Gods Concubine (30 page)

“I am a part of the Game,” he said. “Brutus left me to wander its twists eternally. That is what I do here. I am part of the Game.” With his hands, he drew me in close to him, so that I could feel the heat from his flesh, and feel the waft of his breath across my face.

“Gods,” he whispered, “I am so glad to see you as you truly should be.”

And then he leaned forward and kissed me, gently, warmly, lingeringly, on my mouth.

I was stunned at my reaction. Silvius had just dared far too much, but…oh, I had always longed to have Brutus kiss me, and had hated it that this was the one intimacy he denied me.

And so, when Silvius leaned forward and presumed so to place his mouth on mine, I sighed, mingling my breath with his, and opened my mouth under his.

He was surprised, I think, for he drew back, half-laughing. “Lady,” he said, “do not mistake me for my son.”

I let his hands go, and smiled apologetically. “I am sorry for that. For a moment…”

“I am not my son.”

“I know.”

To distract him, and myself, I lifted a hand to the patch over his eye. For a moment, I hesitated, and then I lifted the patch, and winced at the shadows that I saw writhing within the empty socket.

For two thousand years the Troy Game had been attracting evil into its heart, and for two thousand years Silvius had waited within that same heart, where Brutus’ corruption had placed him. The shadows I saw within in Silvius’empty socket were the physical manifestation of evil at the heart of the Game.

“You carry this about with you?” I whispered.

He nodded. “I must.”

I turned away, unable to bear it. “I wish I could undo that which Brutus has done to you.”

“Perhaps one day you will.”

Distracted, both by his presence, and by the thought of what Silvius had been forced to bear these two thousand years, I lifted my left arm and allowed the bracelet to sparkle between us. “I thank you for this. It was a fine gift.”

“It did not make you remember.”

“A little.” I allowed myself to look at him again. “It prepared the way, I think.”

He laughed softly. “You are very kind.” He stepped close to me again, and touched my hair. “When you killed Genvissa, Brutus kept you imprisoned in a dank, airless hovel for three years. And then for another twenty-four he took you back to his bed and tormented you. Oh gods, how is it that I had bred such a son!”

Abruptly he turned away. “Do you know,” he said, half looking over his shoulder, “that when my wife was pregnant with Brutus, a seer told me that I should cause the child to be aborted, for it would be the death of both her and me.”

He laughed shortly. “She was wrong. He was far more than just the death of me. He imprisoned me in torment, as he did you. He—”

“Stop,” I said. “Please.”

“You still love him,” he said wonderingly. “How can that be so?” Now he swivelled back to me again. “How can that be so when he caused you so much suffering?”

“But
you
still love him.”

His eye went very dark, and his face stilled. “Oh, aye, I still love him. He is my son. My flesh.” Silvius hesitated, and when he spoke again his voice was soft, pleading. “Caela, will you come see me some time, and allow me to come to you? I have been so lonely…”

“ Of course.” I would be glad of it, I thought, to speak with Brutus’ father.

And it would serve both Brutus and myself in good stead, when it came time for Brutus-reborn to make his peace with his father, and with himself.

Thus I reasoned, although, in truth, when I looked at Silvius, all I really saw was Brutus’ face. It was a selfish foolishness on my part, but I had been a woman helplessly in love, and despite who I had become, a part of that love still lingered.

“Tell me,” Silvius said, “now that you are in touch with your true nature, and know of where you must go—”

The doubt at his knowledge of that last must have shown on my face, for he laughed.

“Of course I know what you plan, and where you want to go. I have sat in the heart of the Game, remember? Do you think that I do not
know
? You want to complete the Game yourself, with your lover, and make of it a shining thing, rather than the corrupt monster of Genvissa and Brutus’ construction.”

I let most of my doubts go at that point, and laughed slightly. “Is there anything you do
not
know?”

He made a show of thinking, and I grinned even more. Silvius had a sense of fun about him that his son had never demonstrated. I felt doubly attracted to him, and now it was not merely because of his resemblance to Brutus.

