Gods Concubine (47 page)

Between Harold and William sat a chessboard on a low table.

The men had been shifting pieces back and forth for almost an hour. The time spent at the one game did not reflect their skill, nor their determination to keep the other at bay, but instead was an indication of both men’s almost total lack of interest in the game. Both had squandered chances to trap the other, both had exposed their own men to the ravages of the other’s, both still had most of their pieces on the board.

“I am returning to England,” Harold eventually said. It was the first time either of them had spoken since they’d sat down.

William grunted again. He did not raise his eyes from the chessboard.

“You will not hold me?” Harold said.

William shot him a glance, but just as quickly returned his gaze to the board. “It would do me no favour,” he said. “I would alienate half of Europe, let alone most of England.” He paused, his long fingers hovering over his king. “Besides, Edward would as like as not disinherit me for the act.”

“Edward would like as not spend an entire week capering about Westminster in joy if he thought there was the faintest possibility you might put a sword through my throat.”

William’s hand froze over the chess piece, then he slowly sat back from the board and looked Harold full in the face.

“Why did you come, Harold?” Oh, William
knew
why Harold had come. It was the unacknowledged Coel within him, driving him forward to meet face to face with his doom. It is what Coel would have done. Still, William wanted to know what Harold believed had driven him here.

“We will meet one day on the battlefield,” Harold said. “I wanted to know you beforehand.” He relaxed a little in his chair, his attention now as removed from the chessboard as was William’s. “And, of course, I had hoped to gain your total support for my own succession to England’s throne.”

Both men grinned, and both men’s grins faded as quickly as each other’s.

“I needed to
know
you, William,” Harold said, “but I did not expect to like you. I did not expect to respect you.”

There was silence. William’s eyes dropped to his lap where he was slowly rubbing the thumb of one hand between the forefinger and thumb of the other. He fiddled some minutes, thinking. Aye, he liked Harold too. He
liked
him. In other circumstances, William knew he could probably have counted on Harold to be his most loyal and trustworthy companion.

Harold…
Coel.
Who would have thought it? But then, when had Brutus ever taken the time to understand Coel, or even to know him beyond a passing acquaintance?

William suddenly understood that he needed to have reached this revelation, this state of liking and of friendship, with Harold-who-was-once-Coel, just as Harold needed to like and respect him.

Why? What part of what larger game was this?

Finally William raised his gaze back to Harold. “I wish…” he began, then could not continue.

“Aye,” said Harold. He blinked, as if he had tears in his eyes, then leaned forward and held out a hand to William.

William took it without hesitation. “I do not want to kill you,” he said.

“Aye, and I do not want to have to kill you.”

They gripped hands, their eyes locking, then both let go and sat back, half-embarrassed smiles playing over their faces.

“If I win,” William said, only half-jokingly, “and you do not survive, may I say that on this visit you pledged to me that I might take the throne?”

Harold considered. To say that would be to blacken Harold’s name: that Harold had pledged to William the throne on Edward’s death, and had then gone back on his word and sought to deny William his rights through force.

Yet the revelation of such a vow would unite England as nothing else had done. It would prevent the country from tearing itself apart trying to resist William’s rule. If William won on the battlefield, and then said that God had judged in William’s favour because Harold had reneged on his word, the English would accept it. They might not like it, but they would accept it.

What did he want more? His honour, or England’s wellbeing?

He nodded. “Aye. You may say that.” He paused, a slow smile spreading over his mouth. “If you also agree that should I win, and you die, then I can spread it about that you were the motherless son of one of Hell’s imps.”

William burst out laughing. “A deal!” He held out his hand.

But Harold hesitated as he extended his own hand. “And that if you do so win against me, and I die on the battlefield, then you shall respect the life and property of my sons and daughters, and that of my sister, Caela. You shall honour my children, and my sister, and do them no harm.”

William’s face grew serious. “A deal, Harold.”

Harold nodded, and took William’s hand.

“I wish you well,” said William softly.

