Gods' Concubine Page 28

  There, she thought, glancing at Harold. I have done my best for you. Strangely, Matilda’s sympathies tended more to Harold in this encounter than to William, even though she lusted for the spoils of England almost as much as her husband.

  William suddenly appeared to notice that Matilda had spoken, and he gave a brief nod in her direction. His eyes did not move from Harold’s face.

  “I greet you well, Harold,” William said, recovering some of his usual calm demeanour, and he stepped forward and offered Harold his hand. “Welcome to Rouen, and to my duchy of Normandy.”

  Harold took William’s hand between both of his, and the instant he did so, William’s world turned upside down.

  As Harold’s flesh touched his, William knew who he was. Coel. Coel!

  A thousand emotions surged through William: jealousy and fright at their head. He remembered that terrible night he’d burst into his house in Llanbank to find Coel atop Cornelia’s body, sweating in the labours of love. He remembered that appalling moment that he’d reached his hand into Coel’s hair, and hauled back his head so that for an instant they’d stared deep into each other’s soul before Brutus had sliced his sword across Coel’s throat.

  Cornelia’s cry of terror and loss, Coel’s eyes still locked into his as he died.

  Coel? Coel had reappeared in this guise on the same day that Silvius had once again writhed on the forest floor before him? What in the gods’ names was going on? What frightful magic had them in its hold?

  And why had Swanne not told him this? Gods, Swanne had taken Coel to her bed, bred him children, and she had not told William of it?

  William recalled what Swanne had said that day so long ago when they’d met. He’d asked her then if Harold was anyone reborn, and she had said no. He was a mere man. Gods! She had lied to him! Why? Why?

  “William?”

  William realised he was not only still gripping Harold’s hand, but he was staring maniacally at the man. In the same moment William also realised that Harold had no memory of his life as Coel. He had come only as Harold, Earl of Wessex and pretender to the English throne, not as Cornelia’s lover come for revenge…or whatever else it could be that he sought.

  But this was no coincidence. Surely. And what was Coel doing back in this world? What?

  “William?” Matilda said again.

  “Forgive me,” William managed, dropping Harold’s hand. He even managed to find the strength and fortitude of spirit to give Harold a small smile. “Your arrival has truly surprised me, my lord of Wessex.”

  “Aye, I see that it has.” Harold, his hand now free, had taken a step back, and was watching William speculatively.

  “Wine, husband?” Matilda murmured. She stood holding out a freshly poured cup to her husband, and very apparently taken aback by her husband’s reaction.

  A servant hurried forward with another chair, and William waved them all down, his equanimity now apparently fully restored.

  “It has been a most surprising morning,” William said. “First I brought down a great stag, who reproached me with his dying.”

  Matilda gasped in superstitious dread, but Harold only watched William with narrowed eyes.

  “And now,” William continued, “I find before me England’s greatest lord, save for Edward. A most strange and unexpected visitor, given the circumstances. What mysteries swirl about us today, I wonder?”

  The question was half rhetorical, half real. A most strange and unexpected visitor, given the circumstances. There, answer me that, Harold-Coel, if you dare.

  “No mysteries but those of mortal men,” said Harold. He leaned forward in his chair. “You must know why I am here, William.”

  To reproach me for your death? “To beg me to take England’s throne once Edward is dead?’

  Matilda repressed a wince at the bluntness of both men. So much for the soft beauty of poets.

  Harold held William’s stare a long moment before answering. “I come for England,” he said softly, “I come as England.” William’s face assumed a strange expression at that, but Harold ignored it. “We are both great lords here, William. To be blunt, I come wondering if you shall be my ally, as you have been Edward’s, or my rival. Which one, William?”

  William sat back in his chair, his dark eyes hooded. “I am ally to Edward for only one reason, my friend.”

  Harold’s mouth quirked at that “my friend”. “Not ally, then.”

  William gave a small smile, but his eyes were humourless.

  “Edward is heirless,” Harold said, “and the unfortunate circumstance surrounding this is that we both have a claim to the throne. You through your great-aunt Emma, Edward’s Norman mother. I through my place and standing as England’s pre-eminent lord, de facto ruler throughout Edward’s long, pious slide into irrelevancy and death.”

  Ah, thought William. You and I again, Coel, standing each side of the chasm. You for the old, dark ways of the land, I for the new bright ways of the foreigner. I won last time, Coel. What does that say about this encounter, then?

  “I not only claim through the distant blood of Emma,” William said, “but also through Edward’s promise.”

  Harold raised a patently disbelieving eyebrow.

  “I sheltered Edward for many years during his time of exile,” William said, “during those years when Cnut held England captive. For my aid, when no one else would help him, Edward promised to me the throne of England should he die without heir of his body.” He paused. “I believe that he has no heir, unless Queen Caela quickens with a child I do not know about—and that possibly Edward does not know about?”

  Something in William’s voice and face became aggressively confrontational with that last sentence, and Harold frowned over it.

  “There is no heir, either walking or breeding,” he said. “Caela remains chaste and untouched. God’s Concubine they call her, for the fact that the saintly Edward has so consistently refused to have dealings with her.”

