Gods Concubine (31 page)

It must have been
Caela
and her party who had entered the hall after Aldred. But why wasn’t Caela with her husband?
What was she doing
here? Swanne had never known Caela to do something like this.

It was far too bold for the contemptuous wretch.

And the way she walked. She was so confident, so majestic.

So sure of herself.

Every eye in the hall was riveted on Caela, and not merely because of her surprising entrance.

Because of the way she walked.
That wasn’t like Caela at all. Not even a Caela who had suddenly recalled her previous life.

Swanne felt her heart thudding within her chest. There was something about the way Caela moved, something in the way she held herself. Something Swanne should have recognised, and yet it remained curiously just out of reach.
Damn her!

She swivelled about on her seat, and stared towards Caela who was, by now, within ten paces of Harold.

And the empty chair beside him.

Nausea and cold disbelief gripped Swanne in equal amounts. Caela was about to take
Swanne’s
place at Harold’s side.

Apart from making an inelegant and highly embarrassing dash to get to the chair before Caela, there was absolutely nothing Swanne could do about it.

Caela
was about to take Swanne’s place at the top of the hall.
Caela!

That Caela, both as Queen of England and as Harold’s sister and equal, had every right to take that chair did not enter Swanne’s mind. That she herself had disdained to sit with Harold did not cause Swanne a moment’s thought. All she could think of was that Caela was going to take
her
place at the head of the hall.

Then, just as Caela reached the group of nowstanding men, she turned around in a move so elegant and lissome that Swanne had trouble believing that it
was
Caela standing there at all, faced Swanne, and extended one long, white graceful hand and arm behind her to the chair by Harold’s side.

“If I may, sister?” she said, smiling with sweetness at Swanne. “This is your seat, after all.”

Swanne was so furious her entire body tensed, and she almost growled. Caela had her trapped. Swanne simply could
not
refuse her permission without appearing scandalously ungracious.

Every eye in the hall was on her.

A moment passed.

Something changed within Caela’s smile, something so subtle that Swanne was sure no one else would have noted it. Swanne realised that Caela was deliberately provoking her. For the sheer enjoyment of it.

“As my queen wishes,” Swanne said. Then, as Caela bowed her head in acceptance, and started to turn back to Harold, Swanne added, “And, if you wish, you can also take my place in your brother’s bed. We all know how much you have both lusted for it.”

Absolute silence filled the hall. No one could believe Swanne had said that. Rumour and innuendo was one thing, outright accusation another.

As one, eyes turned from Swanne to Caela.

Among them, Asterion was absolutely incredulous. If he didn’t mind his way, Swanne would dig her own grave before he could manage it for her! Gods! The intemperance of the woman.

He narrowed his eyes, intrigued as to how Caela would react.

Caela tilted her head slightly, her still face composed, and regarded Swanne thoughtfully. “Even if your own tastes have been bred within the dung heap, sister, then you should think twice before ascribing them to others. If you find my purity unbearable, then think not to besmirch it with your own foulness.”

Swanne froze in humiliation and fury, unable for the moment to respond.

Caela’s eyes shifted slightly, looking to Archbishop Aldred, sitting a few places from Swanne, and looking as shocked as everyone else. “Perhaps, my lord archbishop,” she said, “you might take my Lady Swanne aside for some instruction in manners. Such careless accusations, bred within privy pits and spoken with spitefulness, are the wont only of barnyard sows accustomed to rolling in muck. They are not becoming to those who believe themselves ladies of the realm.”

With that, Caela turned her back to Swanne, smiled at Harold (who had been glaring at Swanne with silent promises of later retribution), took his hand and allowed herself to be escorted to the chair beside his.

Behind her, thegns slowly began to drift away from Swanne’s group, thinning it to such an extent that within minutes there remained only Swanne, the highly embarrassed archbishop, the equally embarrassed, but also angry, abbot, and a Welsh bard, who looked as if he did not know whether to continue singing or not.

