Gods Concubine (22 page)

“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.

F
OURTEEN

E
ach 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 the 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.

They stood to receive the cheers, waving and smiling, and the breeze caught at Caela’s veil and blew it back from her face.

“They adore you,” Harold said softly.

“They adore
you,”
she responded, turning to laugh at him.

The crowds continued to roar, and as the sound pounded over them in wave after wave, Harold took Caela’s hand and held her eyes. “I meant what I said to you, that day I came to you in your bedchamber,” he said, his voice only loud enough that she could hear him. “There could be no better queen for me than you. No woman I could want more.”

The laughter died from her face. “Harold…”

“I know,” he said. “I know. But I needed to say that.” His face lightened from its seriousness. “And what better place than here, and now, when perhaps we can pretend?”

“Harold, it can’t be.”

“Of course not…” he said, and leaned forward and kissed her cheek, where perhaps his lips lingered a moment longer than they should and where, as he finally moved his face away, too slowly, she felt the soft momentary graze of his tongue.

“Unfortunately,” he finished, and then the sound was fading away, and they sat, and Caela used the excuse of settling her skirts to hide her pinked cheeks from her brother.

Behind and to one side of them, Judith and Saeweald exchanged a worried glance.

The afternoon was filled with good-natured sport and competitions. Men wrestled, ran, leaped and shot arrows into distant targets. To each winner, Caela graciously gave a prize: a carved box here, a fine linen shirt there, a copper ring somewhere else. Each time she rose and the successful sweating combatant knelt down before her, the crowd cheered and called good-natured jests, and when Caela had done with handing the victor his gift, then she smiled and waved and revelled in the good cheer of the day.

The final event had been something the city guilds and fathers had spent weeks planning. It was a new contest, one designed not only to demonstrate the grace and athletic abilities of its participants, but also to delight and astound the crowd.

A man, clothed only in trousers, strode into the centre of the arena, beating a drum which hung from a cord about his neck. He was a fine man, tall and muscled, and had been the winner of two of the earlier events. He walked to a spot some ten paces before the stand in which Caela, Harold and their attendants sat and, still beating the drum, cried: “Behold!”

At his word two lines of horsemen entered the arena from opposite gates. They rode barebacked, the horses controlled merely with bridles through which had been threaded late-autumn greenery, while the riders themselves wore only trousers, leaving their shoulders and chests bare. Each man carried a long wooden lance, tipped with iron. Each line was headed by a rider dressed slightly more elaborately than those he led. At the head of one line rode a man wearing a chain mail tunic and Saxon helmet. He carried a bow, fitted with an arrow.

At the head of the other line rode a man wearing nothing but a snowy-white waistcloth, sandals on otherwise muscular, brown bare legs, and a bronzed helmet, of a design and shape that was not only unfamiliar but markedly exotic. A plait of very black, oiled hair protruded from beneath the helmet, and hung halfway down the man’s back. Around his biceps and upper forearms twined lengths of scarlet ribbon, and the same around his legs, just below his knees. This man carried a sword.

Caela frowned, leaning forward slightly. “What event is this?” she asked softly, but to her side Harold only shrugged, and no one else had a response.

The man beating the drum waited until all the riders were in the arena, the lines pulled to a halt on opposite sides of the square, then he abruptly gave a flurry of much louder and more insistent beats, then his hands fell still.

“Behold,” he cried, “the Troy Game!”

The crowd roared, intrigued at the display thus far and at the novelty of the event. Judith and Saeweald went rigid with shock. Harold grinned, anticipating some military game that might well prove entertaining, while Caela’s frown merely deepened.

“The Troy Game,” she whispered to herself, and shivered.

“Behold!” cried the man with the drum once more. “Listen well to the rules of the Game. Two lines, two ambitions, two corps of riders, skilled beyond compare. Two kings! One the King of the Greeks,” he indicated the man wearing the chain mail and the Saxon helmet, “and one the monarch of that ancient, wondrous realm—Troy!” and he indicated the beribboned warrior wearing the bronze helmet and the simple linen waistcloth.

The crowd roared again. History pageants were always popular.

The King of the Greeks kicked his horse forward a few paces, as did the King of Troy. They raised their arms above their heads, flexing their biceps, then shook their fists each at the other.

“What can we do?” whispered Judith, her face drained of all colour.

“Nothing, but watch and see,” said Saeweald. He was watching the King of Troy, his eyes narrowed.

“We propose a dance!” cried the drummer. “He who is quickest and most agile, he who is most skilled, shall win. He who falls first…
loses!
”

Again the crowed roared in anticipation.

As the drummer ran to safety the two lines of horsemen began to move: first at a walk, then at a trot, then at a carefully controlled canter, the lines of horsemen moved into an intricate and dangerous dance, the two lines first interweaving as they each crossed the arena on opposite diagonals, then in a dozen different points as the lines performed circles and serpentines.

As the horses cantered, their paces carefully measured, then the riders swung their lances in great arcs from side to side: at all the intersecting points where the opposing lines crossed there was only ever half a breath between the flashing down of one lance and the passage of another rider. A single misstep, a minor miscalculation, and the wicked blade which tipped the end of one lance might cut another rider in half.

The drummer had climbed atop the fence which kept the crowd safe from the riders, and was now speaking again, calling out over the riders with a clear, carrying voice. He was minus his drum now, the thud of the horses’ hooves and the wicked swishing of the swinging lances the only accompaniment he needed.

“See!” he cried. “The Trojan king re-creates the walls of Troy. Seven walls, seven circuits to defeat the Greeks! Will the Greek king defeat him? Will he penetrate the Labyrinth of Troy’s defence?”

Harold was leaning forward now, his eyes gleaming. “By God,” he said, “see their skill!”

Caela was staring at the performance before her, her face expressionless, her hands carefully folded and very still in her lap.

The two leaders, the “kings”, controlled the tempo of the dangerous dance. It was they who sped up, or slowed down the rhythm of their followers, and each had to keep a wary eye on the other. If one slowed down too soon, or too late, or if one did not take speedy note of what the other commanded, then his line of warriors would be broken by the lances of his foe. The two lines of riders were now interweaving at an impossible pace, the tips of their lances gleaming in the sun, sweat dripping from shoulders, horses snorting as they fought both for balance and for breath.

The crowd had begun to scream for their favourites. “Greece! Greece!” or “Troy! Troy!” and, among the acclaim, it was most apparent that the screams for Troy were the loudest.

Then, as it appeared that the speed of the dance could not possibly grow faster, or the swinging of the lances more dangerous, there came a surprised grunt from one quadrant of the arena as a horse, turned too tight, lost its balance and collapsed, throwing its rider under the flashing hooves of those who came behind.

Instantly, there was mayhem. Horses and riders collided everywhere, the rhythm of the dance was entirely lost, and the crowd shrieked in appreciation as the blood spattered through the air.

Then, stunningly, from out of the melee, came one line of riders still in perfect formation, their lances flashing back and forth in a controlled manner, their riders untouched save for their sweat.