  William gave a strange half-smile. “So, then, Edward’s promise to me stands.”

  “England has only your word for that,” said Harold. “I have only your word for it, and neither England nor I will ever accept it.”

  “Truly?” said William, his tone now far more aggressive.

  “England has had enough of foreigners imposing their word and law over us!” Harold said, his eyes snapping with anger. “England will not accept you. William, I have the witan’s promise that come that day when Edward fails, then they will elect me to the throne. England wants Saxon rule, William. Not Norman.”

  “England is already half Norman! God, Harold, half your clergy are Norman imports, while Norman interests hold high office and control much land. Norman—”

  “Those interests and offices shall not continue long past that day I am crowned,” Harold said calmly. “The clergy shall be replaced with Saxon men, loyal to England. Norman influence in England ceases with Edward’s death. Completely. That is the message I bring you.”

  “You are afraid of me,” William said, his own voice now very quiet. “That, essentially, is the message you bring me.”

  “England will stand against you, William. We are not boys, playing with wooden swords. We are seasoned men and we will fight for our land. Come at your own peril but, for your own sake, and that of this lady your wife, and for the sake of all Englishmen, I ask you to rest content with Normandy, for what more could a man want?”

  Immortality, thought William, staring at Harold. Power beyond knowing. The Troy Game, in my hands.

  “England will stand against me?” William said. “Really? How strange, for the reports I have so recently received suggest very much the opposite.”

  Harold glanced at Matilda. “You mean my brother Tostig.” He put down his cup of wine, then rolled up the short tunic he wore and undid his shirt.

  His chest and upper belly were marred by red, scarcely healed scars.

  “This is Tostig,” said Harold softly. “He thought to murder m
e.” He did up his shirt and pulled his tunic down. “He came to me as I and my wife were preparing for bed, and he thought to earn a reward from Hardrada for his actions.”

  “But you bested him, or you would not be here to show me the scars.”

  “Aye,” said Harold, “but only through the aid of my sister, who sent help. My wife,” he spoke the word contemptuously, “merely stood back and laughed as Tostig tried to murder me.”

  William went very still, and Matilda sent him an unreadable look.

  “That was not the action of an honourable woman, let alone a wife,” she said to Harold.

  “It was the action of a woman who lives by deceit,” Harold said. “She is not a woman to be trusted.”

  William dropped his eyes to his wine, swirling it about his wine cup.

  “I say that,” Harold said softly, not taking his eyes from William, “because I think you particularly need to know, my lord of Normandy.”

  William looked up, his gaze unreadable.

  “I know Swanne is your eyes and ears at court, William. Does she send you her love besides?”

  Harold suddenly shifted his gaze to Matilda. “Did you know, my lady duchess, that my wife Swanne thinks to plot against me for William, and against you as well? She hopes to take your place at William’s side should he ever win for himself the throne of England. She has said William has promised her this.”

  Harold looked back to William, sitting open-mouthed in shock, staring at Harold. “How long has she been whoring for you, William? And how can you plan to set aside this wondrous wife of yours to take Swanne Snake Tongue as your queen if you ever gain England?”

  THREE

  CAELA SPEAKS

  I was lying on the bed when Judith brought Damson to the bedchamber, and as they entered I had to smile at what my other ladies must have thought of this simple woman who I admitted to my presence when they were left in the solar.

  Damson was a woman marked by her years and her travail. She was fair of hair and ruddy of complexion, with stooped shoulders, wearied by life, and hands roughened and gnarled by labour. Her eyes were pale water blue, currently filled with anxiety.

  “My lady queen!” she cried the instant she saw me, dropping to her knees despite Judith’s hand on her arm. “I have meant no harm through my actions!”

  I was rising from the bed as she said this, and my own eyes filled with tears at the thought that the only reason Damson could conceive for her presence before me was to be accused of some transgression.

  “Of course not, Damson,” I said in as gentle a manner as I could. “I have asked you before me only to serve me, not to reproach you.”

  Damson’s face crumpled in relief, and my sorrow for her increased.

  “My lady Judith has told me of your difficulties,” I said, “and I thought only to help.”

  And may all the gods forgive me for that particular lie.

  Damson had her hands clasped before her face, which was lowered almost to her breast: the poor woman could not even look upon me.

  What trials had this land been through that women acted in such a manner?

  I shared a glance with Judith, then bent to Damson, grasped her hands between mine, and raised her to her feet.

  Damson finally managed to lift her face, and she visibly gulped, then blinked some of her tears free from her eyes.

  “I have many fine linens, and rare embroideries,” I said, “and I hear tell that you are the finest and most trustworthy of laundresses. Will you take charge of my linens, Damson, and watch over them for me, and attend to them as needed?”

  All those years I had spent as unknowing Caela, my head bent over my sewing, watching the needle ply in and out, in and out, in and out. Years, I had spent curled about my damned needlework.

  Frankly, I did not care if Damson took the entire corpus of my embroideries and hurled them into the mud of the river’s low tide. I did not think I could bear a single hour more bent over my needles and wools.

  “My lady…” Damson said.

