Gods Concubine (5 page)

The focus of the hall was the dais. Here Edward currently sat conversing with Harold, who stood just to one side and slightly behind the king’s throne, and with Eadwine, the newly appointed abbot of Westminster. Caela, the king’s wife, sat ignored on her smaller throne set to her husband’s right. Her head was down, her attention on the needlework in her lap, an isolated and lonely figure amid the hubbub of the Great Hall.

Tostig halted as soon as they’d moved into clearer space, and now he stared towards the queen. “Will there be a child soon?” he asked quietly of Swanne.

She laughed, the sound musical and deep, and for an instant Tostig felt her body press the harder against his. “Nay,” she said, “there will never be a child of
that
union.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Swanne put her lips against Tostig’s ear, and felt him shudder. “He will not lie with her,” she said. “He believes fornication to be such great evil that he will not participate in it…” she paused, “especially with a daughter of Godwine. He will have no Godwine heir to the throne. My dear,” she said, allowing a little breathlessness to creep into her voice, “can
you
imagine such restraint?”

“With you in his bed, no man, not even Edward, would be capable of it.”

“You flatter me with smooth words,” she said, but let Tostig see by the warmth in her eyes how well she had received his words.

“But…” Tostig struggled to keep his voice even, “but if he has no child of his body, then surely there
will
be a Godwine heir.”

“My husband,” she said. “For surely, who else? To think, Tostig, you stand here now with the future Queen of England pressing herself against you like a foolish young girl. How do you feel?”

Emboldened by her words and touch, Tostig said, “That you will be Queen of England there can be no doubt, but who the lucky Godwine brother is that sits beside you as your lord can still be open to question.”

That I will be Queen of England is undoubted
, Swanne thought, laughing with Tostig, encouraging his foolish words,
but that you will ever sit beside me, or Harold, can never be. I have a greater lord awaiting me in the shadows; a mightier lover, a Kingman, and the
day he appears, so shall all the Godwine boys be crushed into the dust.

At that moment Harold looked up from his discussion with Edward, and saw his wife standing too familiarly close to Tostig. He frowned, and spoke swiftly to one of his thegns who stood behind him.

The next moment the thegn had stepped from the dais and was approaching Tostig and Swanne.

“My lady and lord,” he said, bowing slightly, “the Lord Harold begs leave to interrupt your mirth and requests that his wife join him on the dais. We have received word that a deputation from the Duke of Normandy has arrived, and the king wishes to receive him.”

“
I
am not invited?” said Tostig.

“You are not my lord’s wife,” said the thegn.

“I am a Godwineson!” Tostig said, seething.

The thegn was a man of enough years and experience not to be intimidated by the brashness of youth. “All the more reason why our king would not want you standing beside him,” he said. “Harold stands there as representative of his father, who cannot attend. Edward tolerates him, but
only
him. My lady, if you will accompany me.”

And with that, the thegn led Swanne away, leaving Tostig standing red-faced and humiliated.

Harold took Swanne’s hand as she mounted the dais, and led her to a chair. “Was Tostig annoying you?” he asked, smiling gently at his wife. By God, even now he could hardly believe he’d won such a treasure.

“He is a youth,” Swanne said, her expression now demure as she sat. “All youths are abrasive, and annoying.”

“I will speak to him,” Harold said.

“No,” Swanne said. “It would embarrass him, and only create bad blood. Let it rest, I pray you.”

Harold began to say something else, but just then Edward leaned over and hushed them both, waving Harold to his own chair on the king’s left.

“I dislike people whispering behind my back,” Edward said, and Harold bowed his head in apology as he sat. Once Edward had returned his attention to the hall, Harold leaned back, looking behind Edward’s throne to where Caela’s own throne sat aligned with Harold’s chair. He tried to catch her eye, but she was so determinedly focused on her embroidery that she did not, or chose not to, notice his gaze.

Sighing, Harold turned his eyes back to the front. He’d had so little chance to speak with Caela in the past two months, and no chance at all to ask her, in privacy, why she wore such a face of misery to the world.

