Gods Concubine (68 page)

“This,” the Sidlesaghe said, and nodded to his right.

Harold looked, and the mists parted.

He sat naked in a steaming rock pool, and in his arms, very close, he held a young woman, as naked as he. He was kissing her, deeply, his hands tight against her back so that he pushed her breasts against his chest.

“Coel,” she said, pulling her face away. “Don’t.”

“You want to,” he said.

“I…” she said.

“Your mind has barely strayed from the pleasures of the bed since we set out,” he said.

“I was thinking of Brutus,” she said.

“Really? And now?”

Harold groaned, and the Sidlesaghe rested a hand on his forearm, as if in support.

“Who was she?” he asked.

“A woman I loved,” said Harold. His eyes brimmed with tears, and he held forth his hand and cried out incoherently as the vision faded.

“What was her name?” Long Tom said.

“I don’t…I don’t know…
how could I have forgotten her?”

“Watch,” said Long Tom.

He burst in through the door, and saw her kneeling, keening, in the centre of the house.

“Cornelia?” he cried, and he could feel his heart breaking. “Ah, Cornelia, I am sorry. I had thought to be here before you.”

She rose, but slipped over in the doing, sprawling inelegantly to the floor. He ran to her, and wrapped her in his arms, and whispered to her soothing words.

“You knew that Brutus had gone to Genvissa, and taken Achates, and everything I hold dear?” she said.

“I saw Hicetaon come for Aethylla and the babies,” he said. “I knew then. I wanted to be here for you when you returned. I am so sorry. I came as quickly as I could.”

She clung to him, her weeping increasing, and the man rocked her back and forth.

“Cornelia,” he whispered, “don’t cry, please don’t cry.”

“Enough,” said the Sidlesaghe. “You need see no more.”

“I remember,” Harold said, his voice thick with tears. “Oh gods,
I remember
!”

“Good,” said the Sidlesaghe, “for there is much more I need to tell you.”

He leaned close to Harold, and he began to whisper at the speed of wind in the man’s ear.

F
IVE

CAELA SPEAKS

I
had taken to walking the hills north and west of St Margaret the Martyr’s during these late summer days. Here I could escape the bewilderment in Saeweald’s eyes and the vain hope in Judith’s. Here I could wipe my mind free (or as free as possible) of my responsibilities.

Here I could just walk, and here, if ever it was going to, the land could speak to me and tell me what it wanted.

On this day I had walked until I had exhausted my barely recovered body, and had sat down in the centre of the weathered circle of stones atop Pen Hill.

The view from here was beautiful. Before me spread fields and meadows that ran down to the silvered banks of the Thames, their purity marred only by the huddle of buildings and roadways that were London.

I tried not to look at the city. I tried not to think on what it contained: not only Swanne and Asterion somewhere within its huddled walls, but the Game…waiting, as I waited.

Well, they could all wait.

I tried also not to look too closely at the stones that encircled me atop Pen Hill. Today I did not want to see the Sidlesaghes. I did not want to see their long, mournful faces. Today, they were just stones.

To my relief, after I had been atop Pen Hill for an hour or more, low-lying, thick mist closed in, cloaking the view, but leaving the summit of the hill and myself in sunlight. I was happy, for this meant I might sit amid the waving grasses and flowers of Pen Hill, my arms wrapped about my raised knees, in solitude, and not have to fear any disturbance.

Thus it was some shock, eventually, to hear the faint thud of footfalls approaching up the mist-shrouded lower reaches of the hill.

I was irritated, more than anything. It would be Saeweald, come to ask me questions. Or Ecub or Judith, come to sit with me and think to offer me some comfort. Or it would be some peasant woman who, finding the space atop Pen Hill occupied by a former queen (and one with her hair all loose and blowing in the wind at that), would blush and mutter in confusion, and depart, taking my peace with her.

So I turned my face very slightly in the direction of the footfalls (thud, thud, thud up the hill; whoever this was, they sounded as if they had the gods at their heels), my chin on my arms folded across my knees, and I arranged my features in a scowl.

