Gods Concubine (66 page)

It did not immediately perturb him—the Thames was the final resting place for hundreds of unfortunates every year—but as he passed it, the current surged, turning the corpse over.

It was Damson, her head almost severed from her body.

E
IGHTEEN

I
t took Saeweald five days and nights—days and nights when he hardly slept—before he could be sure that Caela would live. He dribbled broths down her throat, he placed medicated lozenges in her mouth to slowly dissolve, he coated her tongue with honey.

And finally, finally, she began to respond to his treatment.

Ecub and Judith also kept vigil within Caela’s chamber, as did Silvius. More than anything else, all three wanted to move Caela back to the relative safety of St Margaret’s. This small religious house within London’s walls was too close to Swanne and whatever had happened in that chamber
(and how they wanted Caela to wake, and to talk, so that they would know what
had
happened!).
But Caela lay so close to death that there could be no thought of moving her.

Not yet.

On the sixth day, so wan she looked like a three-day-dead corpse, Caela opened her eyes.

Saeweald, waving Silvius, Judith and Ecub away from the bed, gently fed her some broth with a spoon, then wiped her face with a clean towel.

“Caela,” he said gently. “You’re back with us.”

She started to weep. “Damson is dead.”

“We know,” Saeweald said. “But—”

“I killed her. I killed Damson.”

“Enough,” said Silvius, who had finally managed to find a place beside Saeweald. “It was not
you
who killed—”

“I put her in harm’s way,” said Caela, and then wept so violently that Saeweald again motioned Silvius away with a frown, then held Caela’s hand while she cried away her grief and guilt.

When, eventually, her tears had abated somewhat, Silvius said: “What happened?”

“Swanne…” Caela said, her voice hoarse. Saeweald fed her some more spoonfuls of broth, and she smiled at him gratefully.

The smile died almost the instant it had appeared.

“Swanne had Asterion’s black knife,” she said, “and with it she murdered Damson. Swanne has allied with Asterion.
He
is her new lover.”

There was a chorus of voices, shocked, stunned, angry, disbelieving.

“Wait,” Caela whispered. “There is worse. Swanne and Asterion mean to control the Game between them.”

“Asterion does not want to destroy it?” Silvius said.

Caela gave a weak shake of her head, prompting Saeweald to murmur in concern and to glare at Silvius, as if his question had seriously weakened Caela.

“He means to control it,” Caela said. She began to cry again. “Become its Kingman in place of William. Silvius…I am sorry…Silvius…I told Swanne, before I knew of her bond with Asterion, what the Game has planned. Oh, Silvius, I am so sorry. I should have—”

“Be still,” Silvius said gently. “It could not be helped. They trapped you.” He took Caela’s hand in his, stroking it gently.

Then, suddenly he stilled and his face went pale.

“What?” said Saeweald, staring at Silvius.

“The Mag force within Caela has gone,” he said, his voice hoarse with disbelief and horror. “The Mag within her has
gone.”

A terrible, bewildered silence.

“Swanne has succeeded,” Silvius went on, his voice now barely audible. “She has killed Mag. She has finally killed Mag.”

Part Seven

1066

Among the school-boys in my memory …

Among the school-boys in my memory there was a pastime called Hop-Scotch, which was played in this manner; a parallelogram about 4 or 5 feet wide, and 10 or 12 feet in length, was made upon the ground and divided laterally into 18 or 20 different compartments called beds…the players were each provided with a piece of tile…which they cast by hand into the different beds in regular succession, and every time the tile was cast, the player’s business was to hop on one leg after it, and drive it out of the boundaries at the end…if it passed out at the sides, or rested upon any of the marks, it was necessary to repeat the whole of this operation. The boy who performed the whole of this operation by the fewest casts was known as The Conqueror.

Joseph Strutt,
Sports & Pastimes of the People of England,
late 18th century

London, March 1939

“
C
ornelia is mine, you know,” said Asterion, lounging against the closed door to Skelton’s bedroom as the Major slid home the knot on his tie.

Jack Skelton ignored the Minotaur as he turned slightly, checking his reflection in the wardrobe mirror to make sure his uniform sat straight.

“I’ve had her ever since that moment she begged me to sleep with her,” Asterion continued. “Genvissa was right. Cornelia was always a tramp.”

Skelton turned so that he could look the Minotaur in the face. His eyes were weary, ringed with dark circles, the expression in them resigned, almost hopeless.

“Then why hasn’t she given you the final two bands?” Skelton said.

The Minotaur laughed. “Oh, she will, soon enough.”

Skelton smiled. “Yes? Then why traipse over London after me? Why torment me, if there is no need?”

Asterion straightened, snarling. “Because I enjoy it!”

Then he was gone, and Skelton was left staring at the back of the bedroom door.

“Major?” Violet called from the other side. “Frank’s waiting for you. He has the motor outside.” She paused. “Waiting.”

“Aye,” whispered Skelton. “Waiting, as are we all.” He raised his voice. “I’ll be but a moment, Mrs Bentley!”

But Skelton did not immediately move. Instead he continued to stand, staring at the closed door, one hand
raised to his shirt where he scratched softly at that spot where Matilda had touched him earlier.

He could hear a rumble outside, and Skelton knew that it was not, as might be expected, the sound of Bentley starting up his motor.

Instead he recognised it for what it was: the sound of the wild white stag with the blood-red antlers running through the forest.

“I’m ready,” he said, and the only one who heard was the running stag.

O
NE

Mid-September 1066

T
he northerly wind blew strong, whipping up the waves in the Somme estuary into man-high, cream-foamed crests that slapped against the hulls of the scores of galleys at anchor.

On shore, standing atop a tower which overlooked the harbour and the small town of Saint-Valery, William glanced yet once more at the weather vane on top of the church spire.