Damn their father for giving such a wondrous girl to such a monstrous husband!

In truth, Harold would have vastly preferred to have spent the morning out hunting, but he’d had to stand in for his father who was not well. Despite the strained and often hostile relations between the Earl of Wessex and Edward, Godwine was the leading member of Edward’s witan, a council of noblemen advisers, and thus by right sat on the dais beside Edward. If Godwine could not attend, then it was best his eldest son and heir do so in his place. Not only would Harold represent Godwine during court proceedings, but his presence would also further cement the Wessex claim to the throne should Edward’s piety prevent him from getting an heir on Caela.

Godwine was determined that one day either he, or his son Harold, or the far less likely prospect of his grandson by Caela, would take the throne of England.

Once the dais was still, Edward waved to the court chamberlain to admit the Duke of Normandy’s entourage. As the double doors at the other end of the hall slowly swung open, and the press of bodies within the hall parted to allow the entourage passage, Edward allowed himself to relax a little more in his throne. His friendship with Duke William was not only deep, but of long standing. Many years earlier Edward had been forced into a lengthy exile by his stepfather, King Cnut. Edward had spent the majority of that exile in the Duke of Normandy’s court where he had come to deeply respect the young William. Not merely respect, but trust. In his own kingdom Edward had to continually fight to maintain his independence from the cursed Godwine clan. Godwine and his family had sunk their claws of influence and power deep into most of the noble Anglo-Saxon clans, and one of the very few ways that Edward could maintain his authority was to surround himself with Normans, whether in the secular or clerical branches of England’s administration.

Edward had two great weapons to use against the Godwine clan. The first was his refusal to get an heir on Caela; the second was his deep ties to the Norman court, which carried with it the possibility that Edward would name the Duke of Normandy as his heir.

As far as Edward was concerned, William was not only a friend and an ally, he was one of the few weapons Edward had against Godwine and his sons.

Edward liked William very much.

The Norman entourage entered the Great Hall with a flourish of horns, drums, the sound of booted and spurred feet ringing out across the flagstones and the sweep of heavy cloaks flowing back from broad shoulders. Edward grinned as he recognised several among the entourage whom he knew personally.

There were some twenty or twenty-two Normans marching in military formation behind William’s envoy, Guy Martel. Directly behind Martel came Walter Fitz Osbern and Roger Montgomery, two of William’s closest friends. Their presence was a mark of respect by William:
See, I hold you in such love I send my greatest friends to honour you
.

Guy Martel led his entourage to within three paces of the dais, then halted, gracefully bending to one knee.

Behind him, each member of the entourage likewise dropped to a knee, bowing their heads.

“My greatest lord,” Martel said, his voice ringing through the hall, “I greet you well on behalf of my lord, William of Normandy, and convey to you his heartiest congratulations on the occasion of your marriage.”

Edward grunted.

On her chair Swanne shifted slightly, bored with the proceedings. She tried to catch Tostig’s eye for some amusement—he was standing to one side of the hall—but failed. She sighed and rubbed her belly, wishing she were anywhere but here at this moment. Her mind began to drift, as it so often did, to thoughts of Brutus-reborn, and where he might be, and if he was thinking of her.

“My lord wishes to present you with a token of his love and respect,” Martel continued, “and hopes that you are as blessed in your marriage as he is in his.”

With that, Martel reached under his cloak, and withdrew a small unadorned wooden box. “My lord, if I may approach…”

Mildly curious—and yet disappointed that William’s gift was not more proudly packaged—Edward gestured Martel forward, taking the box from him.

“What is this?” he said, opening the lid and staring incredulously at what lay within.

It was nothing but a ball of string. Impressively golden string, but a ball of string nonetheless.

This is what William thought to offer a king as a gift?

Caught by the offence underlying Edward’s words, Swanne looked over, wondering what the Duke of Normandy had done to so insult Edward.

“What is this?” Edward repeated, and withdrew the ball of string from the box, holding it up and staring at it.

Swanne went cold, and her heart began to pound. She was so shocked that she could not for the moment form a coherent thought.

