Gods Concubine (35 page)

He’d thought about those words a great deal since. William had initially spoken them as a comfort to Matilda, but even as they slid smoothly from his lips William had realised their truth—and the greater truth that lay beneath them. Matilda had been god-sent, he was sure of it. He
had
learned from her strength and tolerance and maturity, and it was not simply that what he had felt fifteen years ago was not now so clear to him.

What he had felt
two thousand
years ago was not now so clear to him. The great peaks of love and hate he’d felt then had been smoothed out by his marriage to Matilda. Bitterness and hatred and love; all had been…modified.

Gentled. He did not yearn for Swanne with the passion he once had, and when he thought on Caela then his thoughts were strangely tolerant, given his once all-consuming hatred of her when she had been Cornelia. Above all, Matilda had taught him what it was to be a good husband, and William was aware that he had once been a very bad husband indeed.

He shifted a little on his horse, newly uncomfortable. How might his life have been different two thousand years earlier if he had been a tolerant husband, rather than a hateful one? How might his life have been altered if he had studied Cornelia with the understanding Matilda had given him, rather than with Brutus’ indifferent callousness?

Suddenly one of the hounds bayed, and the huntsmen shouted, and William jerked out of his reverie.

“There!” cried Walter, and William followed his friend’s pointing finger and, indeed, there it ran—a huge red stag bounded through the dappled shadows of the forest.

William swept the bow from his back and fitted an arrow, digging his heels into the flanks of his stallion and guiding him only with voice and knees.

The horse bounded forwards, his hooves pounding through the grassland, then crashing through the first line of shrubs in the forest.

The stag careered before William, leaping first this way, now that, his head raised, his eyes panicked, his nostrils flaring.

Behind William crashed the horses of his companions, but they raced a full six or seven paces behind him, and it was William who had the first clear shot.

The stag bounded behind a dense thicket, and William let his arrow fly.

It struck, he
heard
it, as he heard the cry of the stag and the sound of its heavy body plunging to the forest floor.

“I have him!” William cried as he seized the reins of his stallion and pulled the beast to a plunging, snorting halt. He lifted his right leg over the horse’s wither, jumping to the ground, and ran behind the thicket, his knife drawn.

The stag lay convulsing in a carpet of fallen leaves and dried summer grasses, the arrow through his left eye.

William’s strides slowed, and he drifted to a halt, staring at the stag.

Except it was no longer a stag lying there at all, but his father, Silvius, his hands to the arrow, his voice screaming to his son for aid.

Sick to his stomach, William took a step forward, then stopped, the knife suddenly loose in his sweatdampened hand.

Silvius was no longer screaming. Instead he stared at his son, his hands still about the arrow, blood and gore dripping down his cheek.
You shall not have her!
he whispered within William’s mind.
Never have her! You had your chance. She’s mine now.

“No!” William said, very low. His gaze was fixed on his father.

Never have her…

Something
flowed
forth from Silvius, and William took an intuitive step back. It was evil. Malignant evil, seeping from every pore of his father’s body.

You shall never have her…she’s lost to you now…

“No!” William said again.

And took another step back.

“My lord?” Walter Fitz Osbern walked up beside William, his eyes drifting between William and the downed stag, now screaming with a harsh, guttural cry. “My lord? Should I…?”

There were more steps behind William: other fellow hunters, and the huntsmen. They were quiet, watching William, one or two of them wincing at the terrible sound made by the stricken stag.

Walter’s eyes settled on William’s face. The duke was staring fixedly at the stag, his skin pale and clammy, as if he saw before him a devil, or some imp from hell. “My lord?” he said yet one more time, hoping that William would break free of whatever spell had claimed him.

Still no response, and Walter exchanged a worried look with one of the other nobles.

“Damn you!” William suddenly whispered, and Walter jumped, thinking his duke spoke to him.

