Gods Concubine (26 page)

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 the 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.”

He hesitated, and William looked at him sharply.

“What do you
not
say?” he said.

“Only that Queen Caela was struck with a most untimely blood flux of her womb at court two weeks before I left,” said Yves. “Some said that she had miscarried of a bastard child, but the midwives who examined her said she was a virgin still. Edward,” again Yves gave his short, strange bark of laughter, “has his reputation as intact as his wife’s virginity.”

Matilda had been watching her husband as Yves spoke, and she frowned, puzzled, at what she saw in his face. Regret? Unhappiness?
Uncertainty
? She could not read it, nor understand it completely. Again she resolved to discover all she could about this enigmatic queen.

“Harold?” William asked, and Matilda relaxed, for now there was nothing in William’s face at all but ambition and cunning.

“His strength grows, my lord,” said Yves. “He knows, as does everyone, that Edward has his eyes more on the next world than he does on this one.”

“And how does Harold conduct himself, knowing the throne shall be vacant in so little a time?” said Matilda.

“He sits, and watches, and gathers his forces. The witan is all but sure to elect him to the throne on Edward’s death—”

“But William has the greater claim,” said Matilda, unable to suppress an outburst of loyalty. “Edward all but promised it to him when my husband sheltered Edward in his court during the man’s exile, and through Emma, Edward’s mother, William and Edward are close cousins. There is no one closer in blood than William.”

Yves shrugged. “The witan will not want a foreigner marching in and forcing the Saxon earls to his will.”

“They may have to accept it!” snapped Matilda.

William smiled at her, then looked at Yves. “I thank you for your care in bringing this,” he tapped the bundle, “to me. Will you accept my hospitality for the next few days as I decide whether or not to respond?”

Yves rose, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. He bowed, first to William, then to Matilda, and left the hall.

The instant he had turned his back, both William and Matilda looked at the bundle he held.

“I will open it later,” William said, and slipped it inside his tunic.

“We will open it together,” Matilda said firmly, and William sighed.

T
WO

CAELA SPEAKS

H
ow can I explain how I felt at that moment? When I opened my eyes and saw the Sidlesaghe look down at me, and smile, and say “
Resurgam
, pretty lady!” with such joy and welcome.

I felt relief. That was the first, overwhelming emotion. Sheer, thankful relief. We’d managed it—Hera, Mag and I. The first and most critical part of our journey was done.

And who was I? Why Caela, of course, as I had been Cornelia, but far more than that.

Far more.

How can I put into words what that felt like? It is as if…it is as if you had wandered naked all your life, and then someone approached and placed a mantle about your shoulders. This mantle protected and nurtured, and because of the warmth and comfort it gave it made one much more than one had been when naked. Moreover, the threads of the mantle magically wound themselves into your flesh so that it became an integral and living part of you.

The mantle had not truly changed who you were, it had just made you
more.

I lay at the tide’s edge that still, cold night, and I felt the land beneath my back and the waters about my legs. It was not just that I felt their solidity or wetness, I felt
them.
The essence of them: how they felt, how they turned, their wants and needs and loves as well. I could feel the land closing in upon itself for its winter death sleep; I could feel the seeds of spring and the bones of the dead sleeping within its flesh; I could feel the roots of the trees stretching down, down, down; and I could feel the chatter of moles and the bark of foxes and the sweetness of the worms who inhabited its flesh.

My
flesh.

In the waters I could hear the laughter of distant lands, and feel the siren song of the moon, for love of whom the tides and inlets danced. I could feel my heart in its depths, and feel the love of the water sprites who, with the ancient ones, the Sidlesaghes, had overseen my birth.

I was aware that the sprites still hovered close to the surface of the water, and that the Sidlesaghes lined the banks of the river, seemingly in their thousands, and that Ecub and Saeweald and Judith stood close by staring down upon my naked flesh in varying degrees of stupefaction and awe, but for the moment I concentrated only on myself.

I closed my eyes, and did what Judith, Saeweald and Ecub had been wanting me to do for so long.

I remembered.

I remembered that terrible night when Genvissa had torn my daughter from my body, and I had died. I remembered how Mag had come to me then (even as Loth was sobbing over my cooling flesh) and how she had talked to me, and shown me the way ahead.

