Gods Concubine (10 page)

Despite his demeanour, Saeweald was intensely aware of everyone in the chamber. On his way through the door he had caught the eye of the Lady Swanne, in attendance this evening without her husband.

They had known each other instantly, and Saeweald was somewhat surprised that the silent bolt of hatred that shot between them had not sent the entire court into chaos.

But now Saeweald had all but forgotten Swanne. He was intently aware of Caela, who sat in a carved wooden throne a pace or two to Edward’s right, and who was almost as rigid as the frame of her chair.

“My wife,” Edward began, flickering his eyes to Caela, “is unwell. Consistently unwell. She suffers from a great disquiet of her womb, which causes me some anxiety.”

Saeweald understood very well by this last statement that Edward was not anxious for Caela’s sake, but anxious and irritated that she displayed such womanly weakness. No doubt, Saeweald thought, Edward would believe it the physical manifestation of Eve’s sinful presence within all women and, as such, undeserving of any sympathy. He looked at Caela from under the lowered lids of his eyes.

She was, if possible, even more rigid, and pink with humiliation.

“Sire,” said Saeweald in the strong, quiet voice he always used with the king, “I have many medications which will ease the problem. Be assured that I can lessen your anxiety.” For an instant, Saeweald’s mind was consumed with that terrible night so long ago when Caela had been Cornelia, and he Loth, and Cornelia had lain on the floor of her house, her womb and the child it had carried lying torn and bloody between her legs.

“Good. Perhaps you can attend her now?”

Saeweald bowed his head, more to hide his jubilation than with any real respect for Edward.
He was going to have a chance to speak with Caela!

Caela rose stiffly from her chair, her eyes staring ahead so that she did not have to see either her husband or Saeweald, and she walked from the chamber, two of her ladies in close attendance.

With a final bow to the king, Saeweald followed.

Within the regal bedchamber, Saeweald’s “examination” consisted of merely holding Caela’s hand in his, feeling the fluttering of her nervous pulse, and asking her a few quiet questions. The queen’s two ladies stood a respectful distance away, although they kept their eyes on the proceedings, and Saeweald was able to converse with Caela in relative privacy.

“Madam,” Saeweald began, “I am sorry to hear of your affliction.”

She said nothing, merely turning her face very slightly aside.

“It might not be so unexpected, however?”

She turned back to study him at the slight question in his tone.

“What do you mean, physician?”

Saeweald did not know what to expect at the distance within her voice. Surely she knew who he was?

“Your previous troubles…” Saeweald murmured, hoping that Caela would realise he spoke of her life as Cornelia, and Genvissa’s terrible attack on her.

She did not reply, and Saeweald could sense an immense withdrawal within her.

“Cornelia,” he whispered. “Do you not know me? I am Loth-reborn.”

She snatched her hand from his. “Are your wits addled, physician?”

Her words were angry, but Saeweald could hear a desperate fear beneath them.

Gods
, he thought,
what is going on?

“Madam,” he said, “I am sorry.” His thoughts raced, wondering what he should do or say next.
Why wouldn’t she recognise him?
“I took a concoction for the ache in my leg earlier this evening, and I fear somehow that it has muddled my thoughts.”

He felt her relax and, very gently, he took her hand back in his.
She was so frail
…For a few minutes Saeweald asked her questions about her monthly fluxes, how they had changed in recent times, and how they discomforted her.

Despite the intimacy of their discussion, Caela relaxed at the detached tone of his voice.

“You are not with child?” Saeweald asked eventually.

“No.”

“There is no possibility…?”

“No.”

Saeweald licked his lips, phrasing his next question as delicately as he could. “Madam, has the king ever—”

To his relief she answered before he had time to form all the words. “No. He will not lie with me.”

Saeweald could not help the sudden twitch of his lips. “And does that bother madam overmuch?”

He more than half expected Caela to snatch her hand from his, but to his astonishment her lips curled in a smile as well. “You are the first person not to offer me his sympathy over the issue, physician.”