The northerly wind showed no sign of abating.

Matilda, standing with her husband, saw the direction of his glance. “Hardrada is moving.”

“With this wind? Aye. His ships will be close to northern England by now.”

The spring and summer had been a curious mix of frantic activity and a soul-deadening wait for intelligence. While William had built up his military expedition and garnered support from the European heads of state and Church (all of which had, thank Christ, been forthcoming), Harold had consolidated his hold on England and built up his own forces to meet the expected challenge from Normandy.

But Harold Hardrada of Norway was also moving. He had built three hundred ships, a flotilla with which to invade the north of England, and, like William, awaited propitious weather conditions in order to launch his ambition.

This northerly wind provided Hardrada with his chance. William had received intelligence a week ago that Hardrada had embarked on his voyage. If he wasn’t within sight of England now then he would be within the day. And while the northerlies sped Hardrada towards England it kept William penned in the mouth of the Somme…waiting.

“And Harold?” Matilda asked softly.

“Preparing to meet him.” William let go a pent-up breath. “At last. At
last
we are moving.”

“But we are
not
moving,” Matilda observed, and William turned to her and grinned.

He leaned down and planted a kiss on her forehead, and rested a hand briefly on her belly. Matilda was five months gone with child, and William was grateful for no other reason than that pregnancy would keep Matilda at home when otherwise she might have insisted on embarking with him.

“We shall be soon,” he said. “This northerly will not last a lifetime, and the instant it changes, we sail.”

“Yet in the meantime Hardrada threatens to seize England from us.”

William shook his head, his eyes now scanning the fleet as it bobbed at anchor. “Harold is good. Very good. Hardrada may test him, but I doubt very much that he will best him. He
will
tire him. With luck, my love, Harold’s force will be exhausted by the time it meets mine.”

“I wish my agent was still in place,” Matilda said, her voice sad. She’d heard some time ago of her agent’s death, and Matilda worried that it was her orders that had placed Damson in danger.

“We will manage without her,” William said, kissing the top of Matilda’s head.

“I wish I knew who killed her,” she said.

“When I have England, then we shall hunt down her murderer. I promise you that.”

Matilda relaxed, trusting in her husband. She, too, looked over the fleet, reviewing in her mind all that had happened in the past months. The Norman magnates’ enthusiastic acceptance of William’s plan; the Pope’s blessing; the aid—both monetary and in the form of troops—sent by the nobles of Flanders, Maine, Brittany, Poitou, Burgundy, five of the Italian states and a score of others.

All lusting for the spoils William promised would be theirs at his victory.

“I will keep Normandy safe for you,” she said, and William again smiled and kissed her. He was leaving Matilda as co-regent of Normandy with their eldest son, Robert. At fourteen Robert was coming into an age where he needed to shoulder the responsibilities of the duchy which would eventually be his. William had needed to fight for decades to establish his right to rule Normandy, and he intended to make the process of succession much easier for his son. He loved his son, as he loved Matilda, but not with the deep-hearted passion he was capable of.
That
he reserved for…

His eyes slipped over the estuary and out to sea. Wondering what was really happening in England…in London.

Swanne had been quiet. Too quiet for his liking, and for the events that were gathering. He had heard that she kept her place in Aldred’s bed, and he found that disturbing.

Why?

Harold he had understood (if not Swanne’s neglect in telling him that Harold was Coel-reborn). William’s chance to take his rightful place on England’s throne (as England’s kingman) had been delayed by so many years because of the (Asterion-driven) revolts within Normandy itself. In the meantime Swanne had needed to establish a place within the English court, and Harold had been the perfect vehicle with which to do that.

William could forgive her Harold. Could
understand
Harold.

But not Aldred. The man was not unknown to William, for the corpulent Archbishop of York had acted as one of Edward’s emissaries to Rome on numerous occasions, and when travelling through Europe Aldred had often stayed with William. Aldred’s sympathies were clearly with William, because he’d acted as the go-between for the letters between Swanne and William for years.

William repressed a sigh. Perhaps that’s why Swanne was with him. Payment owed?

No, that wasn’t Swanne at all.

“Your thoughts?” Matilda said beside him, and William jumped a little guiltily.

“I was thinking of Swanne,” he said. “I was wondering why, out of all the intelligence I’ve received from England, so little of it has been from her. I had expected more.”

Far more, damn it. There is not just a
throne
riding on this!

“You’re worried,” Matilda said.

“Yes.”
What was Asterion doing? Where was his hand in all of this?

“You can do nothing save what you have already done,” Matilda said, leaning in against him and placing her arm about his waist.

“Aye. You are right. As usual.” William lightened his face and tone. “Tell me, how do you think I can possibly crown you Queen of England when in all probability you shall be too round and cumbersome to fit on to the throne?”

She laughed. “You shall be a great king.”

William’s face sobered. “I hope so.”

T
WO

I
t was all falling apart—had been for months—and Saeweald had no idea how to stop it.

It had all seemed so simple: pass control of the Game into the hands of Mag and a resurrected Og and all would be well, forever and aye.

The land would flourish, and no one and nothing, ever, would be able to stain its brightness. Asterion and all his malevolence would be contained, Swanne and William and all their ambitions would be broken, Mag and Og would again reign supreme and the waters and the forests would rejoice.

Yet nothing had quite happened that way, had it?

Saeweald had known that Caela always felt that she lacked something, that there was an emptiness within her where there should have been fullness, and that she had somehow failed to truly connect to the land. Since the failure of her “marriage” to the land that night she’d lain with Silvius, that sense of emptiness had become even greater, undermining Caela’s confidence within herself. After that terrible day when Swanne and Asterion had slaughtered Damson, Caela had rejected the Mag within her completely.