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  “Describe it,” she said.

  “Two lines of riders, each describing a series of twists and turns that intersected and interwove.” He paused, thinking. “Labyrinthine-like, truly.”

  Swanne paled, but Harold kept on speaking. “The Trojan king, he who led one of the lines, and the ultimate victor, recreated the walls of Troy with his dance—seven walls, seven circuits. It was up to the Greek king, who led the opposing line, to defeat him.” He gave a small shrug. “But Troy won out. Its circuits held against the Greeks, who were left, trampled and in disarray, in the dust. Swanne? Why does this intrigue you so greatly?”

  She gave a light laugh, but Harold could see the effort it cost her. “It is not something I could ever imagine the common guildsmen re-creating, my love. The legend of Troy? Why, who among the commoners of London’s back alleyways has ever heard of it?”

  “Many, my lady,” said Hawise, who had just entered the chamber to see to the bed linens.

  Swanne, who had literally jumped when Hawise spoke, now regarded her with a frown. “Many? Explain yourself, Hawise.”

  The woman licked her lips, wondering if she had spoken out of turn.

  “Hawise?” said Harold, curious himself.

  “The story of Troy is retold many a night about kitchen hearths, my lady,” Hawise said. “How the Trojans escaped the destruction of their wondrous city, and fled here to ancient Britain, led by a man named Brutus. Why,” Hawise smiled, finally relaxing as she realised she had the undivided attention of both Swanne and Harold, “is it not true that London itself was founded by Brutus?”

  There was a silence, during which Swanne continued to stare at Hawise and Harold looked at Swanne.

  Then Swanne smiled, an expression which seemed to Harold to be one of the few genuine smiles he had ever seen her give, and touched Hawise gently on the cheek.

  “So it is said,” Swanne said softly, “and so it may be. And do the Londoners say anything else about the Troy Game?”

  “Oh,” said Hawise, “it is but a foolish game, my lady. Children have played it in the streets for years, dancing a pretty pattern across the flagstones outside St Paul’s, claiming that whoever steps on the lines first shall be eaten alive by a monster from hell.”

  “And that is what the horse game of yesterday was based on, Hawise?” Harold said.

  “Aye, my lord. One of the guildsmen was watching his daughters dancing out their childish game across the flagstones when he thought that perhaps their play could be modified and made into a far more spectacular sport.”

  “Well,” said Harold wryly, turning away to pick up his over-mantle, “it certainly was that.”

  When, much later, she managed to find some quiet time to herself in the palace orchard, closely wrapped in a heavy woollen cloak, Swanne finally allowed herself to take a deep breath and think on what she had heard.

  The Londoners were playing the Troy Game?

  Whether children or skilled horsemen mattered not…they were playing the Troy Game.

  Oh, it was not the Game that she and William would control, but it was clearly a derivative of it. It would not command the magic and power of the Game she and William would control, but it was surely a memory of it.

  How had they known? How had this come to be?

  There were many possibilities, the least unsettling of which was that the Trojans of Troia Nova had passed the Dance of the Torches (which they had witnessed her and Brutus dancing) down to their children. The story of the Troy Game may well have survived the generations between that day Brutus alighted on the shores of Llangarlia and this, even if the city and surrounding country had been ravaged so many times, and so mercilessly. It took only one person to remember the tales, and to speak them, for a memory to become permanent myth.

  And yet what Harold had described, and then what Hawise had said about the children’s games, was too accurate to be “myth”. The horsed game had been devised by an expert, someone who had known the Game intimately.

  Or…Swanne took another deep breath…or the entire event had somehow been arranged by the Game itself.

  Was the Game seeping up through the very foundations of London? Was it making London, and its inhabitants, its very own?

  For years, ever since she had come to London, Swanne had felt that the Game had changed, had even become self-aware.

  But this self-aware? This cognisant? Gods, that was terrifying. What if it refused to allow her and William control over it?

  Swanne gave a small, disbelieving laugh. What if the Game decided it would rather have some dirt-smudged child from London’s back streets to dance it to a conclusion?