But William was still staring at the stag, and now he stepped forward, almost stumbling. The stag cried out yet more harshly, his hooves flailing dangerously, and Walter was sure the duke would be struck, but somehow William managed to avoid the stag’s hooves and legs. He stepped around behind the stag, sheathed his knife, grasped one of the stag’s magnificent antlers to steady the beast’s head, then took the arrow with his other hand and, frightfully, sickeningly, thrust the arrow deep into the stag’s brain.

The creature gave one more frightful spasm, and then lay still, save for one hind leg which continued to quiver slightly.

“Unmake it,” said William harshly, standing back. “Unmake it
now!”

He turned away, but then staggered, and Walter stepped close and took one of his arms to steady him.

“My lord?”

“Will he never leave me be?” whispered William, bending over as if he were going to vomit. He gagged once, then again a little more violently, before managing to regain control of his stomach. “Will he never leave me be?”

One of the huntsmen came forward, taking William’s other arm, but then William straightened, wiped his mouth, and managed a smile.

“I am well enough,” he said, seemingly himself again, and the two men relaxed—as did all the others standing and watching with worried countenances.

“Likely the meat you took for breakfast was rotten,” Walter said, and William accepted the excuse.

“Aye, likely it was. My apologies if I have concerned you, but I am well enough now. Where is my horse? Ah, thank you, Ranuld.”

He took the stallion’s reins from the huntsman who had brought him forward, and swung into the saddle.

But just as he settled on the horse’s back, gathering up the reins, there came a distant shout, then the sound of approaching hooves.

“What is wrong?” said William, swinging his stallion about so he could see.

There was a rider hurtling across the meadowlands towards the patch of forest where William had downed the stag. He wore the duke’s livery, and William recognised him as one of the squires from his garrison within the castle of Rouen.

“It’s Oderic,” mumbled Walter.

“And with dire news,” said Ranuld, the huntsman who had also come to William’s aid. “See the lather on his horse.”

“My lord duke!” Oderic called as he pulled his exhausted horse to a stumbling halt. “My lord duke!”

“What?” snarled William, kicking his stallion forth and grabbing Oderic by the shoulder of his tunic before almost hauling Oderic from his mount. “What news, man?”

“Earl Harold of England,” Oderic managed to gasp. “Earl Harold…”

“Yes? Yes!” William gave Oderic an impatient shake.

“Earl Harold…” Oderic could barely speak, caught between the extremity of his news, his desperate battle for breath, and his duke’s furious grasp on his shoulder.

“Yes?”
William thought he would strangle the news from the man if he did not spit out the words within an instant.

“Earl Harold awaits in your castle, my lord duke.”

“What?” William was so surprised he let Oderic go, and the squire almost fell off his horse as a surprised, concerned buzz of comment rose among William’s retainers and huntsmen.

Earl Harold awaited in Duke William’s castle?

“My
castle?” said William stupidly, unable to comprehend what Oderic said. “Here? In Rouen?”

“Aye, my lord. A patrol discovered him last night, having disembarked from a fishing vessel on the coast two nights previous.”

“What does he
do
here?” William mumbled to himself, then waved away the question. “Never mind. Walter. We ride.
Now!”

Part Four

1065

“Pay me my fare, …

“Pay me my fare, or by Gog and Magog, you shall feel the smart of my whipcord!”

Coachman to passengers at Bartholomew Fair,
London, late 1700s, cited in
William Hone,
Ancient Mysteries Described,
1823

London, March 1939

M
atilda Flanders turned to Frank Bentley, who was still looking at her open-mouthed. “Frank,” she said, “I wasn’t a staid widow all my life. I was a young girl once,” she glanced at Jack Skelton, then looked back to Frank and winked, “and kicked up my heels a bit, if you know what I mean.”

Bentley blushed.

“With Major Skelton?” Violet Bentley said.

“I wasn’t always so old and haggard,” Skelton said dryly. “Matilda, Ecub, I need to speak with you. Please.”

“Major
—
” said Frank.

