Gods Concubine (36 page)

Judith dropped her gaze again, her cheeks mottling an even deeper shade of humiliation. I placed a hand on her arm. “I am sorry to snap, Judith. I had not thought that Saeweald would have jumped so easily to that possibility. But it is nothing to do with you, and I am glad you have told me. Here.” I kissed her face. “I am not cross with you.”

“I will tell him—”

“No. Do not mention it. I shall speak to him when appropriate.”
And yet when
was
appropriate? “I am sorry, Saeweald, but you have no place in what is to come”? Oh, I could not lose him so quickly. I had need of him yet. As did…as did he who would become Og.

“And now,” I continued, all business, “I asked you here because I have need of your aid.”

“Anything,” Judith said, trying to atone.

I felt abashed, and took her hand and led her to a covered chest which stood beneath the chamber’s only window. We sat down, and I kept hold of her hand, although I think I was trying to reassure myself more than her.

“Judith, there are tasks I will need to do, places I shall need to go. I will need to spend much time away from the palace. Both at night, and during the day.”

She nodded, the eagerness to please in her eyes intensifying.

“This will be difficult for me. I am the queen, I cannot just wander about the streets as I need—”

“But at night…”

I shrugged slightly. “Nights contain more freedom for me, surely, but even they are dangerous. What if Edward or his bowerthegn should wake, and I not be there? More importantly, there are days when I will have the need to leave the palace. I need more freedom, far more than my existence as ‘queen’ allows.”

I also needed more security if I was to move the bands, or even to communicate with the Sidlesaghes as I needed. I constantly worried that some action or ill-considered word might draw either Swanne’s or Asterion’s suspicion; had I already said or done something that may have alerted them? This concern ate at me. I needed to move about both more freely
and
unobserved. How to do this as the constantly watched queen, whose every movement was noted?

I had struggled with this problem over the past few days, and could see only one solution. I hated to do it, for it would put another in the danger that I sought to escape, but if I was careful, then maybe she would not suffer.

Maybe.

“Judith, I need a glamour.”

Her eyes grew huge, and she drew in a deep breath and held it for a long moment as she watched me unblinkingly. “A glamour?” she said finally. “Do you want to use me to—”

I shook my head. “Not you, for I will need you awake and aware of what goes on about me.” I grinned briefly. “If I can drag you away from Saeweald’s bed long enough…”

She blushed, and I thought that if she kept this up I would need to ask Saeweald for some whitening alloy to dab on Judith’s cheeks.

“No, I will need someone else with which to create the glamour.”

“Ah. You would like me to find her for you?”

“Aye. Judith, I hate to do this—to use an unwitting woman as my dupe. I fear for her, and what might happen to her if she…is discovered. But without her I shall be too constrained for my purposes. Judith, do you know of anyone who lives in Westminster, who has no children or husband who…who…”
Who would be left bereft if my mistake killed her.

Judith dropped her gaze to where our hands lay entwined, thinking. Eventually she raised her face, then nodded.

“There is a woman who I think would serve you well. Her name is Damson, and she is the widow of a stonecutter and now partly earns her way as a laundress. She is, oh, some forty-five or fifty years of age, and has the freedom of both Westminster and London as she wanders looking for small pieces of work. Everyone knows her. Damson is a simple woman, but true and good-hearted. If you ask her I am certain that—”

“I cannot ‘ask’, Judith. She must not have any understanding of what I do or else the glamour shall not work sufficiently—it will not be
deep
enough. Can you bring her to me, and say only that I have need of her services? Would she accept that?”

“Aye.”

“When could you bring her to me?”

“I saw Damson about the palace courtyard this morning, probably looking for work in the laundries, or even the dairy. If I find her quickly, then I could have her before you within the hour.”

“Go, then, and find me this Damson.”

T
WO

A
bright day it might be, but inside Rouen’s castle the sunshine had yet to penetrate. The air was chill, and the breath frosted from the mouths of those not fortunate enough to have secured a close position by the fire that burned within the duke’s Great Hall.