  “My lady?”

  Swanne jumped, some stray disassociated part of her mind thinking that she truly needed to ask Saeweald for some herbal potion to calm her nerves.

  It was Aldred, the Archbishop of York.

  “My lady,” he said, grunting with effort as he sat on the bench beside her. “I do hope I am not disturbing you. It is just that I saw you sitting alone in the orchard while I was taking my afternoon stroll, and I thought to pass a few words.”

  Taking an afternoon stroll, indeed, thought Swanne. I have never before seen you walk further than from one banqueting table to the next.

  “I was thinking,” she said, “about that spectacular horsed game the Londoners put on yesterday in Smithfield. Harold seemed quite taken with the skills evidenced.”

  “Ah yes,” Aldred said, tweaking at a corner of his robe where it had become uncomfortably stuck under his bulk. “I have heard tell of that extravagance myself.”

  “You were not there?”

  “Alas, no, my lady. I decided it would be better for me to stay close to our beloved king…should he need me.”

  Thought it better to stay close so that you could insinuate yourself even further into his graces, she thought.

  “Aldred,” Swanne said slowly. “I may have another letter for you to pass on within the day. You will be able to arrange…?”

  “I shall be able to expedite its delivery, my lady, with all speed.”

  She inclined her head. “I do thank you, my good archbishop.”

  He beamed and patted her knee, which made Swanne wince.

  Another meeting took place in the orchard that afternoon, but an hour or two after Swanne and Aldred had abandoned the trees.

  Tostig was walking through the orchard on his way from his own quarters to Edward’s palace when he heard the sound of a footfall behind him.

  Stopping, and both turning about and drawing his dagger in one fluid movement, Tostig saw that two men approached, one of whom he recognised as the man who had talked to him when he’d left the Great Hall after Caela’s sudden collapse.

  “My lord,” both men said, and bowed as one.

  Tostig’s hand had not left his dagger.

  “What is it you wish?” he said.

  “To talk only, my lord,” said the first of the men. Both of them were fair, but this man’s hair and beard were fair to the point of whiteness, and even in the weak afternoon sun it shone brilliantly.

  “I am Halldorr Olafson,” said the man, “and this is my companion, Örn Bollason. Because we want you to trust us, and believe in us, we give you our true names, and not those we go under while at Edward’s court.”

  Tostig narrowed his eyes. His hand had not strayed from the haft of his dagger. “You are Hardrada’s men,” he said. He’d heard that the Norwegian king had agents within Edward’s court…but what were they doing approaching him?

  “We mean you no harm,” said Bollason. “Indeed, we speak with Hardrada’s voice. Our words are his, and spoken with his authority.”

  “And they are?” said Tostig.

  “Hardrada wants England,” said Olafson. “He would like you to aid him.”

  Tostig snorted, and half turned to walk away.

  “In return,” said Bollason, “he will give you all of the north. Not just Northumbria, but all of the north.”

&nbs
p; Tostig stopped, although he did not look at the two men.

  “Hardrada is a fair man,” said Olafson. “He does not need it all. He has asked us to treaty with you. If you pave the way for Hardrada’s successful ascension to the English throne after Edward’s death—”

  “Then I get the north?” said Tostig, turning back to stare searchingly at each of the two men who faced him. “And the means by which to hold it?”

  “And the means by which to hold it.”

  “Talk on,” said Tostig, and his hand fell away from his dagger.

  While they conversed all three men noticed the round-shouldered woman walking through the orchard ten or fifteen paces to their left carrying a wicker basket of late-fallen winter apples. They saw her, but they paid her no attention.

  She was but a serving woman, scrounging the orchard for something to see her and her family through the long winter months.

  They did not know that, instead of carrying the apples to where she kept her pitifully few belongings, Damson instead went straight to the river where, after a few moments, a waterman poled his flat skiff to where she waited. Damson handed the basket to the waterman, then bent close for a hurried conversation.