He grinned, delighted, for in that single instant he saw some of Cornelia’s old spirit light Caela’s face.
She was there, but buried deep.
Caela had also responded to him as an intimate friend—something they were not yet in this life—for that comment should have seen any person, favoured royal physician or not, immediately ejected from the queen’s presence.

“There are many men more deserving of you, madam,” he said, and then, not wanting to push Caela any further, began to speak of some of the medications he would mix for her.

When Saeweald eventually sat back, setting Caela’s hand loose, he risked one more incursion into their shared past. “Do not think your womb is useless,” he said. “It harbours a greater power than I think you can currently know.”

Or remember
.

She frowned at him.

“Mag,” he said, hoping that this single word, the name of the goddess who had inhabited Caela in her previous life, would summon some response from the queen.

Mag, are you there?

But Caela’s frown only deepened, and, with a brief, respectful few words, Saeweald rose and left her.

Three days later Saeweald was in the front room of his chambers, which served as a dispensary, when the outer door opened and a woman came in.

Saeweald stared at her, then stepped forward, taking the woman’s hands in his and kissing both her cheeks in welcome before enveloping her in a huge embrace.

“Mother Ecub!”

“Aye,” she said, hugging him as tightly as he did her. “Mother Ecub indeed—and
still
Mother Ecub.”

“I know,” Saeweald said, standing back and grinning at her. “I have heard of you. I have never heard of a more undevout Christian prioress!”

“The priory serves me well enough,” said Ecub, “and I have gathered to my side many sisters who, while mouthing their Christian prayers, turn for inspiration and hope to the circle of stones standing atop Pen Hill. Whatever Edward and his flock of clerics want to believe, the ancient ways still throb deep within the hearts and souls of the people. But, oh, Saeweald, look at you. How can fate treat you so badly?”

He touched his hip and grimaced. “I have learned to live with this, Mother Ecub. You need spare no pity for me.” Then he smiled. “Just the sight of you, and the knowledge you were near, has eased much of my pain.”

Ecub knew he was not referring only to his physical aches.

“Who else?” she said softly.

“Genvissa, but then you must know that.”

Now it was Ecub who made the face. “Yes. The gracious and beautiful Lady Swanne. She and I have exchanged bitter looks, and a few even more bitter words, but my duties within the priory—and to the stones atop Pen Hill—allow me to avoid much of her poison. You?”

“We have spoken only once, when she crowed with delight at this.” Again Saeweald tapped his hip. “As with you, I avoid her.”

“Harold,” Ecub said very softly, watching Saeweald’s face.

“Oh, Ecub! How did that witch trap him?”

“He does not remember, does he?”

Saeweald shook his head. “In the past few weeks I have come to know him well. We have re-formed our old friendship and bond, although Harold is not consciously aware of it.” He sighed. “Ecub…it is a mercy for him, I believe, that he does not remember. I think it best that way. But that Cornelia and Coel were reborn as brother and sister…to yearn for each other, and yet to believe that to touch would be the ultimate vice. What evil mischief is this? Fate, or Asterion?”

“Who can tell, Saeweald? But you are sure that Harold
is
Coel-reborn?”

“Yes.
Yes
. Like so many people he adheres to the old ways while he mouths Christian pieties. He is my old and beloved friend, Ecub. Ah! How I hate to see him tied to that witch!”

Ecub grinned. “But he is her husband, and thus she his chattel by law of this land. Is that not deliciously amusing? Have you not thought how Swanne must chafe under that? And she must bear him sons…oh, I laughed when I heard she had birthed a male child. How that must have riled the oh-so-powerful Mistress of the Labyrinth.”

“And Brutus-reborn. Have you realised his identity as the Duke of Normandy?”

“Aye. I have heard of that ‘gift’ he sent to Edward, and have seen Edward in court crawling through that evil Labyrinth on his hands and knees, thinking he is crawling towards Jerusalem and salvation instead of towards monstrous terror.”

“I can foresee the sorrow that is to come. It will be Coel against Brutus, Harold against William, the moment that Edward dies. Edward means to get no heir on Caela; thus, when he dies England will disintegrate under those who would claim the throne.”