Matilda and Earl Harold were two of the fortunate few. They sat in intricately carved oak chairs only two paces distant from where the fire cracked and leapt in the stone hearth, cups of the duke’s best wine in their hands, making conversation until the duke himself could be summoned from the hunt. Rather than Norman French or Anglo-Saxon, they spoke in the more general French dialect that most European nobles (as merchants and craftsmen) learned as children.

Their ability to converse in a mutually comfortable language was not the only reason both found the conversation relatively effortless. Matilda was fascinated with the earl and he, quite obviously, with her. This might be their first meeting, but each had heard so much of the other over the years that they felt already well acquainted.

“My husband shall doubtless be surprised to find you here,” said Matilda, gracing the earl with a smile over the rim of her wine cup. She was deeply intrigued by his face, for although it wore the hard lines of a warrior and a man used to great command, it also had an aura of sensitivity, even mysticism, generally found only in the faces of poets, or religious recluses.

Or, indeed, in lovers.

Apart from that sense of mysticism, Harold was a highly attractive man with his dark eyes framed by his greying blond hair and darker beard. Matilda liked the fact that, unlike so many Saxons, Harold kept that beard very short and neat, and did not hide beneath a shrubby, flea-ridden haystack.

“There was a time,” said Harold, intrigued in his own way by this tiny, stern-faced woman before him, “when dukes and earls and princes spent their time only in the pursuit of the bloody sport of war, and it was with war that they solved every one of their dilemmas. I like to think that I and your husband are more civilised men, and that words and vows might be used to accomplish more than the agony and futility of war. I come to court an ally, not to incense an enemy.”

“You
are
a poet!” Matilda murmured into her wine cup before taking a sip of the heavily spiced wine within.

Harold gave a small, sad smile. “I am a man, and a father, and a leader of many men and fathers. I value life before needless death. Thus I sit here with you this fair morn, waiting for your lord to return from the hunt.”

“And for my part,” said Matilda, “I am more than pleased to have this chance to sit and pass words with you. Tell me, how goes Edward?”

“Heavily, and with bad grace,” said Harold. “He thinks only of the next life, and of his salvation. He is less the king, and more the repentant, mewling constantly for a chance to redeem himself before whichever altar he can find.”

“And thus you are here,” said Matilda. “I understand. So, if Edward declines, then may I ask after your own family? Your wife and children? Your sister and brother?”

Harold studied her, wondering what she knew. “My wife…” He shrugged as his voice drifted off into uncertainty as to what to say, and was then surprised at the glint of understanding in Matilda’s eyes.

“She does not suit you, then.”

He did not answer, and Matilda smiled into her wine as she sipped it. “Your children are well?”

This time she was rewarded with a natural and very warm smile, and her regard for the man grew. He loved his children.

“Aye,” Harold said. “They are my delight.”

“The queen?” Matilda said. “I have heard she has been unwell.”

“She is better now.”

Harold’s manner had become extremely guarded, and Matilda wondered further if some of the more salacious rumours she’d heard about Harold’s relationship with his sister might, in fact, have a kernel of truth to them.

“And Tostig…” she said.

“Madam,” Harold snapped, “your manner is more direct than any of the Holy Father’s inquisitors!”

Matilda laughed. “I have heard rumours of Tostig’s penchant to treachery. Moreover, I suspect that Hardrada is tempting Tostig away from his loyalty to his family.”

“Then I could do with access to your intelligence, madam, for I think it better than mine.”

Matilda began to say something, but then there came a clatter of hooves in the courtyard beyond the narrow windows, and the shouts of men.

“My husband,” she said, watching Harold carefully, and noting the manner in which his face closed over and he set his wine cup aside with great care. He took a deep breath, and Matilda saw that he was nervous.

Strangely, this gave her no sense of satisfaction, nor of advantage, but only saddened her somewhat.
This man,
she thought,
has no business seeking out the throne. He is too good, and too valuable, to be wasted on kingship.

The doors at the end of the Great Hall flung open, and William strode into the hall.

Harold and Matilda rose.

“My lord duke,” said Matilda as William strode up to them.