  “You agree?” I said, and hated myself, for I was asking Damson to agree to much more than the care of my ever-cursed linens.

  “Oh. Aye, madam. I would do anything for you! Anything!”

  The hope and happiness in her eyes almost made me waver, but I steeled myself.

  “Damson,” I whispered and, summoning both courage and power, I leaned forward and kissed her full on the mouth, sliding my tongue gently between her parted lips.

  The first thing I became aware of as I gazed out of Damson’s eyes and into my own bemused face was the scratchiness of Damson’s rough and ill-fitting clothes. Then I became aware of the different weight and feel of her body, of the way it moved. And then I became aware of its aches and pains, its sadnesses and strains, and I almost wept for the poverty of this woman’s life.

  “What is happening?” said my voice, issuing out of my face.

  Poor Damson.

  “It is nothing but a dream,” I said very softly, and reached forward and cradled Caela’s confused face in my hands. “Nothing but a dream. Sleep now, and when you wake you will remember nothing of this.”

  “Sleep…yes, I would like to sleep…” she said.

  I led Caela-inhabited-by-Damson to the bed, and laid her down, pulling a coverlet over her.

  Within an instant, she was asleep.

  Caela, so it would appear to everyone who saw, asleep on her bed.

  And so it was, but only Caela’s body, not her soul or her spirit; that now lived in Damson’s body, able to use Damson’s body to move relatively unhindered wherever it wanted to go.

  “Madam?” said Judith, and reached out a hand to my (Damson’s) face.

  “Aye,” I said. “It is me.” I shivered, embarrassed that I so loathed this body. I was grateful that Damson’s thoughts and memories had travelled with her into my body. I did not think I could cope with whatever weight of worry she carried about with her through her dreary days and nights.

  “Madam, what if I need you to return while you are gone? What can I do to summon you?”

  I nodded at the figure asleep on my bed. “Shake my—” her “—shoulder, and call my name forcefully. I should return at that.”

  “In body?”

  I hesitated. “No. In soul and spirit only. So do this only if highly troubled, Judith. Otherwise you risk having Damson wake within herself in circumstances which may drive her witless.”

  “I understand.” She paused. “What will you do now?”

  “Now?” I grinned. “Why now I shall gather some linens, and I shall walk from this chamber with my head and shoulders bowed, and then I shall spend the rest of the day wandering free.”

  My smile widened at the thought, and then it faded. “Judith, stay here with…” I looked to where Damsonin-Caela lay on the bed. “Stay with her, and let no one touch her. Tell everyone that I am unwell, and want only to rest. I shall not be long. Not this first time.”

  Poor Caela. I had the feeling that she was going to be spending a great many days lying unwell on her bed over the coming months.

  With another reassuring smile for Judith, I gathered up some linens, and left the chamber.

  FOUR

  “Well?”

  Matilda’s anger was evident in the rigidity of her stance, her flinty eyes and the tight, clipped tone of her voice. She and William had retired to their bedchamber, Harold and his companions seen to a chamber and offered food and the means to refresh themselves.

  “He is bolder than I had thought him.” William turned his back to his wife, and walked to the window, fiddling with the catch on one of the shutters.

  “I was not talking of Harold. I am talking of the fact that you have apparently promised this Swanne a place at your side as queen.”

  “I have never promised that!”

  Matilda’s only answer consisted of her archly raised eyebrows.

  “Never!”

  “You swore that you would not betray me,” she said, wa
lking to and fro in her agitation. “You swore that I would be queen. Not Swanne! Did you lie? Do you truly mean me to be Queen of England at your side? You have been lying to one of us. So, which one? Me, or Swanne?”

  He caught at her wrist as she swished past him, and forced her to a halt. “You!” he said, his voice low and vibrating with emotion. “You! I meant that vow…damn it, Matilda, Swanne will never be my queen. You will. You!”

  “Does she understand that?” Matilda asked quietly, then gave a soft, harsh laugh as William averted his eyes.

  “You promise me one thing, husband, and you allow her to believe another. Where do any of us stand in your affections, eh?”

  “You will be my queen, Matilda.”

  “You cannot trust her, William, if only because too many people know she is your agent. For sweet Christ’s sake, husband, did you not hear what Harold said? That she stood by and laughed as Tostig tried to murder her husband?”

  William closed his eyes, trying to repress the memory of Coel lying dead at his feet, and Genvissa standing before them, laughing…

  “And you trust that kind of witch?”

  “I…” She lied to me about Harold. He is Coel, Coel! And she lied to me about it…

  “She does not harbour a soul that can be trusted, husband,” Matilda said, very low. “And Harold knows she is your agent. If he knows, then who else?”

  “For all we know, only Harold—”

  “Harold is one too many people, my love,” she countered.

  “Aye. I know.” William’s shoulders suddenly slumped, and he walked to a chair and sat down heavily.

  “Harold is far more knowledgeable than any of us thought. Had you ever considered he knew of his wife’s efforts on your behalf?”

  “No. I had not thought he might know.”

  “And how does that affect our plans, William?”

  “I would imagine it shall affect them very little.”