Gods Concubine (75 page)

“It was none of my doing,” William said.

“It was Swanne’s doing,” said Caela and Matilda as one, and both women looked at each other, smiled, and laughed softly, and, in that single moment, became friends and allies.

“Harold told me so much of you,” the two women said together, and their laughter deepened, and whatever awkwardness had been in the chamber dissipated. Caela let William’s hands go to lean forward and embrace Matilda.

“Thank you,” Caela murmured for Matilda’s ears only, “for coming so quickly to William’s side. He is whole, thank all the gods.”

“I would not allow the snake to take him,” Matilda muttered, and Caela leaned back, her face sober now, and nodded at Matilda.

“We should speak later,” she said. “You and I.

“But now,” she turned back to William, “my lord of Normandy, I have come before you for two reasons.”

He inclined his head, his black eyes very steady on her face.

“The first,” Caela said, “is to beg for the life of Harold’s children, and that of his wife, Alditha. She is currently with child, and fearful that you intend her harm.”

“I did not wish him dead, Caela. I would have done anything to prevent that.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“I vowed to Harold that Alditha and his children would remain safe, Caela. And so they shall. As shall you. He asked for your life as well. Did you know that?”

“I do not fear you, William.”

Matilda felt that she should say something, if only to reassert her presence in the chamber. “William has already hammered his orders into the heads of every one of the Normans with us,” she said. “They are not to be harmed, and to be given every assistance possible.”

“Then thank you both,” said Caela. “The safety of Harold’s family means a great deal to me. The second reason I stand before you is to hand you London.” She paused. “It is, after all, yours.”

Matilda frowned at that. What did Caela mean?

William’s mouth twitched in a tiny smile. “Then I will gladly accept London’s surrender, madam.”

“Other members of the witan wait outside. Will you—”

“No, leave them for now. Perhaps—”

“Perhaps William and I can remember the more courtly among our manners,” Matilda put in smoothly, “and offer you a chance to sit and perhaps a cup of fine wine. Will you accept?”

Caela smiled. “Gladly, lady.”

They sat for some time, sipping wine, chatting agreeably, every look, every spoken word reinforcing Matilda’s growing belief that her husband and this queen were only re-acquainting themselves rather than establishing an acquaintance.

William and Caela also focused too much of their discussion on Matilda. What Matilda had expected (before Caela had actually entered their chamber) was that there would be tense verbal parrying as the queen tried to ensure the safety of her people and country and William tried to ensure every concession possible. Instead, Matilda found herself in the slightly surreal situation of parrying constant questions from both Caela and William as they both tried very desperately not to engage the other in anything other than banalities about the weather or the state of the rushes on the floor. Caela asked several score questions about Matilda’s children, and about her current pregnancy. William asked Matilda to relate amusing incidents from their life together, and from that time in their youth when they’d had to fight so hard to marry against what felt like all of Europe combined against them.

It was only during this last topic that there came a very deep and personal interaction between William and Caela.

As Matilda finished relating the three years of struggling with princely and papal objections, Caela actually looked at William directly.

“How strange for you,” she said, “that you had to spend so much energy and time fighting for the right to occupy your wife’s bed. From what I know of you, I should have thought you would have taken her as you willed and damn all consequences. I had no idea ‘objections’ had come to mean so much to you.”

There was a stillness between them as Matilda tried frantically to work out the hidden meaning in what Caela had just said.

“My sensibilities have changed,” William finally said.

“How fortunate for Matilda,” said Caela, and now there was a decided edge to her voice.

“There have been deeds in my past that I have come to regret,” William said. “I wish I had not forced—”

He stopped suddenly, his eyes sliding his wife’s way.

You!
Matilda thought, her face very calm.
You! That’s what you were about to say.

“I have learned from my mistakes,” he said, and now his voice was as hard as Caela’s.

Caela inclined her head towards Matilda. “Patently, my lord of Normandy.”