“And I you,” said Harold.

And with those words, each man felt an immense weight lift off his shoulders, while, under London, the stag god Og stirred, and his heart (still lying so cruelly torn from his breast) beat a fraction more strongly.

S
EVEN

CAELA SPEAKS

A
day or two after I had moved the band, I arranged it so that Ecub, Judith and Saeweald sat with me in some privacy within my solar. Again, other ladies were in attendance, along with one or two of Edward’s thegns (and paying attention to one or two of my ladies rather than me). They were grouped at some distance, and I felt that if I kept my voice low then we should have seclusion enough.

I told them of the moving of the band, and of how Asterion tried to snatch me and it. They shuddered, as did I in the retelling, and begged me be careful in future.

Then, because they needed and deserved to know, I told them of how I had felt empty, un-right, of how I felt some loss of connection to the land. How I was not all that I should be.

“But how can this be?” Saeweald began, rather officious and put out, as if I had conceived of this problem only to irritate him, and I held up a hand to quiet him.

“I have talked of this to both Silvius and the Sidlesaghes—”

“And not us?” Saeweald said quietly.

“She talks of it now!” snapped Ecub, and silently I blessed her for her intervention. “Think yourself not so important that you be her first counsel on every occasion.”

Saeweald’s mouth thinned as he compressed his lips, but he said no more. Judith caught my eye, but I looked away and resumed my speaking.

“I have talked of this both to Silvius and the Sidlesaghes,” I said, “and the answer is alarmingly simple.” I gave a soft, deprecatory laugh. “Here I am, the enchanted representation of fertility and birth and growth, the health of the land, and I am—” I lowered my voice “—a virgin! To unite completely with the land, to be at one with who I should be, I need to consummate my self with the land. Unite completely with the land.”

“Lose your virginity,” Ecub said, ever practical.

Gods help me, I blushed. “Yes.”

“With whom?” said Saeweald, and I felt both his and Judith’s eyes steady on me.

“Silvius,” I said.

“
Silvius
?” Saeweald said.

“Shush!” I said. “Is there better without Og-reborn to comfort me?” I kept my eyes steady on Saeweald as I said this, and he dropped his eyes away from mine.

“He does not truly represent the land,” said Ecub. “Surely…”

“He represents the Game,” I said, “and the Game and the land
are
united. Allied. Besides,” I softened my voice, “it need only be a man, and I may choose as I will.”

“He looks like Brutus,” Saeweald said, his voice hard. “That is why you chose him.”

“And if it
is
why, then that is
no
concern of yours.”

For a moment no one spoke. Finally, Saeweald broke the silence.

“I put myself forward,” he said. “It would be appropriate.”

Oh, gods damn his ambition!

“I have chosen as
I
think appropriate. I am not looking for applications, Saeweald.”

His face hardened, and he looked away.

E
IGHT

O
n the morning of the festival of St Thomas, Edward accepted an invitation from Spearhafoc, Bishop of London, to celebrate mass within St Paul’s cathedral. Although Edward generally preferred to worship within Westminster, whether at the abbey or the chapel in his palace, he did make a point of worshipping at St Paul’s on four or five occasions a year. If the weather was kind, then the king proceeded to St Paul’s via the road which led from Westminster to the Strand and thence through Ludgate to the cathedral; if, as on this day, the weather was inclement, then Edward and the immediate members of his court rode the royal barge to St Paul’s wharf and then travelled on horseback, under a canopy, up the hill to the cathedral.

Whichever way the king travelled, the crowds always lined his processional route, often three or four people deep, cheering and applauding. Supplicants often tried to reach forth, but these poor folk were always kept at bay by the king’s men-at-arms.

Caela, of course, came with the rest of the court. Although her previous visits to St Paul’s had held little significance, she now, with her restored memory and new knowledge of who and what she was, looked forward to the outing. Not to the service, mind, which Caela had every intention of ignoring, but merely the visit to St Paul’s itself.