“I am most sorry for that,” Harold murmured as Caela sat down. He was studying her as many others were, surprised that the queen had managed to best Swanne in the verbal exchange. “You spoke well, sister. Swanne has ever had a vicious tongue, and that little jest of hers was unbecoming in the extreme.”

It was what Harold had to say, even if, in his heart, he was writhing in shame.
What had Swanne seen when she’d walked in on him and Caela that single time they’d let their passions rule their heads?

Caela shrugged, looking utterly unperturbed. “Swanne is…Swanne. It is no matter to me, brother. Now, Judith shall stay with me, and my other ladies may interest themselves as they see fit in the hall.”

She waved away her attending ladies, save for Judith who sat on a stool Saeweald had placed beside Caela’s chair, and nodded greetings to her brother Tostig and the other men who were now resuming their seats about Harold. Tostig was regarding her as thoughtfully as most others were: that exchange was not what he would have expected from the girl he had known so many years.

“What great conference have I interrupted, Harold, Tostig?” Caela said. “Such grave faces you all wear!”

Harold glanced at Judith, and Caela reached down a hand to the woman, keeping her eyes steady on Harold’s face. “I trust Judith with my life,” she said. “You may also.”

Harold looked again to Judith, then to Saeweald, who gave a very slight nod.

“Very well,” he said, then he sighed, and rubbed a hand over his suddenly haggard face. “Not good news, Caela. I have heard that Harold Hardrada has agents within this court. I fear their intent.”

Tostig rolled his eyes. “Our brother has turned to womanly fancies, sister.”

“The intelligence is good!” Harold snapped.

“What do you fear, Harold?” Caela said.

“Hardrada wants England, he has made no secret of this. I worry that he will try to smooth his way to the throne with some silent, treacherous action.”

“Do you fear for yourself, Harold?” Tostig asked softly. “Why, the last I heard, you had surrounded yourself with an army to keep unwanted daggers at bay.”

Harold gave Tostig a dark look, but did not respond to his taunt.

“Can you discover who they are?” Caela said.

Harold nodded. “Within a day or two. My men know where one of the agents, a man named Ölafson, hides. I will have him taken, and questioned.”

Caela grimaced. She knew precisely what Harold meant by that “questioned”.

To one side, Tostig’s face had suddenly gone very still.

“Ah!” Harold continued, “if only I had the knowledge of the angels on my side, and knew when Edward will finally gasp his last. Then I could plan the better to meet any challengers. But,” he shrugged, smiling wryly now, “who can know such things?”

Caela started to speak, then stopped, indecision written across her face. She exchanged a glance with Saeweald, then dropped her gaze to her lap.

“What do you know, sister?” Harold asked very quietly. “You share his chamber intimately. Is there something you can share?”

She lifted her eyes to his. “Edward will not live more than a few days past the New Year celebrations.”

There was an utter silence as everyone stared at her.

“How can you know this?” asked Wulfstan, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Such knowledge is witchery, surely.”

Caela regarded the bishop very calmly. “I know this,” she said, “because, as Harold has said, I am my husband’s wife, and I know his every breath and manner. And I know this because my husband’s physician,” again she glanced at Saeweald, “tells me that Edward has not long to live. And…and I have dreamed it. An angel has indeed come to me and told me as much.”

People nodded, accepting her explanation. But again, as before, Tostig’s face was very still, his eyes watchful.

“And my fate?” asked Harold. “What is
my
fate, then, if you speak to angels in your dreams?”

Caela leaned forward and took both of Harold’s hands in hers. Her expression was one of sadness and joy combined. “You will become a hero such as this land has never seen before,” she said. “You will live in glory.”

To his side, Tostig and Saeweald exchanged glances, then as quickly looked away from each other again.

Harold stared at her, then his mouth quirked. “That may be read as either a glorious death, or a glorious reign, sister. No! Do not explain yourself, for I regret the asking of the question in the first place. But do tell me, since you seem to know so much, who is it I should fear the most? Who stands as the greatest obstacle between me and the throne of England?”