  The waterman nodded and, as Damson walked away, continued on his journey down the Thames.

  Late that night, when most of London and Westminster slumbered, one of the standing stones atop Pen Hill shimmered, then changed into its ancient form. It was the senior among the Sidlesaghes, a creature who had once been a great poet, songster, lover and humorist.

  His name he had long forgotten, but he had grown used to the childish whims of the men and women who had peopled this island after he and his kind had taken to their stone-like watchfulness, and so the Sidlesaghe called himself Long Tom. As he walked, his every movement soft and fluid, Long Tom hummed snatches of melody to himself, the fingers of one hand occasionally snapping in time to the beat of his music.

  The Sidlesaghe skirted London’s western wall, taking the road to Westminster. The Thames was on his left hand, and as he walked the river rose up in strange, luminous, rolling waves as he passed, as if it were greeting him.

  “Soon!” the Sidlesaghe whispered, and the river subsided.

  Soon.

  “Soon,” the Sidlesaghe said again, and shivered in excitement.

  Far beneath his feet, something rumbled and hissed, as if a dragon was passing through a long-forgotten mine.

  “One day,” said the Sidlesaghe, “but not yet, not yet.”

  The beast beneath his feet fell still, and groaned.

  Long Tom’s pace picked up as he neared Westminster. There was someone he had to see, to touch, to make words with. A woman of darkness and long memory.

  A woman who could bring him what he needed.

  Judith had spent the night with Saeweald. Now, as dawn approached, she made her way swiftly and silently from Saeweald’s chambers back towards the palace. Locked in thought—and her warm memories—Judith almost passed out from fright when a long arm grabbed at her from the darkness.

  Before she could shriek—and she’d drawn the huge breath to do just that—a large, hard hand had enveloped her lower face.

  “Peace, little lady,” said the Sidlesaghe, drawing close. “It is only I.”

  The moment Judith saw the long, hook-nosed face with those strange, watchful, melancholy eyes, Judith remembered Ecub’s description and recognised it immediately for a Sidlesaghe. She relaxed, not much, but enough, and the Sidlesaghe managed a small smile and let her go.

  “How may I aid you?” Judith said, not sure what she should say to the Sidlesaghe, but deciding that that question was as good as any.

  “It is time for Caela,” said the Sidlesaghe. “Time for her to remember.”

  “But the bracelet did no good.”

  “The bracelet?” The Sidlesaghe’s face crinkled into a hundred lines of questioning.

  “The ancient bracelet of Mesopotama, that which Silvius gave her yesterday.”

  “Silvius?”

  “Yes! Silvius!”

  “Silvius was out of the heart of the Labyrinth?”

  “Yes.” Judith repressed a sigh. “At Smithfield yesterday.”

  Long Tom was looking increasingly puzzled.

  “The Troy Game?” Judith said, hoping that would be enough to prod him into remembering.

  “Oh,” the Sidlesaghe said, sighing hugely, then smiling. “Yes. That’s why I am here. Caela needs to take her place within the Game.”

  Now it was Judith who was confused. “I am sorry. I do not know how I might aid you.”

  The Sidlesaghe leaned forward and enveloped both of her hands in his large ones. “You already do more than enough,” he said, “but seeing as you offer…bring Caela to the banks of the Thames tomorrow night. By Tothill.”

  “At night? She will not come! How can I—”

  He squeezed her hands. “That is for you to determine, my dear. Tomorrow night, on the banks of the Thames. We have some midwiving to do.”

  Then he was gone, and Judith was left to stare into the night, feeling both bewildered and blessed.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Madam?”

  Judith looked carefully at her mistress. The evening was closing in, and she couldn’t help a quick, impatient look at the as-yet-unshuttered windows in the queen’s chamber.

  Caela sat by the fire, some needlework in her hands, her lovely face relaxed almost to the point of dreaminess. Twelve days after her haemorrhage she looked rested and well, buoyed by good food, rest and twice daily visits both from Harold and from Saeweald, who kept their voices and words light, and made her laugh with every third remark. The outing to Smithfield had also lifted Caela’s spirits immensely, even though the outcome was not quite what Judith and Saeweald had hoped.