“Just for fifteen minutes,” said Skelton, turning to Frank. “I won’t hold you up. Go inside now, and have that breakfast Violet has cooked.”

Frank stifled his curiosity, nodded, then put his arm around Violet’s shoulder and led her back into their house.

The instant the door closed behind them, Skelton turned to the two women.

“Where is my daughter?”

Matilda and Ecub glanced at each other.

“Probably with Stella,” said Matilda. Then, hastily, as Skelton’s face registered his dismay, added, “Stella will
—
”

“My daughter is with Asterion’s whore?”

Ecub stepped forward, took his arm, and led him toward Matilda’s front door. “Asterion’s whore’ can take care of her as well as anyone. She’s done it before well enough.”

“But—”

“For the gods’ sakes, Jack!” Ecub hissed. “Cornelia asked her to look after the child should…”

Her voice trailed away.

“Should Asterion take Cornelia,” Skelton said woodenly. “So Asterion
does
have Cornelia.”

“Come inside,” said Matilda, taking his hand. “And have a cup of tea.”

O
NE

CAELA SPEAKS

I
sat with my ladies—
how I hated this sitting about, spending my days in nothing but courtly gossips and embroideries
—and understood that Harold had arrived in Rouen. I shivered, unable to keep at bay that memory of William tearing Coel’s lifeless body from mine. Coel’s blood had been so very warm, as he had himself been so very warm, and so very loving.

I could feel—faintly, but the knowledge was there—William’s confusion, anger and uncertainty as he heard of Harold’s arrival. Everything, in fact, he had felt that night Genvissa had sent him to murder me.

Keep him safe,
I prayed silently.
Keep him safe.

I closed my eyes, and in the strength of my prayer I think my body wavered somewhat, for instantly concerned voices were raised about me, and tentative hands touched my arm.

“Madam? Madam? Are you well?”

I opened my eyes, and caught Judith’s gaze. She nodded, understanding.

“No,” I murmured, allowing my voice to waver, so very slightly, “I am not well. I should rest a while before our noonday meal. Judith…?”

She took my arm, and I nodded a dismissal to the other women who clustered about me.

Slowly we retreated from the private solar, where I spent most of the day when I was not in court, to the bedchamber, where I spent all my cold, loveless nights.

Once the door closed behind us I straightened and Judith dropped my arm.

“Madam?” she said.

I smiled wryly. I wished she would call me Caela in private, but now that I was doubly “royal” in Judith’s eyes, there would be little chance of that.

“I am glad that we have this time alone,” she said. “There is something I need to speak of to you.”

“Yes?”

“Saeweald…over the past days I have spoken to Saeweald on many occasions on this matter…”

Her voice had drifted off, her cheeks mottling and her eyes avoiding mine.

“Judith?” I said. “What is wrong?”

“It is something of which you spoke to us—that you and Og-reborn will complete the Game as Mistress and Kingman of the Labyrinth.”

“You find this difficult to accept.”

“It is difficult enough,” she said, “but this is not what eats at me.”

“And that is?”

She hesitated, mouth hanging partly open, eyes averted. “It is that Saeweald believes he shall be Og-reborn. ”

There, it was out, and Judith finally allowed herself to look at me from under her lashes.

“Oh,” I said on a long breath, and now it was I who averted my eyes.

“Ah,” said Judith.

By the gods, we were playing some silly childish prattling game! “Oh” here and “Ah” there!

“Is Saeweald…? Will he…?” Judith said.

Then, gods help me, I lied, for if I told her who Og-reborn
was
fated to be, then I would have lost her, as well as Saeweald and Ecub, in one foul-tasting word.

“I cannot know,” I said, holding her gaze. “It shall be who the Troy Game and the land demands. Maybe Saeweald, maybe not…but I dislike it that he has already voiced his ambitions to the office.” I put some distaste into that final phrase, some goddess-like offence, and it diverted Judith magnificently.

“I should not have presumed—”

“He
should not have presumed!”