Not very welcoming, I know, but I truly did not want company. As if in response to my irritation, even the sky had clouded over.

Then, in the space of a breath, Harold appeared out of the mists as if he were a spirit, striding resolutely up the final few yards of grassed slope to reach the summit of Pen Hill.

He walked forward, pausing between two of the upright stones, a hand resting on one of them. He was clad as if for war, a tunic of chain mail, a light linen tunic of war-stained scarlet embroidered with the dragon over the mail, a sword at his hip.

He looked terrible. He’d lost much weight and, while he’d always been lean, now appeared gaunt under his mail.

His chest was heaving, as if he’d found the climb tiresome.

His face…

But I did not see his face, not immediately, for as my eyes travelled up his body a ray of sunlight burst through the thin clouds and caught Harold in its grip.

I cried out, falling a little sideways in my surprise, for that shaft of sunlight had crowned Harold in gold as surely as Aldred
(Asterion!)
had crowned him in Westminster Abbey. But here he had been crowned, not by a monster in the guise of a man, but by the sun itself.

By the land.

And I understood.
Harold was the land!

I scrambled to my feet, painfully aware that my robe was loose and grass-stained, and my hair all tumbled about my shoulders and blowing about my face.

He didn’t say a word, not at first. He stood, his hand still on the stone, staring at me.

Then he just walked forward,
strode
forward, grabbed me to him, and kissed me, deep and passionate.

“Harold,” I said finally, when I managed to snatch some breath.

“Don’t,” he replied, his voice harsh with desire, and something else…I am not sure what. “Don’t say anything to me. Not yet.” He buried his hands in my hair and groaned, and I think I did too, and we kissed again, our bodies almost writhing each against the other.

He had remembered. Someone had told him, or he’d simply just
remembered.

“I cannot!” I cried, suddenly, frightfully fearful. “To lie with you will be to kill you!”

“I am your king,” he said, his mouth trailing over my jaw, my neck. “Do as I ask.”

“Coel…” I whispered.

He grabbed at my shoulders, and shook me, only a little, just enough to tumble the hair over my face.

“I am this land incarnate,” he said. “Are you
really
going to refuse me?”

I was crying softly, but with the strength of the emotions which were surging through me, and with relief and fear and desire all combined.

Then he gentled. “We are safe here, in this circle,” he said, and smiled, and my heart could have broken at that moment for love of him. “Will you accept me, lady?”

And it was not just Harold asking, but Coel. Harold would die, and he would die through William’s actions, as Coel had died, but this time, in this place, we could bless each other…and the land.

Give me yourself, Caela, and you grant me joy and life.

I do not know if he spoke those words aloud, or in my mind, but I did not care. I smiled at him, overcome with emotion, and I did not have to answer. Not verbally.

Take what you want of me, for it is all yours.

And he gathered me back into his arms.

When, finally, we lay naked and entwined on the grass, and he entered me, I cried out with joy, my arms extended into the skies, and wept for the feel of the land embracing me completely, utterly, filling all my empty, desolate spaces.

We made love all through that afternoon, the gentle warmth of the sun bathing our naked bodies, the mists still shrouding the lower portions of the hill and the flat lands beyond. This was loving such as I had never experienced, not even with Brutus, for this passion encompassed both earth and sky and water as well, and they were as blessed as I.

This
is what both I and the land had wanted.

This
is what I had needed to open up to me those strange, dark spaces inside, and fill them.

I wept, and he kissed away my tears.

“How did you know?” I asked eventually.

“I was riding the northern road, when a strange mist enclosed me. A creature came, tall, and pale, and with—”

“The most mournful face!” I said, and laughed, cupping Harold’s face in my hands.

He smiled, too. Slow, loving. “You know of what I speak?”

I told him of the Sidlesaghes, and of Long Tom, and Harold nodded.

“He is of the ancient folk.”

“Yes.”

Harold grinned. “He showed me that day, in the rock pool.”

