Gods Concubine (70 page)

Eaving!
It was a rustic word, used generally only by shepherds, herdsmen and sailors. Yet, even by these men eaving was a word used only once or twice in their lives.

Superficially, “eaving” meant shelter, but its meaning went a great deal deeper than that. Eaving was used by shepherds and sailors, men who were exposed to the worst of the elements, to mean “an unexpected haven from the tempest”. They used it when they and their flocks, or ships, were caught in a storm of apparently supernatural anger, which threatened their very lives, and from which there appeared to be no shelter. Then, suddenly, as though god-given, there appeared seemingly from out of nowhere the unexpected haven: an overhanging cliff which protected the shepherd and his flock from the worst of the weather, a small bay or estuary in which a ship could ride out a storm.

Eaving, the unexpected haven in which to ride out the storm and from where one could re-emerge into the sunlight.

“You wish to use the name Eaving?” asked Mag. “Once you accept this name you will be tied to it and by it.”

Eaving turned to Mag, then looked at each of the other women in turn. “It is who I have always been,” she said, “and what I want only to be. Eaving. I accept this name.”

“Then welcome, Eaving,” said Mag. “Welcome to yourself.” She held out her arms, as if she would embrace Caela—
Eaving
—but then the hall appeared to disintegrate into its elements, and water crashed about them, and the next thing Harold knew he was standing atop the Pen again, shivering in the cold night air, alone save for Caela who lay at his feet.

For one terrible moment he thought she was dead, but then Caela rolled on to her back and smiled at him.

“I feel whole,” she said. Then she held out her arms to him. “Let me make you warm.”

His shelter from the impending storm
…and suddenly all of Harold’s fear and anger and frustration at his approaching, unavoidable death vanished. He knelt down beside her, and lay down, and felt her take him in her arms.

“Eaving,” he whispered, and then she kissed him.

S
EVEN

W
hen she returned to her chamber within St Margaret the Martyr’s, it was to find Judith, Saeweald, Ecub and Silvius waiting for her.

“What has happened?” said Silvius, taking a step forward as Caela entered.

She looked at him as if slightly puzzled, then smiled agreeably. “I have spent the afternoon with Harold.”

“Harold?” Judith, Saeweald and Silvius said together.

To one side, Ecub looked carefully at Caela, and nodded very slightly to herself. So.

“He is tired,” said Caela. “Dispirited.” She paused, her brow furrowed as if trying to remember something, then said, “Our brother Tostig is dead. Harold killed him at Stamford Bridge.”

Judith and Saeweald looked at each other, not sure what to say.

“Caela,” Saeweald said.

She came to him, and kissed his cheek gently. “Forgive me for being so dispirited these past months, Saeweald. I have come to my senses now. I will do what I must.”

“What
has
happened?” Silvius said. He walked forward, and took Caela’s chin in his hand. “Caela?”

“I am well and I am at peace, Silvius,” she said. “There are no more empty spaces. No more lack. I
am
this land, I am the soul of its rivers and waters, the wellspring for its fertility. I accept it. I have embraced it.”

“How is this so?” Silvius asked. His black eye was narrowed, searching Caela’s face. “Why so confident, so—?”

“Unexpectedly confident, Silvius?” Caela smiled, very gently, and moved her face so that her chin slid from his grip. “I am tired,” she said. “I would rest. Do you mind?”

As they filed from her chamber, Caela added, quietly, “Ecub, I beg you to stay a moment.”

“Harold,” said Ecub, once the door had closed behind the others.

Caela’s face broke into a huge grin.
“Yes!
Oh, Ecub, you cannot know—”

“I can guess,” said Ecub, laughing. She stepped forward, taking both of Caela’s hands in hers. “He was your mate, yes? He was your means to marrying with the land. We all should have seen it sooner. Even in the past life, we should have seen it.”

If anything, Caela’s grin broadened, and Ecub laughed again, and enfolded the younger woman into a tight embrace.

“There is much I need to tell you,” Caela said when Ecub eventually pulled back.

“Indeed,” said Ecub. Her face was sober now, her eyes searching. “But what
I
want to know, first, is why you tell me, and not the others.”