She tipped her head, and regarded him. “Your enemies shall flock like crows, Harold. I am not the warrior to tell you which one will be the most cunning.”

Harold gave a hard bark of laughter. “You do not
want
to tell me.”

Something hardened in Caela’s eyes. “Beware of William, brother, for at his back shall ride the most dangerous enemy this land will ever know.”

“Now you speak in riddles, Caela. Should I fear his wife, Matilda? But, oh yes, William…” He drifted into silence, one hand rubbing at his short, stubbled beard.

“Has there been any more spoken,” said Wulfstan, “of that contract Edward and William are rumoured to have made between them years ago?”

Harold chewed his lip. Twelve years ago Edward had moved briefly—but with great effect—against the Godwine clan. The entire family, even Caela, had been exiled for almost a year, and only the great cunning of Earl Godwine himself had seen their eventual restoration to power. They had regained their place, but ever since that time it had been rumoured that, while free of the Godwine family’s influence, Edward had made a pact with William, promising him the throne of England on Edward’s death.

“There is always a great deal rumoured about William,” Harold said quietly, his eyes unfocused, “and very little spoken that is known fact. What does William plan? How shall he justify his ambitions before God and the other thrones of Europe? I don’t know…I don’t know…”

And there lies the rub,
thought Harold. No
one knows what William is or is not planning. And without that knowledge, anything
I
plan is certain to be torn asunder the instant I act on it. What
are
you planning, William? Will you content yourself with Normandy, or do you want this green isle, as well?

N
INE

“
S
he
humiliated
me, and you said nothing!” Swanne said as she watched her husband disrobe.

Harold remained silent, unlacing his tunic, sliding it over his head and tossing it across a chest.

Swanne stalked closer, her hands balled into fists, her face white with fury, her black eyes snapping. “You have a duty to me. I am your
wife.
I—”

Harold suddenly turned from laying his shirt atop his tunic and grabbed her chin in a hand. “You have a vile tongue, Swanne, and, I am learning, a mind to go with it! Be silent, I beg you, before I lose what little regard I have left for you!”

She twisted out of his grip. “You’ve always lusted after her.”

He went white, but said or did nothing.

“You dream about it, don’t you? I’ve heard you, mumbling at night, planning your incestuous assault on your sister’s body—”

He slapped her, then grabbed her wrist as she tried to strike him and twisted it so violently she cried out. “Caela was right when she said you had been bred within a dung heap, Swanne. You are the get of a worm and the night; there is no sweetness within you at all, merely vileness.”

Again Harold turned from her, twisting off his boots and then his trousers and tossing them towards the chest.

Swanne nursed her wrist, watching him with, finally, all of her loathing and contempt writhing across her face. “And there is nothing for you
but
the dung heap, Harold. You cast your eyes towards the throne, but you should know that—”

She stopped suddenly, both her eyes and those of Harold flying to the door which had suddenly opened.

Tostig stood there, his face equal amounts incredulity and humour as he regarded his naked brother and Swanne standing before him.

“My, my,” he said softly, closing the door and walking slowly into the room.

His eyes were very wary.

“Is this the future King and Queen of England I see before me? Nay, I think not. This behaviour cannot surely be that of—”

“What do you want, Tostig?” Harold said roughly.

Tostig had been watching Swanne who, correctly reading the look on his face, took three or four steps back, spreading her hands out at her sides. Now, he turned back to his brother.

“Only this, Harold,” he said softly, “that Hardrada sends his greetings, and bids you a well-earned death.”

And, lightning quick, he drew his dagger from the belt at his waist and plunged it towards Harold’s heart.

Harold had nothing with which to defend himself, save for his hands. He grabbed Tostig’s wrist just as the dagger reached his chest, managing to stop the blade before it had penetrated more than a finger’s thickness into his body. With all the strength he had, he wrenched the dagger backwards, but he could do nothing about Tostig’s weight which, leaning down with the force of his plunge forwards, pushed Harold back on to the bed.