“Aye,” Silvius said eventually. “Do you know,” he touched the pale flesh about his biceps, “that even though I was once a Kingman, and had kinship with the bands of Troy, I cannot feel where Brutus has put them. Can
you
feel them?”

I frowned, then shook my head. “No. He will find them, eventually. Surely.”

“Aye. He will. Meantime, there is but you and I.”

He smiled, and it made him look so handsome, and so appealing, that I felt my heart race a little, and I knew that he realised it.

“Caela,” Silvius said, then he stepped close to me, and leaned forward once more, and laid his mouth on mine, and the last thing I remembered as I rose towards wakefulness was the taste and strength of his tongue in my mouth, and I swear that taste stayed with me all through the day, and at times that memory made me tremble and wonder if Silvius was everything that Brutus had not been.

S
EVEN

“
W
illiam? William?” Matilda shook her husband’s shoulder, concerned at his tossing and muttering. Sweet Christ, of what was he dreaming? “William!”

He jerked away, sitting upright so abruptly he almost knocked Matilda out of the way.

“Ah,” he said, blinking. “I am sorry, my love. A nightmare engulfed me, and for a moment I thought I was lost to it.”

“A nightmare?” She slid an arm about his waist, pulling him gently against her, and kissed his shoulder. “Tell me of it, for then it will lose all power over you.”

He licked his lips, and for a moment Matilda thought he would not respond, but just as she was about to broach the silence he began to speak in a harsh tone.

“I dreamed I was in the Labyrinth, trying to save…I don’t know
who,
but someone who was so important to me that I would have died if it could have given this person freedom.”

“The Labyrinth?” Matilda said softly, kissing his shoulder once again.

“She was trapped—”

Matilda held her breath at that “she”.

“—and I could not find her. The blackness swarmed all around, and I thought it would overwhelm me…
had
overwhelmed her…ah, Matilda, this is making no sense, and I am sorry for it. It makes no sense to me, either.”

“But why dream of a Labyrinth?”

He gave a half shrug. “It no doubt has meaning that the local village wise woman can decode for me.”

“Perhaps it represents England, and you fear that England will be a trap.”

“Perhaps,” he said eventually.

“William,” Matilda said, unnerved by her husband’s dream, “there is something I should say to you.”

She saw a flash of his white teeth as he grinned. “What, wife? You feel the need to confess a passion for the stableman? For the houndsman? You need to tell me that none of my children were fathered by me, but by a variety of rough-speaking peasants?”

She did not grin as he had expected her to. “Matilda?”

“William, perhaps England
will
be a trap.”

“What do you know?”

“Hardrada lusts for England. You know this.”

He nodded. “The King of Norway has long cast envious eyes south. What of it?”

“It is possible that he conspires with Tostig, Harold’s brother.”

“Against Harold?”

“Who else?”

“How do you know this?” William asked eventually.

“Womanly gossip, my love.”

He regarded her silently for some time, then nodded. If she would not tell him then he would respect that for the moment.

For the moment.

E
IGHT

S
wanne glanced over her shoulder, saw that Harold was ensconced in some doubtless dry conversation with Earl Ralph, Edward’s nephew, Wulfstan, the Bishop of Worcester, and Harold’s younger brother, Tostig. Swanne knew there had been some bad blood between Harold and Tostig recently, but they seemed to have resolved whatever differences they had in the past few days, and now were back to their old, easy friendship. There was an empty chair set next to Harold’s: Swanne’s chair, but she had no intention of filling it this evening. Just behind the group of men, sitting attentive on a bench, were Harold and Swanne’s eldest sons, Beorn and Alan. Saeweald was sitting with the boys, and managed to catch Swanne’s eye during her brief glance.

She arched an eyebrow at him, then deliberately turned her back, walking slowly and gracefully down the hall towards a gathering of southern thegns listening to the sweet voice of a Welsh bard. Swanne smiled as the group rose to greet her, then accepted a seat from one of the thegns.

