Gods Concubine (23 page)

It was the line led by the Trojan king.

They cantered in a line across the back of the arena, their foes lying mostly unhorsed and bleeding in the centre of the square, then all turned in one beautifully co-ordinated movement so that they faced into the arena, looking toward the royal stand at the far end.

The Trojan king raised his sword, then pointed it toward the stand. The line exploded forward as the horses, still perfectly in line, galloped towards the royal stand.

As they met the confusion in the centre of the arena, each horse leapt in perfect alignment with its neighbours so that, for an instant, the entire line was suspended high in the air, then every horse thudded back to earth, their vanquished foes safely behind them, and galloped to the end of the arena, beneath the royal stand, where their leader brought them to a beautiful, perfectly controlled halt.

Harold leapt to his feet, shouting, punching his fist into the air, applauding the victor.

Caela sat, still motionless, expressionless, staring at the Trojan king, now sitting his horse directly before her.

The man’s chest heaved as he fought to get air into his lungs, and his face was mostly hidden by his helmet—but still nothing could hide his great toothy smile.

“My lady,” he cried, brandishing his sword. “I hand you Troy!”

F
IFTEEN

CAELA SPEAKS

I
stared, gape-mouthed. I have no idea what had come over me. I felt disembodied, dislocated, disorientated.

“Climb up!” cried Harold beside me, and I swear I leapt almost a foot, he surprised me so. “Climb up and accept your prize.”

At least he’d broken the trance which had claimed me. I managed to look at Harold: he was bright-eyed and flushed, flashing a brilliant smile.

“By God, Caela,” Harold said to me as the Trojan king was clattering up the wooden steps that led to the small platform before our seats, “never before have I seen such skill! Such horsemanship!”

And then the man was with us, his heat and his sweat and the powerful presence of his body commanding my attention. He stood before us, and bowed deeply.

“You honour us, sir,” said Harold. “May we know your face? Your name?”

That great toothy grin flashed again in the darkness behind the faceplate, and the man lifted both his hands to his helmet (his sword already taken by one of Harold’s men-at-arms) and raised it from his head.

I must confess, my heart was racing.
Who was it
?

“A stranger to our shores, by your countenance,” Harold said. “Who are you, and your allegiances?”

For the moment the man did not reply. He was staring at me, and I at him. The instant he’d taken the helmet from his head I felt overwhelmed by a strange disappointment. His face was familiar—

Almost the face of the man who had come to me in dream, and who had almost but not quite kissed me.

—and yet not. Not the face some part of me seemed to have been expecting.

Oh, but he was handsome! He had dark skin and black hair. Very long, very curly. Regular, strong features…and that smile: it was stunning. The only discordant note in his entire aspect was the leather patch over his left eye, yet even that lent him a rakish air which moderated his otherwise overpowering presence.

“I am Silvius,” said the man, replying to Harold but not taking his eyes from me, “and I am truly King of Troy. My allegiance? Why, that belongs to your lady here, to the queen, my heart.”

And he lifted his hand, took mine, and kissed it before any could move to stop him.

Harold laughed, but it held a trace of tenseness in it now, and, glancing at him, I saw that his smile had died.

“Well, then,” he said, “welcome, King of Troy. I admit myself envious of your military skills.”

Now this man Silvius did look at Harold. “ Oh, I have had many years in which to hone them, my lord. Very many indeed.”

“Your prize, good man,” I said, collecting myself. I turned, ready to take the gift of a finely woven and embroidered mantle from Judith, who stood behind me (and, by heaven,
she
was staring at this strange King of Troy as if she were trapped by his masculinity as well!), but before I could lay hold to it, Silvius spoke again.

“Nay, my lady. Lay that aside, I beg you. It is
I
who shall gift the prize,
I
who shall award the honour.”

“A
most
strange man,” said Harold, watching Silvius warily.

I noticed that several men-at-arms had moved quietly closer.

Silvius reached into his helmet, then withdrew from it the most beautifully worked bracelet that I think I have ever seen. (
Yet some part of me insisted that I
had
seen it in another time
). It was of twisted gold, and set with a score of cut rubies.

