Gods' Concubine Read online

  But Caela only smiled politely, and begged Mother Ecub to visit her within her own private chamber on the morrow.

  Mother Ecub bowed, rose to her feet, and left.

  And as she left, so she locked eyes momentarily with Swanne, Harold of Wessex’s wife, newly risen from childbed. Both understood each other immediately; each sent ill will coursing the other’s way before each turned aside, and pretended indifference.

  Thus was the Priory of St Margaret the Martyr founded, with Mother Ecub as its prioress. The small priory was built at the foot of Pen Hill just to the north of London, and within a year it had attracted some twelve or thirteen women who lived within its walls. The nuns contented themselves with good works to travellers, lepers and the destitute, and soon earned themselves such a good name among the Londoners that they called the priory Mother Mag’s as a measure of their affection.

  It pleased Mother Ecub no end.

  The third arrival into Edward’s court in this first year of his marriage caused much comment, where the other two had scarcely caused a ripple. King Edward had recently suffered pain from the gradual swelling and heating of the joints in his hands, elbows and knees. Many physicians attended him, but there was only one who consistently relieved Edward’s discomfort and he the youngest of those who presented the king with their herbals and unguents.

  His name was Saeweald, and he was but eighteen or nineteen years of age. Born to the north of London, he had only recently completed his apprenticeship. Despite his youth, in his craft Saeweald combined an assurance, knowledge and skill that most of his older fellows envied, and the youth quickly became a fixture at Edward’s side.

  Saeweald attracted comment not only because of his youth and his talent. Apart from the green of his eyes, he was very dark, bespeaking more the ancient British blood than the Saxon in his veins, but even this was not what made him stand out at court. Saeweald’s right hip and leg had been brutally mangled during his birth, and the newly appointed royal physician walked with the greatest difficulty, dragging his deformed leg behind him, and, on his worst days, requiring crutches to stand upright. But in a strange manner this endeared him to many. Saeweald’s rasping breath of discomfort, the drag of his leg, the tap of his crutches and the constant jangling of the small copper boxes of herbs which hung at his belt announced his imminent arrival more efficiently than any clarion or horn. No one could ever accuse the physician of spying, for there was no means by which he could creep unheard upon any conversation and this made everyone in the court comfortable with his comings and goings.

  Yet Saeweald did keep secrets, and it was Tostig, younger brother to Harold of Wessex, who discovered one of these a few months after Saeweald’s appointment as royal physician. Tostig and Saeweald had become friends soon after the physician’s arrival at court. Outwardly, this seemed a strange friendship, for Tostig was a youth dedicated to the military arts, to heroic action and to the bravado of the warrior, while Saeweald was far more introspective and given to the pursuit of knowledge and mystery rather than a warrior’s heroisms.

  This was, after all, all that his leg would allow him.

  Tostig and Saeweald did find some common ground, however; perhaps their mutual youth, as well as their mutual indulgence in the fleshly delights the court and community of Westminster offered them (such fleshly delights kept well away from Edward’s attention). Thus it was one afternoon, when Tostig was trying to find Saeweald in order that they might plan which of the accommodating ladies they would prevail upon this night, that he found him soaking away the aches in his leg in a large tub of heated water redolent with herbs.

  Edward had given Saeweald three chambers (an unheard-of allocation of private space for this crowded community) in one of the palace outbuildings. Saeweald used the space to live and sleep, as well as to store and dispense his herbs. The first chamber was given over to the herbs and a dispensary, the second Saeweald used as his sleeping and living quarters, and the third…well, the third Tostig had never entered. But this day, as he walked silently through the first and then the second chamber, seeking his friend, Tostig heard the sound of splashing coming from the third chamber, and so, without any announcement—assuming his friend was merely enjoying a soak—Tostig walked straight in.

  Saeweald jumped in surprise, an unfortunate reaction which instantly gave Tostig full view of something he’d not ever suspected of his friend. True, he’d never previously seen Saeweald utterly naked, and Tostig had always assumed this was because Saeweald was sensitive about his deformed hip and leg.

