-fitting lower sleeves of his linen under-tunic, heavily jewelled rings on his fingers and, to remind everyone of his exploits and renown as a warrior, a massive sword hanging at his hip. He looked the king as Edward never had: vital, healthy, handsome, powerful, and the crowds gathered at Smithfield roared in acclaim when he and Caela took their places.