William ignored her. He was sweaty from his hard ride back to the castle, his hair—even as short as it was—was dishevelled, and his black eyes were as hard as flint.

They did not waver from Harold’s face.

“My lord duke,” Matilda said again, unperturbed by William’s disregard. “My Lord Harold, Earl of Wessex and favoured of King Edward, has graced our castle with his presence. He has come with words, not swords, and speaks of peace and alliances where others might speak of hard deeds and war.”

There
, she thought, glancing at Harold.
I have done my best for you.
Strangely, Matilda’s sympathies tended more to Harold in this encounter than to William, even though she lusted for the spoils of England almost as much as her husband.

William suddenly appeared to notice that Matilda had spoken, and he gave a brief nod in her direction. His eyes did not move from Harold’s face.

“I greet you well, Harold,” William said, recovering some of his usual calm demeanour, and he stepped forward and offered Harold his hand. “Welcome to Rouen, and to my duchy of Normandy.”

Harold took William’s hand between both of his, and the instant he did so, William’s world turned upside down.

As Harold’s flesh touched his, William knew who he was. Coel.
Coel!

A thousand emotions surged through William: jealousy and fright at their head. He remembered that terrible night he’d burst into his house in Llanbank to find Coel atop Cornelia’s body, sweating in the labours of love. He remembered that appalling moment that he’d reached his hand into Coel’s hair, and hauled back his head so that for an instant they’d stared deep into each other’s soul before Brutus had sliced his sword across Coel’s throat.

Cornelia’s cry of terror and loss, Coel’s eyes still locked into his as he died.

Coel? Coel had reappeared in this guise on the same day that Silvius had once again writhed on the forest floor before him? What in the gods’ names was going on? What frightful magic had them in its hold?

And why had Swanne not told him this? Gods, Swanne had taken Coel to her bed, bred him children, and
she had not told William of it?

William recalled what Swanne had said that day so long ago when they’d met. He’d asked her then if Harold was anyone reborn, and she had said no. He was a mere man. Gods! She had
lied
to him! Why? Why?

“William?”

William realised he was not only still gripping Harold’s hand, but he was staring maniacally at the man. In the same moment William also realised that Harold had no memory of his life as Coel. He had come only as Harold, Earl of Wessex and pretender to the English throne, not as Cornelia’s lover come for revenge…or whatever else it could be that he sought.

But this was no coincidence. Surely. And what was
Coel
doing back in this world? What?

“William?” Matilda said again.

“Forgive me,” William managed, dropping Harold’s hand. He even managed to find the strength and fortitude of spirit to give Harold a small smile. “Your arrival has truly surprised me, my lord of Wessex.”

“Aye, I see that it has.” Harold, his hand now free, had taken a step back, and was watching William speculatively.

“Wine, husband?” Matilda murmured. She stood holding out a freshly poured cup to her husband, and very apparently taken aback by her husband’s reaction.

A servant hurried forward with another chair, and William waved them all down, his equanimity now apparently fully restored.

“It has been a most surprising morning,” William said. “First I brought down a great stag, who reproached me with his dying.”

Matilda gasped in superstitious dread, but Harold only watched William with narrowed eyes.

“And now,” William continued, “I find before me England’s greatest lord, save for Edward. A most strange and unexpected visitor, given the circumstances. What mysteries swirl about us today, I wonder?”

The question was half rhetorical, half real.
A most strange and unexpected visitor, given the circumstances. There, answer me that, Harold-Coel, if you dare.

“No mysteries but those of mortal men,” said Harold. He leaned forward in his chair. “You must know why I am here, William.”

To reproach me for your death?
“To beg me to take England’s throne once Edward is dead?’

Matilda repressed a wince at the bluntness of both men. So much for the soft beauty of poets.

Harold held William’s stare a long moment before answering. “I come for England,” he said softly, “I come
as
England.” William’s face assumed a strange expression at that, but Harold ignored it. “We are both great lords here, William. To be blunt, I come wondering if you shall be my ally, as you have been Edward’s, or my rival. Which one, William?”