This would be a more pleasant means of spending the evening than having to pretend to smile at Harold. Truly, now that events moved apace, and William was surely so close, she would not have to submit to him for much longer.

The king had retired early, well before vespers, whining about a headache and a congestion of his belly. Freed from the necessity of attending the king during evening court, Harold and his retinue had moved, thankfully, to the earl’s own hall and chambers at the southern end of the palace complex. Caela, Swanne assumed, as she settled down and allowed the thegns and bard to fawn over her, was trapped with her husband, wiping either his brow or his arse, whichever needed the most attention at the moment.

Her grin broadening, Swanne relaxed and tried to concentrate on the song the bard was now singing for her. In truth, she’d not had many settled moments these past few days. Something had happened…something had
shifted.

Oh, yes, part of it was Caela suddenly recalling all that had been—for no apparent reason—but that was not the whole of it.

Was it something about the land? The very soil and the forests and the waters? It made Swanne uncomfortable. Once she would have known. Once she had been the MagaLlan, and
nothing
occurred within and to the land without her being fully appraised of it. But Swanne’s powers as MagaLlan had passed with her previous life, and her darkcraft lay untouchable, and something was moving beneath her feet that she was not privy to.

Asterion, no doubt.

Damn you, William
, Swanne thought, keeping the smile light on her mouth and the desperation from her eyes,
reach out to me! Let me know that you, at least, are well.

William still had to reply to her request that he tell her where the golden bands of Troy were.
Damn him
for delaying the information! They were all in danger of dancing to Asterion’s call…and Swanne had no doubt at all that Asterion would be trying to locate those bands
before
William arrived in England to claim his throne and his heritage.

Hadn’t that been what Asterion had been doing these two thousand years while delaying their rebirth?

She had to find those bands
now
! Before Asterion.

Swanne could not entirely prevent the shiver of apprehension that shot from the base of her spine to her neck. If Asterion found those bands, then he would effectively prevent her and William from dancing the final Dance of the Flowers and completing the Game. It was all Asterion had to do. He need not even face William.

He only had to find and hide, or destroy, those bands.

From the corner of her eye Swanne saw the door at the end of the hall open, and glanced over.

More
churchmen! Was the entire land swarming with them? The Archbishop of York, Aldred, and Eadwine, Abbot of Westminster Abbey, had entered, smiling and nodding,
and
—damn them!—were making their way towards Swanne and her group of musicians and admirers.

Swanne’s smile slipped, but she had it back in place by the time Aldred and Eadwine sat themselves down a few places from her, bobbing their heads pleasantly to all about. Eadwine began a muted conversation with the thegn beside him, while Aldred waved the bard to continue as he sat back, and, closing his eyes, folded his hands over his huge belly. His expression relaxed into one of total enjoyment, and Swanne had to admit that perhaps the archbishop did find the soulful music of the Welsh bard a more enjoyable entertainment than the constant wail of sinners and beggars and the incoherent mumble of monkish prayers that must surely fill most of his days.

The great door opened again, admitting yet another party, but this time Swanne ignored it as she finally relaxed under the spell of the bard’s beautiful voice.

It would be another group of clerics, or sycophants perhaps, come to scry out the lay of the land in the court of, possibly, the king to follow Edward.

If only they knew,
Swanne thought, closing her eyes herself and allowing her body to sway slightly to the rhythm of the bard’s music.
If only they knew.

William,
her lips formed slowly, and, briefly, the tip of her tongue glistened between her teeth.

Asterion saw her from his place within the hall, and read her thoughts, and kept his face bland and pleasant, and
his
thoughts to himself.

When Swanne reopened her eyes, it was to notice that the entire world seemed to have changed.

No longer was she the sole object of attention within her circle of clerics, thegns and musicians.

Instead, all of their eyes—indeed, every eye within the hall!—was watching as Caela and several of her attending ladies walked slowly and assuredly up the hall towards Harold and his company.