I remember how dismayed I had been, not only dismayed at the thought of how
far
we had to go, the intricacies involved (where so much could go wrong) and the dangers inherent in that journey, but of how unworthy I was of the responsibility. But Mag had loved me, and held me, and promised me that all would be well. That all I had to do was to believe and to trust, and to summon the courage to dare.

I lay there at tide’s edge, my eyes closed, my heart full of contentment, and felt the land and waters move about me. When, as Cornelia, I had stabbed myself in the neck, thus causing my own death, Mag within my womb had died with me. When I had been reborn as Caela, so Mag—or her potential, rather than her precisely—had been reborn also, but not within my womb.

Within me. As much a part of my flesh as that imagined mantle.

There was no difference between us now. I was not only Caela, Cornelia-reborn, but also everything that Mag had been.

Mag-reborn. That strange mantle, seamlessly wound through my flesh, that made me more than I had been previously. Not different, just
more.

I knew that around me stood those who needed a word, and who needed reassurance, but first I wanted to do one more thing…I allowed my memory to roam free. Oh, but it encompassed so much! I could remember when this land was still young, when it was still bound by a thin land bridge to the continent to the east, and when great bear and elk and wolves scampered across that bridge to fill this bounteous land.

I remembered when Mag had walked across that land bridge, and was welcomed to this land by the Sidlesaghes who now stood about me, welcomers once more.

I remembered a day, the joy of turning around and seeing standing there the magnificent white stag, and knowing that he would be my one mate throughout eternity.

And I remembered that bleak day when the Darkwitch Ariadne came to this land, and Mag welcomed her, not realising her malignancy and her contempt.

Finally, I remembered the arrival of the Trojans, carrying with them Mag nurtured within the womb of the wife of their leader, Cornelia. Mag, arriving once more to this land, bringing with her…
me.

Filled with joy, I looked deeper.

And found an empty space. A well of nothingness. An incompleteness.

Had something failed? Had my transformation not been complete?

Startled, and not a little scared at that discovery, I opened my eyes. I would think on it later when I had peace and solitude. This was only the beginning, after all. I could not expect everything all at once.

The Sidlesaghe reached down his hand and I took it, and rose, glimpsing as I did so the gold and ruby bracelet that glinted about my wrist. I half smiled at that, seeing in it everything that Cornelia had suffered but yet would become, then I looked to my three faithful companions who had been reborn into this life with me, and, in turn, I took their faces in my hands and kissed them softly on the mouth.

“You are Mag?” stammered Saeweald.

I hesitated. I was not
Mag
precisely, but did not know how best to express myself. So, foolishly perhaps, I let him think what he wanted, for it was easier.

“Aye,” I said, and felt a faint flutter of discomfort deep within my belly.

“But…I had no idea. I would not have—”

“Wait,” I said. “This is not the place nor the time to discuss it.” I turned back to the Sidlesaghe, and I kissed him also. “Long Tom,” I said, for that was truly his name, “thank you for greeting me. I am sorry I was so nervous and that I attempted to obstruct you.”

Long Tom smiled, and, as I had in my dream, I saw a faint suggestion of light spill from his mouth. “We are happy to see you as well, lady. Do not worry for what you may have said. We are happy only to see you.”

My smile slipped. “I need to speak with you.”

“Aye, and we with you. But not now. I will come to you again. We will walk the paths.”

“Aye,” I said, “that we will.”

Then I turned back to Saeweald and the two women, and I grimaced, and I said, “May I borrow a cloak or some other covering from you? This night is chill, and there is a long walk back to the palace.”

And so, huddled beneath Saeweald’s cloak, the Sidlesaghes fading into the night and the physician, the prioress and my attending lady beside me, I went back to the palace via the gravelled flats of the Thames until we reached the wharves of Westminster, thence up the paths and steps to the palace itself where doors opened and sentries stood unnoticing. We went to the very door of my bedchamber and there, I smiled again, and kissed them all once more, and said, “We shall have a chance to speak tomorrow. Be still until that moment.”

Then I opened the door, and walked inside and, shucking away the cloak, crawled into my empty, cold bed (Edward was, most apparently, still on his knees before his altar, and the bowerthegn who usually slept by the door must also be with him).