“In my world,” said Silvius, his voice now very soft, “it belonged to a princess and a great queen. It deserves no better home now than on your arm, gracious lady.”

He reached forward, then stopped as both Harold and the men-at-arms laid hands to their swords. The mood was now very tense among us, and I wondered at that, at what had changed between us that Harold should now be so alert.

“Madam,” Judith said very softly behind me, and in that word she somehow managed to convey both reassurance and the message that I should, indeed, accept the gift.

“Ah,” I said, smiling a little too brightly at Harold, “put away your sword, brother. Shall this bracelet bite? Shall it sting? Nay, of course not.”

Then, to Silvius: “This is most gracious of you, and I shall not be so churlish as to refuse.” I held out my left hand, stretching it slightly so that the sleeve drew back from my wrist.

Silvius reached it forth and, just before he snapped it closed about my wrist, he said, “It is very ancient, my lady, and contains many memories.”

It clicked shut, its metal cold about the heat of my skin, and I blinked, and looked at Silvius.

And saw before me, not Silvius, but a man very much like him but with, if possible, an even more powerful presence, and whose face made my stomach clench.

It was the man from my dream, save with long hair and dressed as Silvius was now dressed.

And with golden bands about his limbs where Silvius wore scarlet wool.

Then the man who was not Silvius spoke, and he said, “I am Brutus, and I am god-favoured. It is not wise to deny me.” He smiled, holding my eyes, and it was one of the coldest expressions I have ever seen. “I control Mesopotama. I control this palace. I control you. Be wise. Do not deny me.”

“Brutus?” I whispered.

And then I fainted.

I have only Judith’s and Harold’s relation to say what happened next. Harold and Judith both grabbed at me, and the men-at-arms lunged forth, sure that the strange man, Silvius, had somehow murdered me.

In the confusion, apparently, he slipped away. Harold sent men after him, but he was never discovered. When Harold questioned the guildsmen who had taken part in the strange event, they shrugged and said that he was a foreign merchant who had seemed perfect for the role as King of Troy, but when asked to remember his name and country, they blinked, and each recounted a different name and origin.

The man Silvius was never found.

I woke after only a few moments, seemingly well, and Harold calmed down once he saw me smiling and apologising for the fuss. I lifted my arm, and studied the bracelet. It
was
beautiful, and the stones glittered in the late afternoon sunshine, and so I decided that it would do me no harm to wear it an hour or two longer.

So, as the crowds dispersed, Harold and I and our retinue made our way back to Westminster. There I repaired to bed, claiming a headache myself, and taking a smaller chamber next to Edward’s to sleep in so that I should not disturb him.

I left the bracelet on as I slept, I do not know why, but perhaps it was that which caused me again to dream strangely.

I walked through the massive stone hall in which I’d found myself previously.

And there, as if waiting for me, was this man called Silvius.

He stepped forward and, as if the most natural thing in the world, kissed me hard on the mouth.

I wondered if this were my frustrated virginity causing me to dream of all these men who kissed me.

“You and I,” he said, “shall be greater friends than you can possibly realise.”

Then he was gone, and I slipped out of the stone hall and back into dreamlessness.

In the morning, as she aided me to dress, Judith said, “Madam…are you well?”

I frowned, because I felt there was much more to her question than her bald words. “ Of course I am, Judith. Now, watch what you do with that sleeve. It is all twisted.”

Much later, at court (Edward having risen, his ache dissipated), I saw Judith lean close to Saeweald. He asked a question, glancing at me, and she shook her head, as if imparting news of inestimable sorrow.

I do not know the import of that question, but Judith’s answer made Saeweald frown, and sigh, then turn away, and I had to fight down an unwarranted irritation at their behaviour.

S
IXTEEN

H
arold had kept late hours with several of his thegns, returning to his bedchamber when Swanne was already asleep, so it was not until the next morning that she heard of what had taken place at Smithfield.

Harold, imparting the news as if it would be of little interest to her, was stunned by her reaction. In all his years of intimacy with Swanne, he’d never seen her so shocked she could barely speak.

“They played
what
?
”
she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harold watched her carefully, trying to discern the reason behind her shock. “The Troy Game. It was one of the most skilful displays of horsemanship I have ever seen.”

“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.