Gods' Concubine Read online

  “Saeweald!” Judith called softly as she and Caela approached. “Is that you?”

  “Aye.” Saeweald threw back the hood of his cloak. “Madam, you are well? We thank you for agreeing to come.”

  Caela peered at the smaller of the remaining figures, and it turned around, revealing Ecub.

  “Mother Ecub,” said Caela, “what do you here?”

  Ecub bowed her head, a gesture of deep respect, and smiled, but she did not respond with words.

  Caela stared at her, then looked to the final figure. Strange, for out here in the night Harold looked much taller than—

  The other figure turned around, and as it did so then the cloak about its form faded as if it had never been, and Caela saw that it was—stunningly—the same creature that she had seen in dream.

  A Long Tom.

  “It is a Sidlesaghe, my dear,” said Ecub, but Caela was staring at the creature in horror, taking a step backwards.

  “Caela,” Saeweald said softly, hobbling forward a little. “Please, it is all right. You will be safe.”

  Caela shrank back from him, her eyes riveted on the Sidlesaghe standing with a strange, dark, watchful expression about two or three paces from her. His eyes, as dark as they were, seemed to reflect the small amount of moonlight, and they glittered at Caela eerily.

  “What…is…this?” Caela said very slowly, enunciating every word very carefully. She shot Saeweald a look, and it was full of anger.

  “Madam,” Judith said, placing a hand on Caela’s elbow.

  “Don’t touch me,” Caela hissed. Her eyes swung between Saeweald, Ecub and Judith. “What have you done?”

  Whatever they may have said was forestalled by the Sidlesaghe, who suddenly almost doubled over in a sweeping, elegant gesture of reverence.

  “Lady,” he said, “forgive the means by which these three delivered you to me.”

  Caela stared at the Sidlesaghe, her posture as tense as that of a startled deer. “What are you?” she said harshly.

  The Sidlesaghe smiled, his teeth gleaming in the trickle of moonlight. “I am your welcomer,” he said. “Do you not remember the last time I greeted you?”

  For a moment Caela did not respond. Then she shook her head slowly.

  “I am here once more,” said the Sidlesaghe, “as all my kind.” It lifted one of its long-fingered hands and gestured.

  Caela’s eyes darted around her, and she gasped. Where a moment before had been empty gravelled shoreline, now stood rank upon rank of creatures similar to the one which stood before her now.

  “We are all here,” the Sidlesaghe said, “to welcome you anew.”

  “Caela,” said Saeweald, his tone pleading. “Please trust—”

  “No,” she said, and took another step backwards. Then she glanced over her shoulder, as if ensuring her way were still open.

  “It is time,” said the Sidlesaghe, and, with a movement as quick and as fluid as that of the fox, darted forward and seized Caela.

  She gave a half shriek, grabbing at the Sidlesaghe as if she meant to push him away, but the creature cradled her against his body, holding her almost as if she were a baby. Caela struggled, but caught in the Sidlesaghe’s firm, loving grip, she could do nothing.

  For an instant the Sidlesaghe stood, Caela in his arms close against his body, smiling at her as if she were his own beloved child.

  Then he lifted her high above his head and, as all the Sidlesaghes let out a long moan, tossed her into the river.

  Caela hit the water with a frightful splash and almost instantly sank beneath its surface.

  The final sight that Judith had of Caela was of her terrified white face, and then her extended arms and hands as, slowly, inevitably, they sank into the rolling grey waters.

  EIGHTEEN

  CAELA SPEAKS

  Oh, gods, the touch of the water!

  Something ruptured within my head—the pain was excruciating, overwhelming—and within the space of a single breath that agony became my entire existence.

  I was terrified, but of what I cannot say. Not of the water, nor even of death (which activity I was undoubtedly engaged in, for the water flowed down my throat as I gasped and gulped, and some tiny part of me understood that it was filling my lungs), but of the fact that I was in the grip of something so powerful, so unknowable, that even death could not save me from it.

  Death could not be an escape from it.

  My head was on fire, the pain now beyond the excruciating, and I gave up even trying to stay afloat. I sank down through the waters—strangely deep for the shallows of the river—descending into an icy bleakness.

  And still my head rang with agony.

  I screamed, and river water surged down my throat.

  Now my lungs felt as if they, too, were going to explode with the weight of the river within them and I gave myself over entirely to the water and the pain, and hoped only that they would have done with me as fast as they possibly could.

  My last single coherent thought was that if Edward could see me now he would only nod his head knowingly, and turn to say to one of his ever-present sycophants: I always knew the Devil was in her.

  The instant she gave up the struggle the tiny hands reached out for her, pulling her deeper and deeper, not so much into the river, although that was what encased them, but deeper into a realm that was unknowable to any who watched from above.

  The water sprites waited until her body was cold and still, drifting lifeless in the current, and then they stripped her of all her clothing, leaving only the ruby and gold bracelet she wore about her wrist.

  I blinked, and woke, and found myself lying curled into a tight ball on a cold stone floor, utterly naked and dripping wet. For the longest time I did not move. I just lay there, my arms hugging my knees to my chest (not quite naked, for I could feel a band of jewellery about my wrist which cut into the soft flesh just below one of my knees), blinking, not thinking, just being.