  Now he saw there was another reason—a far darker one.

  “What is this?” he said quietly, coming to stand at the side of the tub.

  Saeweald had sunk under the water, but now, observing the strange light in Tostig’s eyes, he sat himself upright, allowing Tostig to see his chest.

  Tostig looked at Saeweald’s chest, then at his face, then back to the man’s chest. He stepped closer and, very slowly, lowered his hand on to Saeweald’s wet skin.

  Saeweald’s skin jumped a little as Tostig’s hand touched him, and the man tensed, but then he relaxed as he saw the expression on Tostig’s face.

  Awe. Reverence.

  Tostig breathed in deeply and, as Saeweald remained still, moved his fingers over Saeweald’s chest and shoulders, their tips tracing the dark blue, tattooed outline of a magnificent spread of stag antlers.

  “I should have known,” Tostig whispered.

  Saeweald said nothing, his dark eyes unmoving from Tostig’s face.

  “You follow the ancient ways,” said Tostig, very quietly. “By the gods, Saeweald, no wonder you are so skilled with the healing herbs!”

  He lifted his hand from Saeweald’s chest and looked the man full in the face. “This mark is enough, my friend, to have you executed at the order of our most Christian of kings.”

  Still Saeweald said nothing; still he watched Tostig carefully.

  Tostig breathed deeply again, visibly affected by what he had discovered. “Moreover, this tattoo marks you as not just a follower of the ancient ways, but as…as…”

  “Are you too afraid to say it, Tostig? Then I will, for already you know enough to have me killed. I am Saeweald, but I am also of the bloodline that traces back to the ancient priests of this land. I am the heir to that bloodline, and to the power of the ancient stag god of the forests.”

  Tostig paled, and took a step back, his round eyes fixed on Saeweald’s face. Saeweald continued remorselessly.

  “One day that god will rise from his grave, Tostig, and on that day I will speak with his voice.”

  “You are his Druid,” Tostig whispered.

  “Aye. I am his Druid,” Saeweald said, using a word and concept Tostig would understand.

  Tostig blinked, and with heartfelt relief Saeweald saw tears slide down the youth’s cheeks.

  “Then I am your man, and you have more friends here at court than you can possibly realise.”

  Saeweald grimaced. “There is more at this court than you can possibly realise, my friend.”

  Tostig held out his hand, and Saeweald took it, using his friend’s strength to pull himself out of the tub. Tostig stood watching Saeweald as the man dried himself. “Have you met my brother Harold yet?”

  Saeweald shook his head. “He has been south in his estates for some weeks. No doubt I will make his acquaintance soon enough.”

  “He needs to see this, too, Saeweald.” Tostig reached out once more and touched gently the markings on Saeweald’s chest. “I think he is going to be as good a friend to you as I am.”

  A month after this incident, a month during which Edward became increasingly reliant on his young, brilliant physician, the king asked Saeweald to attend his wife.

  Saeweald stood before Edward, who had retired from the Great Hall to hold his evening court within his private chambers. Here, above the hall, gathered a relatively small number of people: a few of the king’s closest attendants, three or four of the queen’
s attending ladies, some of the servants, and, invariably, the abbot of Westminster, with perhaps one or two other guests. The atmosphere was much more informal than that of the court held within the Great Hall, but Saeweald nonetheless kept his head partly bowed and his face cleansed of anything but deferential respect.

  Despite his demeanour, Saeweald was intensely aware of everyone in the chamber. On his way through the door he had caught the eye of the Lady Swanne, in attendance this evening without her husband.

  They had known each other instantly, and Saeweald was somewhat surprised that the silent bolt of hatred that shot between them had not sent the entire court into chaos.

  But now Saeweald had all but forgotten Swanne. He was intently aware of Caela, who sat in a carved wooden throne a pace or two to Edward’s right, and who was almost as rigid as the frame of her chair.

  “My wife,” Edward began, flickering his eyes to Caela, “is unwell. Consistently unwell. She suffers from a great disquiet of her womb, which causes me some anxiety.”