“Matilda,” William said very slowly, his eyes first on his goblet of wine and then lifting to Caela, “has taught me how greatly I should have treasured…”

You!
Matilda felt like standing and screaming that single word that William was so loath to utter. Yet for all the implications of this conversation, Matilda still did not feel a single pang of jealousy or of possessiveness. All she wanted was to somehow discover what these two were talking about, and how it was—Matilda took a deep breath as she finally allowed the thought to form in her mind—how it was that William and Caela had come to love each other so deeply.

Then, as Matilda struggled within herself, Caela turned her lovely eyes to the duchess and said, simply, “I am sorry…”

A pause, as Matilda wondered what that apology referred to.

“I am tired,” Caela continued, “and I admit that my reception had worried me so excessively on the journey to Berkhamsted that now I feel over-weary. I speak nonsense, my lady. Forgive me.”

You weren’t speaking nonsense to William,
Matilda thought,
for you have not begged forgiveness of him.

“We can find a quiet space for you within this abbey house,” Matilda said, “where you might rest. Tonight, perhaps, you and your delegation may sup with the duke and myself.”

Caela inclined her head, but Matilda had not yet done.

She turned to William. “My lord,” she said formally, and she saw the wariness surface in his eyes. “My lord” was only a title Matilda bothered to use when she wanted something of him. “My lord, may I request a boon from you?”

William, still wary, raised an eyebrow.

“I wonder if I might request the presence of Queen Caela within my ladies. Not,” she added hurriedly, shooting Caela her own look of apology, “as a member of my retinue, but as my honoured companion and, indeed, my better. It would ensure your safety,” she said to Caela, “if you remained within the duke’s company, and would provide me with a companion for whom I would be most grateful. I would like to know you better, Caela. I…you intrigue me.”

There, best to be honest.

Caela looked at William.

“You would not object?” he said.

She shook her head, and smiled back at Matilda. “I, too, would like to deepen my acquaintance with you, Matilda. I will stay a while, gladly.”

“Good,” said Matilda.

That night, when Matilda and William entered their bed, Matilda turned to her husband, and offered him her mouth.

He made love to her, sweetly and gently, and for that sacrifice, Matilda loved him more than ever.

F
IFTEEN

CAELA SPEAKS

O
h, by all the gods of heaven and hell, I could not believe he was so handsome. Brutus had been good-looking enough, but his features had been too blunt for true handsomeness. But William, William…I lay in my bed that night, grateful for its privacy, and thought of him in bed with his wife, and I envied her so desperately it became a physical pain within my breast.

I had not expected this: not his handsomeness, his vitality, nor my instinctive, gut longing for him. I do not know if this was simple sexual desire (I cannot imagine any woman coming into the presence of William the Duke of Normandy and not feel her belly turn to water as he looked at her), some greater depth of love, or that much greater need I had of him for the future of both this land and the Game.

I was so grateful for Matilda. I had mooned over William like some virgin girl, and she did not berate me for it. He and I spoke in what were riddles to her, and she did not ask for an explanation. Beyond that, I was most beholden to Matilda for another reason; it was obvious to me that William’s transformation away from that hardhearted, ambitious brute he had once been into something more reasonable was all her doing. But what I blessed Matilda for, most of all, was her gut instinct about Swanne’s danger, and her actions according to that instinct. I’d heard that she had come unexpectedly to Hastings a day or so after the battle,

and I had no doubt that it was her arrival that had kept William whole.

Safe.

I had felt that from him the moment I took his hands in mine.
He was still safe from Swanne!
I swear I almost threw myself at his feet and wept in relief at that moment of realisation. Instead, I did the better thing and embraced Matilda, for she was the one responsible for his current wholeness.

Matilda had managed to find for me a small, but private, space within the abbey house. I had no women with me, not even Judith, and so I was almost like a child in my sense of freedom as I did for myself that night (Matilda had offered me one of her women, but I had declined). So I lay there, sleepless, as my thoughts tumbled about, thinking almost entirely of William (my thoughts oscillating between relief at his wholeness to a slight feminine numbness at his attractiveness), and occasionally of Matilda.

Eventually, my thoughts were rudely drawn to Swanne.

She came to visit me in the small hours of the night.