Today, as always for a king’s visit, the cathedral was packed. Caela and Edward, together with several members of the witan, two earls, several thegns and a variety of wives, took their places on chairs set out for them to one side of the altar. A large and beautifully carved wooden rood screen shielded them from the eyes of the majority of the congregation; today, unusually, flowers had been woven through the spaces in the screen, filling the royal seating area with the heady scent of late autumn roses.

Caela took the seat by her husband, resting her feet gratefully on the covered heated stone that had been placed before it. The cathedral’s interior was frigid, and Judith stepped forward and ensured that Caela’s fur-lined cloak sat closely about the queen’s shoulders before she took her own place further back in the rows of seats.

The service began.

Halfway through, when a visiting cleric was engaged in a lengthy discourse about the sins of Adam and Eve, Caela noticed a movement to her left, and glanced over.

She froze, her eyes wide, disbelieving.

Silvius, in all his Trojan finery, was walking towards her through the ranks of clerics, courtiers and sundry monks who filled the aisles to the side of the altar.

Having stared at Silvius, Caela’s eyes then flew to the people grouped about her, expecting most of them to be staring gape-mouthed at this apparition who walked so arrogantly among them.

But no one was paying any attention.

Caela looked back to Silvius, who was now grinning at her confusion.

“Peace, lady,” he said as he walked to her chair, leaned down, and planted a light kiss on her still-startled face. “They are unaware of me, and, as for you, why, all they see is their queen with her head bowed in prayerful contemplation.”

Again Caela glanced about her. It was as Silvius said. No one paid them any attention, and even the movements of the cleric intoning before the altar were strangely slowed and muted, as if in dream.

“You have done this?” she said.

“Aye. Another piece of Aegean trickery. Did Brutus never do this? Never play this particular hoax on his comrades?”

“If so, then I am unaware of it.”

Silvius laughed, softly, and dragged an empty chair close to Caela’s. “The trick, my dear,
is
to leave people unaware of it.” His face sobered. “I needed to see you, Caela.”

Still rattled by Silvius’ piece of magicking, Caela only slightly raised her eyebrows.

Silvius put his hand on the back of her chair; he was very close. “That was well done,” he said, looking her in the eye. “Moving the band.”

She let out a long breath. “Ah. You realised?”

He gave a small smile. “How could I not? I am, after all, a part of the Game.” He paused, his black eye roving slowly over the planes of Caela’s face. “I did not realise you were that powerful.”

She gave a small shrug. “I had help.” Then she gave a small laugh at the puzzlement on Silvius’ face. “Long Tom, of course! I am surprised he has not told you every detail himself.”

Silvius managed a grin, although it looked a little forced. “Of course. Long Tom. A true friend, eh?”

“Better than you know…or maybe you do. I am sure that you and he have spent many a long conversation together. You remember, surely, when he brought me to see you and Og within the heart of the Labyrinth?”

Silvius hesitated a long moment before answering. “I did not speak to you then…”

“No. You need not apologise for it. But, ah, what Long Tom showed me.”

“He is powerful…”

“Oh, aye, he and all his companions.”

Silvius half lifted the hand that rested on the back of her chair, hesitated with it elevated slightly, then finished the movement, sliding Caela’s veil back a little from the crown of her head.

“Be careful,” Caela said, stiffening slightly. “I do not want your spell snapped, and all to see me with my veil and hair disarranged.” Her mouth quirked. “My husband would surely claim that I had been visited by the devil.”

Silvius’ hand slid down to her cheek, his fingers very gently stroking at her smooth skin. “I am sorry for that. Caela…have you given any more thought to what I said the last time we met?”

“Here?” she said. “In this cathedral?”

He smiled. “Aye.”

She gave a small nod. “Yes, I have. What you suggested is right, and needed.”

Silvius’ smile broadened.

“Long Tom also agrees,” Caela continued, and Silvius’ smile slipped.

“Oh,” she said, “should I not have spoken of it to him?”