  Then, very softly, the sound of a name being called. Was it my name? I did not think so, but at that moment I was not even sure what my name was.

  There was the faint sound of thrumming hooves, coming ever closer, and I raised myself on one elbow just as, at the very reaches of my vision, a white stag burst into the stone hall in which I lay.

  He was huge, vital, brimming with power and sexuality and meaning, and he lifted his head and cried out, trumpeted, tidings of such joy that I cried out myself, and raised myself to my knees.

  The stag ran closer, closer, and I could feel his heat and feel his breath on me, and then I saw…

  I saw…

  I saw about his delicate, tightly muscled limbs the golden bands of Troy, two on each of his forelimbs and a pair about his hind limbs.

  And I remembered…and I knew where we were going and where we had been.

  I gave one incoherent cry, and then, as the beast came to a halt before me, and lowered his noble head and I felt his lips gently move within my river-dampened hair, I said, “Og, Og, can we truly manage this?”

  He said, “We must.” And then he groaned, and I both felt and saw his body crumble about me, crumble away to nothingness until there was nothing but six golden bands, rolling about on the stone floor…

  I woke, and I was no longer who once I had been although I was what I had always been.

  I lay naked at the tide’s edge, my lower body still rocked by the gentle waves of the river.

  The Sidlesaghe was leaning down over me, his dark face smiling with such love I thought I could not bear it.

  “Resurgam, pretty lady,” he said, and his voice was full of simple, unrestrained joy.

  Part Three

  1065

  It is an opinion generally received, …

  It is an opinion generally received, that the tournament originated from a childish pastime practised by youths called Ludus Troia (the Troy Game), said to have been so named because it was derived from the Trojans…

  In the middle ages, when the tour
naments were in their splendour, the Troy Game was still continued, and distinguished by a different denomination; it was then called in Latin, behordicum, and in French, bohourt or behourt, and was a kind of lance game, in which the young nobility exercised themselves, to acquire address in handling of their arms, and to prove their strength.

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

  London, March 1939

  Daddy!

  Dear gods, his daughter! He’d thought her dead, a victim first of Genvissa’s malevolence, and then of Asterion’s.

  And yet there she was, standing in the street outside Frank’s house, holding the two lost kingship bands of Troy, and calling to him.

  Skelton pulled on his uniform trousers, fumbling with the buttons on his fly, then hauled on a shirt, opened the door and took the stairs three at a time before he’d done up a single button.

  Violet stepped out of the kitchen, butter knife in hand. “Major?”

  Skelton ignored her, opened the front door and ran into the street.

  The little girl was gone.

  He stood there, barefooted, his shirt flapping in the cold wind, staring up and down the street.

  Gone.

  “Major?” Violet was at the front door now, her pretty face crinkled up with doubt, her voice cautious. “Is there anything the matter?”

  “Old chap?” said Frank, now standing directly behind Violet, a hand on her shoulder, staring at Skelton. He had raced out of his bedroom when he’d heard Skelton’s mad dash for the front door.

  Skelton ignored them. He turned this way, then that, his movements abrupt, frantic, his face distraught.

  Frank’s hand tightened momentarily on Violet’s shoulder, then he walked out to Skelton. “Old chap…what’s up?”

  “She was here,” Skelton muttered, the skin of his face grey. “She was.”

  Frank glanced back at Violet. “Who?”

  “My daughter.”

  Now Frank openly stared. “I say, I didn’t know you had…in England?”

  “A long time ago,” Skelton whispered.

  The door to one of the neighbours’ houses opened, and two women came out. They were both in their late thirties, their short waved hair freshly combed, and with matching dark blue candlewick dressing gowns tied about their trim figures. Both looked somewhat amused at the sight of Major Skelton standing half-naked and crazed in the street.

  Frank looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Mrs Flanders. A bit of a disturbance, I’m afraid.”

  Mrs Flanders pursed her lips, but her eyes sparkled with humour. “And just as I have my sister staying, Mr Bentley. Mrs Ecub is quite overwrought by such a sight, I’m sure.”

  At that Skelton turned about and stared at the two women. “My God,” he said. “Matilda? Ecub?”

  They both grinned at him.

  “We’re all gathered,” said Matilda, who Frank had addressed as Mrs Flanders. “Every one of us.”

  Skelton took a step froward. “Where is my daughter?” he said.

  “Perhaps Stella has her,” said Mrs Ecub.

  “I do apologise,” said Frank, “but Mrs Flanders, how can you possibly know Major Skelton?”

  “We’ve had many dealings over many years,” said Matilda Flanders. Then her face softened from humour into pity, and she stepped forward, took Skelton’s hands, and kissed him softly on the mouth.” Welcome back, my love,” she said, so softly that only he could hear. “Welcome back.”

  ONE

  Rouen, Normandy

  Matilda, Duchess of Normandy, shifted slightly in her chair, easing her still-tender muscles, and looked to where her husband sat on his dais at the head of the bright, commodious hall. William had returned from his morning’s hunting not an hour before, and now sprawled in his huge chair, his face still flushed with the excitement of the hunt, one hand gesturing effusively as he relived the chase with his two closest companions, Walter Fitz Osbern and Roger Montgomery.

