Gods Concubine (61 page)

I closed my eyes, fighting to keep back the tears.
Gods, what this land needed was Harold as its king, not William!

I felt Judith’s hand touch my elbow in concern, and I opened my eyes, and gave her a small smile.

Then I looked back to Harold, just as he was standing to receive the acclaim of the witan and the nobles.

A stray shaft of sunlight hit his head, highlighting the golden crown atop his brow, and I frowned, for it seemed to me that I was seeing something very important at that moment, yet not understanding it.

“Caela,” Ecub whispered in my ear, and she nodded to a spot within the crowd hailing Harold.

There stood Long Tom, looking at Harold with eyes shining with reverence.

He must have felt me watching, for the Sidlesaghe shifted his gaze from Harold to me. He frowned, and nodded in Harold’s direction, and then raised his hands and applauded as everyone else in the abbey was doing, his eyes constantly dancing between Harold and myself, and then the tears
did
slip down my cheek, because I knew Long Tom was trying to tell me something, trying to
show
me something, and I was fool enough not to understand what.

That night, my first at St Margaret the Martyr’s, I climbed to the summit of Pen Hill, and there waited Long Tom. I asked him what he had been trying to tell me in the abbey, but he only shook his head, and would not answer the question.

“We are worried,” he said, changing the subject when I tried to press. “The land feels ill. You do not feel it?”

I shook my head. In truth, the past week I had slept so little that I doubt I would have felt it if my right arm had been torn from my body.

Then I was consumed by guilt, because I
should
have felt it. I was the land, and if it was not right, then I
should
have felt it.

“It has an imp within it,” he said, and moaned so pitifully that I began to weep. “We cannot see where, but that imp will eat at us and this green land and its forests and waters until all are gone.”

“Long Tom, I can see and feel nothing. Why? What is wrong with me?”

And to that he did not respond, either, saying only, “You must move another band tonight, sweet lady. It is all we can do.”

I did, moving a band that Brutus had hidden in the north-eastern part of London’s wall to a point far to the south of the river, a place called Herne Hill where waited for me a similar scene as had greeted me at Holy Oak, save that this time I handed the band to a man sitting behind a curious wheel in one of those frightful black beasts, this time stationary at the entrance to a similar red brick building as had stood at Gospel Oak.

My heart raced the entire time, but there was no sign of Asterion.

Somehow that worried me more than anything.

T
EN

Y
ves had been and gone, and now William stood before Matilda with the unfolded letter in his hands.

He was staring at it without expression.

“Does it…?” Matilda said, wanting to snatch at the letter but unable to tear her eyes from her husband’s face.

“Yes,” William said, finally raising his own gaze from the letter to look at Matilda. “It confirms the rumours we’ve heard for the past two days. Edward is dead. And Harold has been elected and crowned and anointed King of England.”

Matilda drew in a sharp breath. “He moved fast. But then we always knew he would.” She nodded at the letter. “And Swanne? How has she positioned herself?”

William’s mouth twisted wryly, and he handed the letter to Matilda to read. “This is not from Swanne, but rather Aldred.”

Matilda took the letter, her eyes scanning the thick inked lines. “The Archbishop of York?”

“Aye.” They had already heard that Harold had set Swanne to one side, and neither was surprised at this intelligence. William wondered, however, just how deeply Swanne had taken that to her heart.

He wondered, very privately, and with an intensity that ate at him during those long wakeful moments in the heart of the night, if it was her anger and undoubted humiliation which had caused the “shift” he’d felt in the Game over the past few weeks.

Something had happened—distinct from the movement of the second
and
third bands which William supposed could be attributed to Silvius—and it had happened as he had felt a simultaneous “withdrawing” from Swanne. Apart from their two brief meetings they’d never been in close contact, but William had always been able to sense her,
feel
her.

Now that sense had faded.

What was happening?

Well, at least now he had the excuse he needed to move. William took a deep breath, grateful at least for Edward’s dying.

At last…at last.

He looked to Matilda’s face and saw the excitement there, and for the first time he wondered what would happen to her in this forthcoming battle.
Dear gods, let her not be hurt!

He reached out and touched her face tenderly, and was rewarded by the slight pressure of her cheek against the palm of his hand.

“You will be king,” she said.

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Aye. After all this time—”

“William,” she said, “I have had news from my agent as well.”

“Yes?”

“Swanne has moved into the Archbishop of York’s palace.”

“
What?
”

“Harold put her aside. This cannot be surprising news, surely.”

“That Harold should set Swanne aside? No. In truth, I expected it. But why would Swanne move into the archbishop’s household? In what capacity? Has your agent discovered that?”

Matilda watched her husband closely as she picked her next words with some care. “It is rumoured that Swanne has become Aldred’s lover.”

William’s mouth fell open.

“My love,” Matilda said. “After what Harold has told us of her, you cannot be surprised that—”

“That Swanne has chosen a lover? No, I am not surprised at that. I am sure she did it so that she retained a place at court. Unless she became a laundress—”

Matilda’s eyes widened very slightly, but otherwise her face remained remarkably expressionless.

“—there could be little else Swanne
could
do to keep a place within court. Sweet Christ, Harold would not want her there. But Aldred…
Aldred
! Matilda, you have met him and seen him for what he is. An obese flatterer with few qualities. He is useful, yes…but as a lover…”

“Perhaps he is a
good
lover.”

William laughed briefly, incredulously. “There are many other men within court who could have served as well as Aldred. Swanne is a beautiful woman—”

“I wouldn’t know,” murmured Matilda.

“—and she could have any man she—” He stopped abruptly. He stepped to Matilda, and cradled her face in his hands. “Matilda,
you
will be queen beside me. I swear it to you.”

“I expect to be, William. And Swanne?”