  “Madam?” Judith said again, trying to gain the attention of Caela who had drifted away somewhere, distant, over her embroidery.

  Tonight Judith had to inveigle Caela down to the banks of the Thames.

  Caela gave a slight start, then looked to Judith and smiled. “If you have finished your duties,” she said, “perhaps you would like to sit and aid me with this embroidery. It is for the high altar in Westminster’s new abbey, and I should like it to be finished for the abbey’s consecration.”

  “Madam…I had wondered…”

  Caela gave up all pretence at her needlework, allowing it to slip to her lap as she raised her face to Judith and laughed. “Am I keeping you from some great pleasure, Judith?”

  Judith blushed, more from her current state of tension than embarrassment.

  Caela’s smile died and she set her embroidery to one side. “What is it, Judith?”

  Judith abandoned caution and plunged straight into the lie. “Madam, your brother Harold spoke to me earlier.”

  Caela raised an eyebrow, no more than mildly curious.

  “He asked that I bring you to the banks of the Thames just below Tothill tonight, when all is still and silent in the palace.”

  Caela’s face retained its pleasant expression, but Judith could see the incomprehension growing in her eyes.

  “Your husband has decided to spend the night in prayer on his knees before the altar in the abbey, madam.” Judith had told Saeweald and Ecub (visiting this day from her priory) about the visit from the Sidlesaghe. Edward’s decision to spend all night in prayer was Saeweald’s doing, although Judith had no idea how he’d managed it. Did he inform the king that if he prayed all night before the altar, then his amulet against the arthritis would double its potency? Or was this just a sign of Edward’s increasing piety? “He will not notice you gone.”

  “Judith—”

  “Madam, Harold was most insistent.”

  Caela’s brow creased, and she looked cross. “Judith, before heaven, what is Harold doing? Sneaking about like a mischievous child? A surreptitious midnight picnic by the water’s edge? What is going on?”

  “Madam, please. I beg you, Harold needs you.”<
br />
  “Then why not beg me himself? Why ask through you?”

  “It is about Swanne,” Judith said, desperate now. “Swanne…Swanne is…”

  “Ah…” said Caela, and her posture relaxed very slightly. “Swanne is causing trouble.” She furrowed her brow, thinking. “It must be that Swanne and…and Tostig, perhaps…”

  “The palace has ears, madam.” Judith had no idea what she meant by that, but it seemed to confirm something in Caela’s mind.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “What chamber is safe in this palace, eh? I swear that Edward has paid ears against every door.” Then Caela smiled, and it was the kind of smile that Judith had never seen her give: girlish, mischievous, uninhibited. Judith’s breath caught in her throat. Sweet gods, if ever she smiled that way upon a man…

  Then Caela’s smile faded. “But how can I leave the palace? I have no excuse, and the fact of my leaving will surely reach Edward’s ears long before dawn.”

  Judith allowed her shoulders to relax: she had not been aware how tense she had been. Pray that Caela forgive her when she realised the deception. “I shall fetch you my third-best robe, and we shall drape a serving woman’s hood and cloak about you, and none shall be the wiser.”

  They waited until well past midnight, then, heavily cloaked and veiled, made their way to one of the postern gates in the wall about Westminster (the guard long gone, persuaded away from his post by the gold of Saeweald’s purse). From here Judith led Caela south along the river path towards a spot some hundred paces south of the palace complex where the southern branch of the Tyburn River joined with the Thames.

  Perhaps some ten or fifteen paces ahead of them, on a broad expanse of gravel laid bare by low tide, waited three cloaked figures.

  “Who can be with Harold?” said Caela.

  “Saeweald,” said Judith. “See how he drags that leg?”

  Caela nodded. One of the figures had moved slightly at their approach, and he did indeed drag his right leg in the manner of Saeweald.