“I am not sure.” Caela turned and walked to the window, gazing out at the looming shape of Pen Hill in the darkness. “There was a caution within me that lifted only when you were the last left in the room.” She turned back to face Ecub. “And perhaps it is because you were the one with me at Mag’s Dance.
You
were the one to watch me dance Mag’s Nuptial Dance.”

“And Blangan.”

Caela smiled sadly. “But she is not here now.”

“But
you
are.” Ecub breathed deeply, then bowed low at the waist. “Mother Mag.”

“No,” Caela said, and Ecub looked up, surprised. “Eaving,” Caela said. “My name is Eaving. Mag has passed, and only I remain.” Caela sat down on her bed, and patted the space beside her. “Sit, and I will tell you all that transpired this afternoon. Oh, Ecub, it was so beautiful.”

An hour later they still sat on Caela’s bed, their hands gripped, save that now Ecub was weeping, shaken by what she had heard, and by the power of her own joy.
Oh, how fortunate she was that she should have lived to hear this!

Eventually Ecub sniffed, quietened her emotion, and said to Caela, “You are Eaving, the shelterer, but you also shall need a shelter, and a protector.”

Caela’s mouth curved in a small smile. She had been right to trust this woman as the first—apart from Harold, of course—among those who would know her for who she truly was.

“I,” said Ecub, “and mine, my sisters, will always be yours. We shall exist for only one purpose, and that shall be to provide
you
with a haven, in whatever manner you need it.”

It was a powerful promise, and Caela’s own eyes now brimmed with tears. She leaned forward, kissing Ecub softly on the mouth. “I accept,” she said, “although you may one day regret—”

“Never!” said Ecub. Then, more softly, “Never. I watched over Mag’s Dance, and saw you come to your own within it. I will watch over you now, and for so long as you need me.”

Caela nodded. “Thank you.”

Much later, when everyone else had gone, Ecub bedded Caela down in her chamber. Judith had gone off with Saeweald, and Ecub was glad of it.

“What is it that you ‘must’ do?” asked Ecub, tucking the bed linens about Caela’s shoulders as if she were a child. “Warn William? Move against Asterion?”

“I must wait,” said Caela. “I can do no more. I shelter. I cannot avenge. I cannot warn.”

“Do you not fear for William?”

“Oh, aye, I do not think I can sleep for the fear I hold for him. Swanne…oh, dear gods, Swanne is his walking death. But I must be true to myself, Ecub. I cannot go to him. I cannot seek him out. He must come to me. He must need the haven.”

“Swanne and Asterion will—”

“I know. I
know.
But I have to trust in myself and in what will be, Ecub. I can do no more.”

Ecub sighed, patted Caela on the shoulder, then retreated to a stool under the window, blowing out the candle as she did so. The stool was uncomfortable, but there was no point in her sleeping; Matins service would begin within an hour or two, and Ecub might as well spend the time between now and then in contemplation…and in thanks for the unexpected joy this life had brought her.

E
IGHT

W
illiam had been in England almost two weeks, and he’d yet to have the opportunity to
think
about the underlying “why” of his presence here. Certainly he was here to win himself a kingdom and all the spoils it could provide him, but that there was far more at stake he had not allowed himself to consider.

There had been no time.

He’d sailed from the Somme estuary on the night of the 28th of September, arriving at Pevensey Bay early the next morning. At this bay, William had constructed some initial defences, but then had decided that the small port town of Hastings, which lay a little further up the coast, would serve his purposes better. Hastings stood on a small peninsula and could be more easily defended, and William wanted to protect his ships, his men and, he admitted in his darker moments, his escape route.

He was a more cautious man now than he had been as Brutus. If Brutus had been forced to linger in Normandy, or Poiteran as it had been then, for over thirty years he would have marched on London the instant he’d landed. William was far more circumspect. He knew the English would be hostile. He was not sure where Harold and his army were…and he knew Asterion was here somewhere, waiting for William to make that one, grossly stupid move which would see him fail.