“I don’t know.” And he didn’t. William didn’t like to consider what Swanne would say once she learned Matilda was not to be pensioned off to some nunnery in Flanders. He remembered what she had done to Cornelia, how she had brutalised her, come near to murdering her, taken her child from her…

“I will protect you,” William said to Matilda.

She frowned. What an odd thing to say. Before she could question him on the matter, William had let her go, walking to a chest beneath the window where lay several sheets of parchment and vellum. He picked them up, shuffling them in his hands, signalling through the action that he wanted the subject changed.

“The documents are all prepared,” he said, “and the riders are waiting. They will be dispatched by this evening.”

Matilda came to stand by him, leaning in close as she stared at the letters before her.

They were addressed to the leaders of Europe: Alexander II, the Pope, leader of all Christendom; Henry IV, the Holy Roman Emperor, controller of the largest territory within Europe; Count Baldwin V of Flanders, Matilda’s kinsman, who was not only an important prince in his own right but was also the guardian to the young French king, Philip I; as well, scores of other lesser nobles and prelates. William was going to invade England come what may, but he was going to make damned sure that he had the political and armed support of Europe behind him.

“I have also sent out word to my magnates,” William said. “I will hold a great council in Lillebonne in a few weeks. When they agree, I will have an undivided Normandy behind me.”

“They
will
agree?” she asked.

“Yes. The rewards will be too good to ignore.”

“And the ships?” She almost whispered the question.

“I sent word yesterday once the rumours grew strong.” William had actually known the instant Edward had died, but had been forced to stay his hand until he heard the news by more conventional means. He didn’t want whispers of murder by poisoning circulating. “The wharves of Dives River are already ringing with the sound of carpenters’ hammers and adzes.”

“When?” she said, and she had to say no other word for William to know of what she spoke.

“Late summer,” he said. “Harold has until summer to enjoy his kingdom.”

His stomach clenched.
Only another few months, a few months!

E
LEVEN

W
hile, intellectually, Swanne should have known that Aldred and Asterion were one and the same man, one and the same
beast
, Asterion’s subtle sorcery worked so well that emotionally they were entirely separate in her conscious mind. Once the coronation was past (and how she had
hated
seeing Harold enthroned, and that pale-faced bitch beside him), Aldred had settled her back into his London palace. Here, at least once a day, he brutalised her both physically and emotionally until she cringed whenever she heard his voice, or caught a whiff of his scent on bed linens or a discarded robe.

Asterion usually came to her once Aldred had departed. He would hold her, and soothe away her hurts, and tell her how beautiful and powerful she was, and whisper how good it would be when they ruled the Game together. Swanne never made the connection: that Asterion appeared to her immediately after Aldred brutalised her so that Swanne would grow so dependent on Asterion, and so grateful to him, that she would do anything he wanted. Aldred unhinged Swanne’s mind and made her cruelly vulnerable to Asterion’s sweetness. Aldred was danger and pain; Asterion was relief from that pain.

Swanne was so grateful to Asterion, and now so desperately dependent on him, that it was difficult for her to disagree with anything Asterion said to her, or asked of her. Moreover, she found herself longing for those times when Asterion appeared. In a strange, bizarre fashion, she almost enjoyed the worst of Aldred’s beatings and rapes because it meant that Asterion was likely to come to her within an hour or so of Aldred leaving her writhing in agony.

Swanne was not sure what she wanted most: Asterion; the relief he represented; or the
power
he represented.

Strange, that previously she had never thought of Asterion as a possible partner in the Game. She’d only ever considered Brutus, or William as he was now, as her Kingman. But she didn’t
have
to use William, did she? Asterion was right. All she needed as Mistress of the Labyrinth was a Kingman.

It didn’t matter
which
Kingman.

The realisation had hit with an almost physical thud one day after Aldred had left her bruised and bleeding.

All she really needed was
a
Kingman.

Brutus she had selected because she’d thought he was the only one left. Indeed, there was no
selection
about it at all. It was him, or no one. She’d come to love him because of his power and attraction and vitality and because he was what she needed to fulfil her ambitions.

But there had been another choice apart from Brutus, hadn’t there? Why hadn’t she ever thought of Asterion? This puzzled Swanne in those long silent afternoons she spent sewing with her ladies, their heads bent over their embroideries, unspeaking at their mistress’ demand.

Why hadn’t she ever thought of Asterion
beyond
considering him as a threat?

Asterion did not want to destroy the Game. He wanted to control it—a perfectly understandable ambition, had Swanne thought clearly enough about it before now.

To control the Game, all Asterion needed were the bands. And Swanne, the Mistress of the Labyrinth.

Imagine the Game she and he could build together!

The power…

The darkcraft in full flower…

Swanne could feel her ancient darkcraft re-emerging. Every time Asterion lay with her it became that little bit stronger. Asterion had put the darkcraft into Ariadne, and now he was putting it back into her.

She almost loved him for it.

No…she
did
love him for it.

As the weeks passed, Swanne found herself hardly thinking about William at all. All she wanted was to be free again, to be Mistress of a resurgent Game.

And all she needed to do was to ensure that Asterion found the bands.

All she wanted was power, and Asterion seemed more to represent the quicker, surer pathway to it, than did William.

T
WELVE

H
awise had served as Swanne’s maid and then senior attending woman for over twenty-five years. She’d known Swanne as a child in her father’s manor, as the young woman who had seduced Harold to her bed, as the mother who had borne him six children, and, by virtue of Swanne’s connection with Harold, as one of the most senior women at Edward’s court.

Swanne had never been an easy woman, even when Hawise had first known her. She had been reclusive, demanding, cunning, charming. She had never been friendly, or confiding. She had always seemed sure…of
something
, as if even from childhood she entertained a distant vision that only she could discern.