  Saeweald understood very well by this last statement that Edward was not anxious for Caela’s sake, but anxious and irritated that she displayed such womanly weakness. No doubt, Saeweald thought, Edward would believe it the physical manifestation of Eve’s sinful presence within all women and, as such, undeserving of any sympathy. He looked at Caela from under the lowered lids of his eyes.

  She was, if possible, even more rigid, and pink with humiliation.

  “Sire,” said Saeweald in the strong, quiet voice he always used with the king, “I have many medications which will ease the problem. Be assured that I can lessen your anxiety.” For an instant, Saeweald’s mind was consumed with that terrible night so long ago when Caela had been Cornelia, and he Loth, and Cornelia had lain on the floor of her house, her womb and the child it had carried lying torn and bloody between her legs.

  “Good. Perhaps you can attend her now?”

  Saeweald bowed his head, more to hide his jubilation than with any real respect for Edward. He was going to have a chance to speak with Caela!

  Caela rose stiffly from her chair, her eyes staring ahead so that she did not have to see either her husband or Saeweald, and she walked from the chamber, two of her ladies in close attendance.

  With a final bow to the king, Saeweald followed.

  Within the regal bedchamber, Saeweald’s “examination” consisted of merely holding Caela’s hand in his, feeling the fluttering of her nervous pulse, and asking her a few quiet questions. The queen’s two ladies stood a respectful distance away, although they kept their eyes on the proceedings, and Saeweald was able to converse with Caela in relative privacy.

  “Madam,” Saeweald began, “I am sorry to hear of your affliction.”

  She said nothing, merely turning her face very slightly aside.

  “It might not be so unexpected, however?”

  She turned back to study him at the slight question in his tone.

  “What do you mean, physician?”

  Saeweald did not know what to expect at the distance within her voice. Surely she knew who he was?

  “Your previous troubles…” Saeweald murmured, hoping that Caela would realise he spoke of her life as Cornelia, and Genvissa’s terrible attack on her.

  She did not reply, and Saeweald could sense an immense withdrawal within her.

  “Cornelia,” he whispered. “Do you not know me? I am Loth-reborn.”

  She snatched her hand from his. “Are your wits addled, physician?”

  Her words were angry, but Saeweald could hear a desperate fear beneath them.

  Gods, he thought, what is going on?

  “Madam,” he said, “I am sorry.” His thoughts raced, wondering what he should do or say next. Why wouldn’t she recognise him? “I took a concoction for the ache in my leg earlier this evening, and I fear somehow that it has muddled my thoughts.”

  He felt her relax and, very gently, he took her hand back in his. She was so frail…For a few minutes Saeweald asked her questions about her monthly fluxes, how they had changed in recent times, and how they discomforted her.

  Despite the intimacy of their discussion, Caela relaxed at the detached tone of his voice.

  “You are not with child?” Saeweald asked eventually.

  “No.”

  “There is no possibility…?”

  “No.”

  Saeweald licked his lips, phrasing his next question as delicately as he could. “Madam, has the king ever—”

  To his relief she answered before he had time to form all the words. “No. He will not lie with me.”

  Saeweald could not help the sudden twitch of his lips. “And does that bother madam overmuch?”

  He more than half expected Caela to snatch her hand from his, but to his astonishment her lips curled in a smile as well. “You are the first person not to offer me his sympathy over the issue, physician.”

  He grinned, delighted, for in that single instant he saw some of Cornelia’s old spirit light Caela’s face. She was there, but buried deep. Caela had also responded to him as an intimate friend—something they were not yet in this life—for that comment should have seen any person, favoured royal physician or not, immediately ejected from the queen’s presence.

  “There are many men more deserving of you, madam,” he said, and then, not wanting to push Caela any further, began to speak of some of the medications he would mix for her.

  When Saeweald eventually sat back, setting Caela’s hand loose, he risked one more incursion into their shared past. “Do not think your womb is useless,” he said. “It harbours a greater power than I think you can currently know.”

  Or remember.

  She frowned at him.

  “Mag,” he said, hoping that this single word, the name of the goddess who had inhabited Caela in her previous life, would summon some response from the queen.