So William proceeded with care, determined not to move so precipitously it left no escape route. Just outside Hastings William set his men to work, constructing earthen defences and a bailey castle. Neither defences nor castle would withstand a siege, or even a sustained bombardment, but it would buy William the time he would need during a forced retreat.

Now William was standing atop the bailey castle, one booted foot tapping impatiently on the floorboards, gazing north-west over the countryside. There were a few pillars of smoke in the distance: his men had been out pillaging. William had not wanted them to do it, but they had to be fed somehow, and he also did not want to deplete what few stores he’d brought with him. A few paces away stood two or three of his commanders, watching William more than the landscape.

William had called his commanders for a war council, but that could wait for a few minutes.

A few moments more of quiet, where he could think on the underlying reason for his invasion. The real reason, the true reason why so many men were about to die.

To retrieve the bands, and to then complete the Game with Swanne by dancing that final, concluding dance, the Dance of the Flowers.

Ah, stated in so few and such bald words it sounded all so easy, didn’t it?
Just retrieve the bands, grab Swanne by the hand, and execute the Dance of the Flowers. No need even for the accompanying dancers, as they’d had two thousand years ago. All that was really needed was the Mistress and the Kingman. Two people, six golden bands, a relatively uncomplicated dance, a dab of magic, and all was done.

All so simple, so easy, all so terrifyingly unachievable should only one or two things go awry.

Like…Swanne. William drew in a deep breath. Where was she? He could
feel
her, somewhere close (and yet somehow closed to him; she was near, but he could not read her), but he knew there was no way she could approach him openly at this stage.

Yet that did not explain why he had not heard from her in months. Oh, Aldred wrote occasionally, or sent word via trusted messengers, but Swanne had not contacted William since that moment she had appeared before him on the cliffs of Normandy, and that was before last Christmastide.
Ten months!
What was she doing? Why this silence? Was Asterion too close for her to risk contact?

It was the only reason William could think of for her silence, and it concerned him that Swanne might be so close to danger.

It terrified him to consider that there might be an even more terrible reason for Swanne’s lack of communication.

He tore his thoughts away from Swanne. Yes, she was close, but he could feel others, too. Somehow, the mere fact of setting foot on this land once more connected him to others. Loth was here, much the same as he had been; William knew he would never like Loth as he had learned to like and respect Harold. Erith was here, too, as was another Mother—he could not remember her name, but she was the one who had been intimately connected with Mag’s Dance.

And Caela. He could feel her, far stronger than he would have thought possible. William closed his eyes, scrying out the sense of her: contentment, peace, even a little happiness, and something else that he could not identify…a depth that he could not understand. He suddenly realised that he could well meet her soon; odd, that he’d never thought of that until now. If matters went as planned then he would soon meet Caela face to face.

His heart began to race, and William opened his eyes, apparently staring ahead although he saw nothing. Caela, lovelier now than she had been as Cornelia. What was she doing? Did she still yearn for him?

What would
he
do if she came to him, and offered herself to him?

What would he do if she did
not?
William found the idea that she might not yearn for him any more as unsettling as the thought that Swanne might somehow be in danger. No,
more
unsettling. What if Caela no longer yearned for him?

He recalled the vision in which he’d seen her lie beneath his father, and he recalled also his vision of two thousand years earlier when he’d seen Caela lie down beneath another man, offering him her body.

Asterion, who had then slaughtered her.

What did those two visions mean? Were they truth? Or delusion?

Was Silvius the reason for Caela’s contentment now? William tried to scry out his father…and found nothing. He frowned. Strange, for if Silvius was flesh enough to seduce Caela as well as shift the Trojan kingship bands then he would be flesh enough for William to feel. But there was nothing, almost as if his father did not exist, or was a phantom of delusion only.

William realised that his commanders were watching him impatiently, but he allowed his thoughts to roam just a little further.

Harold. There had been a great battle at Stamford Bridge, and it was long enough ago that details of it had reached William. Hardrada and Tostig had both been killed in the struggle. Harold had come back to London, rested there some few days, and was now…close. William could sense him. Very close indeed—and was as strangely at peace with himself, as content, as Caela seemed.