“Coel against Brutus,” Ecub repeated softly, “Harold against William. And Swanne, rising in all her malevolent witchcraft to ensure that it shall be William to succeed. Gods, Saeweald, how long do we have?”

“How long do we have for
what
, Ecub?”

She was silent, dropping her face to study her work-worn hands.

“Caela,” Saeweald said for both of them, finally bringing up the name they had both been avoiding. “I can understand why Harold does not remember his previous life as Coel—that is nothing short of a kindness to him. But Caela?
Gods
, Ecub! She carries Mag within her womb. She is our only hope against Swanne and William and the ever-cursed Troy Game!
And she does not remember!
”

“You have spoken to her, then?”

Saeweald nodded tersely.

“As have I,” Ecub said. “We have engaged in several conversations over the past months. Sometimes I push a little—mention a name, a deed—but she does not respond, save to stiffen as if the name I mention causes her great fear. And yet Cornelia
is
there. Caela founded my priory when she had no need to, and I hear her womb bleeds, as if Mag weeps within her.”

Again Saeweald nodded.

“There is nothing we can do,” said Ecub, “but to wait and trust in both Mag and Caela.”

“And wait for Edward to die,” said Saeweald.

“And wait for the storm to gather,” said Ecub. “Saeweald, sometimes I sit on Pen Hill and cast my eyes down to London, to the cathedral of St Paul’s which now sits atop Genvissa and Brutus’ foul piece of Aegean magic, and I shudder in horror. It still lives there, Saeweald. I can
feel
it, festering under the city and the feet of the people who inhabit it, poisoning this land.”

“Ecub,” Saeweald said. “We can do nothing until Caela—”

At that moment they both jumped as the outer door opened, jerking their heads about as if this were the storm approaching now, or perhaps even the Game itself, stepping out to consume them.

But it was only the laundress, Damson, come to collect Saeweald’s linens, and both Saeweald and Ecub relaxed into silence as the unassuming peasant woman did her task, then left.

Part Two

1065

As in days of old, …

As in days of old, the labyrinth in lofty Crete is said to have possessed a way, enmeshed ‘mid baffling walls and the tangled mystery of a thousand paths, that there, a trickery that none could grasp, and whence was no return…just so the sons of Troy entangle their paths at a gallop, and interweave flight and combat in sport…this mode of exercise and these contests first did Ascanius
^*
revive, when he girdled Alba Longa with walls, and taught our Latin forefathers to celebrate after the fashion in which he himself when a boy, and with him the Trojan youth, had celebrated them…even now the game is called Troy, and the boys are called the Trojan Band.

Virgil,
The Aeneid
, Book V

*
Father of Silvius and grandfather of Brutus.

London, March 1939

“E
aving?” Jack Skelton whispered into the sorry, grey dawn light of the Bentleys’ spare bedroom. “Eaving!”

For a moment nothing, then a creaking noise somewhere deep within the house.

Skelton leaped out of bed, his heart racing, and then realised, horribly, that Violet Bentley had made the noise. She was moving from her and Frank’s bedroom, down the stairs, to the small kitchen on the ground floor where she was doubtless about to prepare Skelton one of those horribly fatty English fried breakfasts.

Skelton subsided back to the bed, almost hating Violet for causing him to hope so terribly, so momentarily.

Eventually he made the effort to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. He paused there, then dropped his head into his hands, trying to find the energy to rise and wash and then dress for his first day in his new posting.

And then it came. From outside the window this time, not inside where Violet was making an increasing amount of clatter over the breakfast.

The sound of a child’s voice. A breathless, joyful catch of laughter. A spoken word, murmured.

Daddy.

“Gods!” Skelton said, his voice a harsh, shocked whisper. He scrambled to the window, almost falling in
his haste, and stared out.

On the street below, looking up at the window, was a little girl of some seven or eight years old. She had very black curly hair, an image of Skelton’s own, and a pale face with deep blue eyes ringed with sooty lashes.