  Mag, are you there?

  But Caela’s frown only deepened, and, with a brief, respectful few words, Saeweald rose and left her.

  Three days later Saeweald was in the front room of his chambers, which served as a dispensary, when the outer door opened and a woman came in.

  Saeweald stared at her, then stepped forward, taking the woman’s hands in his and kissing both her cheeks in welcome before enveloping her in a huge embrace.

  “Mother Ecub!”

  “Aye,” she said, hugging him as tightly as he did her. “Mother Ecub indeed—and still Mother Ecub.”

  “I know,” Saeweald said, standing back and grinning at her. “I have heard of you. I have never heard of a more undevout Christian prioress!”

  “The priory serves me well enough,” said Ecub, “and I have gathered to my side many sisters who, while mouthing their Christian prayers, turn for inspiration and hope to the circle of stones standing atop Pen Hill. Whatever Edward and his flock of clerics want to believe, the ancient ways still throb deep within the hearts and souls of the people. But, oh, Saeweald, look at you. How can fate treat you so badly?”

  He touched his hip and grimaced. “I have learned to live with this, Mother Ecub. You need spare no pity for me.” Then he smiled. “Just the sight of you, and the knowledge you were near, has eased much of my pain.”

  Ecub knew he was not referring only to his physical aches.

  “Who else?” she said softly.

  “Genvissa, but then you must know that.”

  Now it was Ecub who made the face. “Yes. The gracious and beautiful Lady Swanne. She and I have exchanged bitter looks, and a few even more bitter words, but my duties within the priory—and to the stones atop Pen Hill—allow me to avoid much of her poison. You?”

  “We have spoken only once, when she crowed with delight at this.” Again Saeweald tapped his hip. “As with you, I avoid her.”

  “Harold,” Ecub said very softly, watching Saeweald’s face.

  “Oh, Ecub! How did that witch trap him?”

  “He does not remember, does he?”

  Saewea
ld shook his head. “In the past few weeks I have come to know him well. We have re-formed our old friendship and bond, although Harold is not consciously aware of it.” He sighed. “Ecub…it is a mercy for him, I believe, that he does not remember. I think it best that way. But that Cornelia and Coel were reborn as brother and sister…to yearn for each other, and yet to believe that to touch would be the ultimate vice. What evil mischief is this? Fate, or Asterion?”

  “Who can tell, Saeweald? But you are sure that Harold is Coel-reborn?”

  “Yes. Yes . Like so many people he adheres to the old ways while he mouths Christian pieties. He is my old and beloved friend, Ecub. Ah! How I hate to see him tied to that witch!”

  Ecub grinned. “But he is her husband, and thus she his chattel by law of this land. Is that not deliciously amusing? Have you not thought how Swanne must chafe under that? And she must bear him sons…oh, I laughed when I heard she had birthed a male child. How that must have riled the oh-so-powerful Mistress of the Labyrinth.”

  “And Brutus-reborn. Have you realised his identity as the Duke of Normandy?”

  “Aye. I have heard of that ‘gift’ he sent to Edward, and have seen Edward in court crawling through that evil Labyrinth on his hands and knees, thinking he is crawling towards Jerusalem and salvation instead of towards monstrous terror.”

  “I can foresee the sorrow that is to come. It will be Coel against Brutus, Harold against William, the moment that Edward dies. Edward means to get no heir on Caela; thus, when he dies England will disintegrate under those who would claim the throne.”

  “Coel against Brutus,” Ecub repeated softly, “Harold against William. And Swanne, rising in all her malevolent witchcraft to ensure that it shall be William to succeed. Gods, Saeweald, how long do we have?”

  “How long do we have for what, Ecub?”

  She was silent, dropping her face to study her work-worn hands.

  “Caela,” Saeweald said for both of them, finally bringing up the name they had both been avoiding. “I can understand why Harold does not remember his previous life as Coel—that is nothing short of a kindness to him. But Caela? Gods, Ecub! She carries Mag within her womb. She is our only hope against Swanne and William and the ever-cursed Troy Game! And she does not remember!”