I coloured. Even now, after all these years, and all that had happened (and even now, lying naked with this man), I still coloured as easily as a girl at that memory.

“Now
that
is a memory to treasure,” Harold said, kissing my neck, my shoulder, his voice light and teasing. “Inside you, Brutus not twenty paces away.”

I did not smile, for my mind had jumped to that moment later, when Coel was inside me, and Brutus a great deal closer than twenty paces, and with a sword, gleaming sharp and deadly in the lamplight.

Harold was looking at me, his smile gone, but his face still relaxed. “He is not here now.”

“But he will—”

“Shush,” he said. “That does not matter. Not here, not now.”

“Oh, Harold,” I said, my voice cracking, and he gathered me tight, and held me, and I knew then that whatever else happened, whoever else I loved, this man would always be…would, quite simply, always
be.

Later, after we had made love again, I looked over Harold’s shoulder, and laughed.

“What?” he said, rolling off me.

Then he jumped, using his hands to cover his nakedness, and I laughed the harder, not bothering to hide mine.

We were encircled by Sidlesaghes, all standing with great smiles on their faces, all clapping, slowly, soundlessly, with their strong, brown hands.

“They are happy,” I said. Then I added, and where these words came from I have no idea, “They are our children.”

“Then they should be in bed,” said Harold tartly, and I rolled over, my sides aching now with laughter, and the Sidlesaghes clapped the harder.

And then, yet more time later.

Harold had decided to ignore the Sidlesaghes, and began a long, slow, sensual stroking of my body. I loved it. I sighed, and arched my back, and begged him never to stop.

“Will you do something for me?” he said.

“Anything,” I groaned, “so long as you complete here what you have begun.”

He lowered his head, and ran his tongue around one of my nipples, and I clutched at his hair, and thought I would die with the strength of my wanting.

“When I am gone,” he whispered, lifting his mouth momentarily, agonisingly, “will you be my future for me? Will you watch over this land for me, and all those I should have been able to protect?”

“Harold…”

“Promise this to me.”

“Yes. You did not have to ask.”

He grinned, moving his head just enough that his tongue could now draw the other nipple deep into his mouth. For a long moment there was no talk, only the soft sound of my moan, and his heavy breathing.

“Then my future is assured,” he whispered. Then he moved, pivoting across my body, burying his hands tight in my hair, his face only inches from mine.

“The Sidlesaghe showed me many things.” His body was moving over mine now, and my legs, of their own accord, parted under his weight.

“Yes?” I whispered.

“Of how Game and land are married.”

“As you and I.”

He smiled, but only briefly, his body moving very slowly, very teasingly atop mine. I wriggled, trying to tempt him inside, but for the moment he stayed a breath away from entering me.

“The Sidlesaghe showed me how you are Mag-reborn. ”

“Yes.” That was more moan than word.

“And how Og one day, too, will be reborn.”

“Yes.” Then I had a sudden, horrible thought that I could hardly bear, and my body fell still beneath his. “Harold—”

He kissed the tip of my nose. “I know,” he said. “I know that will not be me. And I know who it will be, and I am content enough with that. This is a long path you travel, my love. A long way to go.”

“I know. There is so far…”

“All every path needs is but one step at a time.”

I was silent.

He smiled, and the warmth in it was stunning. “And all every path needs is a companion with which to share it.”

I was shocked at what he suggested, particularly because of the understanding he had shown just before it. “But you know that at the end…”

“All I want is to share the path with you. I know I cannot be your destination. I’ve always known that.”

I began to weep. What had I ever done to deserve this man’s love…to deserve what he now offered me?

“Oh, sweet gods, now I’ve made you cry again.”

I started to laugh through my tears, and, determining that I’d had enough of his teasing, I pulled him down and into me. “At least you will never hear me say ‘No!’ again!”

“Oh, lady…how I love you.”

Much later, as evening drew near, one of the Sidlesaghes wandered over, waited until we both became aware of his presence, and gestured us to follow him.

S
IX