I had not been asleep, but the soft footfalls approaching my tiny chamber nevertheless disturbed me. At first I had thought they might be William, and I was terrified, for I did not know what to say to him, but then I realised that whoever it might be was far too light for his tall frame.

In the end, I wished it had been William, for Swanne was far more terrifying than anything he could have been.

I had not seen Swanne since that terrible night when I had gone to her as Damson. There had been no reason for us to meet, and I, most certainly, had not tried to instigate a meeting.

So it was that, as I raised myself to my elbow and studied the dark figure that slipped in my door, I had a

sudden, terrifying moment of sheer panic when I realised who my visitor was.

Could she harm me?

Could she see who and what I had become?

And then I felt a moment of self-loathing for my cowardice. I would need to deal with Swanne eventually and, moreover, I
needed
Swanne. Nothing in my future could be achieved without her aid.

Somehow.

But still, knowing her alliance with Asterion, I simply could not help that tremor of fright as she came to my bed, saw me looking up at her, and then sat down on the edge of the mattress.

“Well, well, Caela. Come to your man, have you?”

“He is not ‘mine’,” I said, grateful my voice remained steady, “nor shall ever be.”

“Good girl,” Swanne said patronisingly, and reached out and patted my cheek. “What do you here then?”

“I come to surrender London into William’s hands.”

“And then run back to your convent, I hope.”

I said nothing. It was difficult to see any details of Swanne’s features, or her expression, in the dark, but, silhouetted against the faint light coming through the doorway, I could make out an ever-changing landscape of lines and angles in the outline of her face. “Snake”, Matilda had called her, and I thought that an apt name for her.

“I am amazed that you lie here so quietly,” Swanne said after a moment’s silence, “when William undoubtedly heaves and grunts over Matilda in their chamber.”

“I am unsurprised to find you here so unquietly,” I responded, “when William undoubtedly makes love to Matilda in their chamber.”

I saw her stiffen.

“She is nothing,” Swanne said.

“I do not think so,” I said.

“She is not the Mistress of the Labyrinth,” Swanne hissed.

“She is far more to him.”

“You simpleton! You have no idea—”

“To everything a purpose,” I said, edging myself up in the bed so that I sat upright. “Is that not what the Bible says?”

“The Bible is nothing but worthless—”

“Matilda is your penance,” I said, very softly, “for what you did to me in our former life.”

I think I struck her dumb. I know she sat there, rigid with emotion, staring at me for a long time. Finally, she broke the silence.

“And where have you found your backbone, my lady?” she asked.

“From life, and experience, and tragedy. Through loss of innocence, Swanne. For that loss, I think, I have you to thank.”

Again, a silence. I considered her, and I remembered how powerful she had been as Genvissa, both as MagaLlan and as Mistress of the Labyrinth. I remembered also her years as Harold’s wife, when she had been so influential within the court. Yet, as Swanne, Asterion’s creature, she had lost all power, whatever she may have thought. Oh, she was still dangerous, and could command magic, but she had lost completely that aura of extraordinariness that had once so set her apart from everyone else.

I realised that now Swanne, even as menacing as she remained, had become little more than a shadow flitting like a forgotten ghost through the unlit hallways of whatever court she thought to seek power within. Few people paid any attention to her. Most people had likely forgotten her existence, or ceased to care about it.

For the first time since I had known her, either as Swanne or as Genvissa, I felt sorry for her.

At that thought, my mouth opened and words tumbled forth from some dark, intuitive place.

“Swanne, if ever you need shelter, I will give it to you.”

“What?”

“If ever you need harbour, I am it.”
This is what I should have said and done when I went to her as Damson.
Suddenly I knew what I was doing. It had become clear to me, as I had trusted it would. In offering Swanne shelter, in offering to be her friend, I was opening the way for the day when Swanne would hand to me the powers of Mistress of the Labyrinth. Willingly. As Damson I had tried to bargain with Swanne, tried to extract the powers of Mistress of the Labyrinth from her as payment for services rendered. That had been a foul thing to do. Instead, I should have offered her friendship.