  She smiled, happy that he was, for the moment, content.

  Then she sighed, and shifted yet again to ease her aching muscles. She’d given birth a few weeks previously—another daughter—and had only just rejoined William’s public court. She would also, Matilda thought as she watched William’s eye slipping to wander over the form of one of her more youthful waiting women, shortly have to rejoin him in their marital bed. William’s natural lusts made him wander sometimes, and Matilda knew full well that on occasion he bedded a village woman and had sired three or four bastards about his many estates, but the knowledge did not perturb her overmuch.

  She was the woman he respected and honoured before all others, she was the one to whom he confided his most secret thoughts and greatest ambitions, and she the one to whom he turned for advice and counsel.

  Matilda felt a tiny kernel of fear. She was the woman he trusted and honoured and respected above all others, but what would happen once he won England? England—and thus Swanne—had been so distant for so long that Matilda had all but forgotten her fears regarding Swanne. But now…now that Edward’s health was declining…suddenly neither England nor Swanne were far away at all.

  William grinned at the expression on his wife’s face, knowing full well she’d seen him ogling the luscious form of Adeliza.

  Adeliza would be sent home to her family estates and Matilda would be back in his bed before a new day dawned.

  That thought contented William. The tedium of birthing always annoyed him; he appreciated the fine healthy children Matilda gave him, but he was irritated that it should remove Matilda from his bed in the weeks immediately preceding and then following the birth. He missed those hours holding her, and talking through his problems with her, in that one place where they had utter privacy and need not guard their words.

  Matilda was worth more to him than all the gold in Christendom. William did not think he could have borne the uncertainty and fear of the past years if it had not been for her.

  He valued her beyond measure…and yet he had not found within himself the courage to talk to her of that one thing which consumed so much of his life.

  The Troy Game.

  How could he ever explain that to her?

  So William couched his thoughts of the Game within talk of his ambition for the English throne, and that ambition Matilda understood very well. All men lusted for more estates and power, and what was more normal than for William, having finally secured his own duchy, to lust for a throne to which he had some small right in any case?

  A sound distracted William from his thoughts, and he looked to the doorway.

  The guards had admitted a short and very slight priest, still with his stained travelling cloak flapping wetly about his shoulders, and now that priest was striding towards where William sat.

  William tensed, sitting a little higher in his chair, and his companions Walter and Roger shared knowing glances.

  “My good lord,” said the priest, sweeping in a low bow before the duke’s chair, “I greet you well, and am glad to have arrived in your sweet abode after the mud and strain of the road.”

  “Greetings, Yves,” William said. “I welcome you indeed.” He waved to his chamberlain, who sent a man forward with a stool for the priest. “You were not troubled by brigands on your way?”

  “Nay,” said Yves, handing his cloak to the chamberlain and seating himself with obvious relief, “just the rain and the sleet. Winter has set in early.”

  “I welcome you also, Yves,” said Matilda, wandering over to stand by William’s side. She perched one hand on his shoulder. “It is too long since we have seen you.”

  There was something in her tone that made William glance at her face, but she wore a bland, unreadable expression that gave no clue as to her thoughts. He looked back at Walter and Roger, sitting forward on their seats with expressions of perfectly readable curiosity on their faces, and he turned those expressions into ones of disappointment by asking them to leave himself and his wife alone with th
e new arrival.

  “We have matters of some delicacy to discuss,” William said, and Walter and Roger, who were certain as to what those matters might be, reluctantly rose, bowed to both their duke and duchess, and joined the greater part of the court seated at some distance from the dais.

  Matilda took one of the chairs vacated by the departing men. She folded her hands in her lap and waited, leaving it to her husband to conduct the conversation.

  “Well?” said William softly.

  “I have a communication for you,” said Yves and, glancing about in a manner that must have incited the suspicions of the entire court, handed to William a carefully cloth-wrapped small bundle.

  “From my husband’s agent at Edward’s court?” said Matilda.

  Yves inclined his head, and Matilda and William shared a meaningful glance. William would not open this now, not here.

  “And how goes Edward’s court?” said William.

  “The king ages apace,” said Yves. “His mind lingers less on worldly matters than on the salvation that awaits him. Most days he spends with the monks and priests of Westminster Abbey, or walking within its rising walls. On many days, my lord, he takes the golden string you gifted him and lays it out into the Jerusalem Labyrinth on the newly laid floor of the abbey. He thinks to build for himself a place of great glory, so that the world might not forget him when death takes him.”

  William grunted, turning the small cloth-wrapped bundle over and over in his hands, as if impatient to read its contents.

  “There is no sign of an heir?” he said.

  Yves gave a short laugh. “Queen Caela is not so blessed as my lady here,” he said, inclining his head to Matilda, who accepted the compliment with a polite smile. “Edward refuses to corrupt his piety, or his possible salvation and sanctification, with any sins of the flesh. There will be no heir of his body.”