“A ball of string?” Edward said, the anger in his voice now perfectly apparent.

“If I may,” said Martel, taking the string from Edward. “This is a treasure of great mystery,” he continued. “May I be permitted to show to you its secret?”

Edward nodded, slowly, reluctantly.
A treasure of great mystery?

Trembling so badly she could hardly move, Swanne edged forward on her seat.
Oh please, gods, let this be what I want it to be! Please, gods, please!

Martel began to unwind the string, which was indeed made of golden thread. His entourage had now formed a long line behind him, and Martel slowly walked down the line, spinning out the string so that a portion of it lay in the hands of each member of the line. Once the string had been entirely played out—there was perhaps fifteen or twenty feet of string between each man—Martel walked back towards Edward’s dais, holding the end of the string.

Again he bowed. “Pray let me show you,” he said, “the road to salvation.”

And with that, still keeping firm hold of the end of the string, he stepped back, and nodded at his men.

They began to move, and within only a moment or two it became obvious that they moved in a superbly choreographed and well-practised dance of great beauty. They moved this way and that, in circles and arcs, until each watcher held his or her breath, sure the string was about to become horribly and irredeemably tangled. But it never did, and the men continued in their dance, their faces sombre, their movements careful and supple.

Of all the watchers, only Swanne knew what she was truly watching, and only she knew what that ball of string represented: Ariadne’s Thread. The secret to the Labyrinth.

Gift to Edward be damned. This was a message for her, and her alone!

“Brutus,” she whispered, now at the very edge of her seat, her eyes staring wildly at the Normans as they continued in their graceful dance, unwinding the twisted walls of the Labyrinth.

Brutus…none other than William of Normandy!

“Thank all the gods in creation,” she said, again in a whisper. Her eyes filled with tears and her heart pounded with such emotion that Swanne was not entirely sure that she would not faint at any moment with the strength of it.

With a concluding flourish the dancers halted, paused, and then in a final, single movement, each laid his portion of the string on the ground, and then moved away from it, his task completed.

Soon the flagstone area before Edward’s throne was empty save for the golden thread, now laid out in a perfect representation of the pathways of a unicursal Labyrinth.

Edward had risen to his feet, and his eyes moved slowly between the golden Labyrinth laid out on the floor and Guy Martel.

“The road to salvation?” he said in a puzzled tone.

“My lord duke well knows of your piety,” Martel said, “and of your great disappointment that you have been unable to tread those paths within Jerusalem where once Christ’s feet trod. Behold the Labyrinth. Its entrance lies before you, and when you enter it, you do so as a man born of woman, and thus weighted down with grievous sin. But as you traverse the paths of the Labyrinth, thinking only of Christ and his goodness, you will find when you enter the heart of the Labyrinth that Christ and his redemption await you. When you exit the Labyrinth, retracing your steps through its winding paths, you do so in a state of grace, and you will truly be stepping the pathway towards your own redemption. This Labyrinth, great lord and king, represents the pilgrim’s journey to Jerusalem. He goes there weighted down with sin, but having prayed within that land where Christ once lived, he returns to his own land in a state of grace. He retraces his steps into redemption. This, my great lord of England, is Normandy’s gift to you.”

No
, thought Swanne, the tears running freely down her cheeks,
this is Brutus-reborn’s gift to me.

Edward was clapping his hands, his cheeks pink with joy, and he began to converse animatedly with Martel. But Harold was staring at Swanne, and leaned over to her, concerned. “My dear, what ails you?”

Clearly overcome with emotion, her eyes locked on to the golden Labyrinth, Swanne had to struggle to speak. When she did, her voice was only a hoarse whisper.

“The child,” she said, and rested a trembling hand on her belly. “The child has caused me some upset. I will retire to our chamber, I think, and rest.”

Harold leaned closer, worry now clearly etched on his face. “Should I send for the midwives?”

“No! No, I need only to rest. The heat and the crowd in this hall have made me feel faint. I will be well enough. Please, Harold, let me be.”