Three people lay on the bed, two women and a man. The younger of the women, perhaps of some twenty-five or twenty-six years, and of a fair beauty, lay stretched out naked on her side, watching the other woman and man make love, occasionally reaching out to stroke the man down the length of his back, or the woman over her breasts. This younger woman watched with gleaming eyes, seeming to receive as much pleasure from watching the lovemaking as she would had she been the recipient of the man’s attentions herself. That she had been the recipient of some man’s attentions, if perhaps not this one’s, was evident in the gentle rounding of her stomach, showing a five- or six-month pregnancy.
The lovemaking between the other two intensified, and the younger woman stretched sensuously, her hand now running softly over her distended belly. When the man cried out, and then his partner, so also did this younger woman, her breath rising and falling as rapidly as did that of her companions.
A long moment passed, then the man, Charles, now King Charles II in exile, raised himself from Marguerite’s body, leaned over, kissed Kate’s mouth lingeringly, then pulled himself free of both women, rolled over to the side of the bed, and sat there, laughing softly.
“You will tire me out,” he said, “before we have accomplished what we must this night.”
Marguerite, slowly rousing from her state of post-coital languor, ignored her lover for the moment, and instead rolled onto her side so she could kiss and fondle Kate. Catherine Pegge, called Kate by all who knew her well, had joined Charles’ court in exile some eighteen months earlier.
She was Erith-reborn, the second of Eaving’s Sisters to join Charles, and the second of the triumvirate which would eventually give Charles so much of his power. These three—Ecub-reborn, Erith-reborn and Matilda-reborn, who was yet to join them—were the core group among the larger community of Eaving’s Sisters. The three most important, the three most powerful, the three greatest in the Circle about Charles.
And the most unknown. Charles had now been almost thirteen years in exile, much of it spent travelling western Europe seeking financial, moral and military support for his always-in-the-planning invasion of England, to snatch it back from the archtraitor, Oliver Cromwell. He’d gathered little in the way of any such support, save muttered sympathies, and the occasional embarrassed handout from this prince or that, mortified to have the ragtag king begging at his court.
What Charles did have extreme success in collecting was women. Tall, darkly handsome, charming, and exuding an aura of undefinable power, Charles was well known for his score of mistresses, most of them highborn, all of them willing to part with whatever virtue they had to share a night, a month, or a season in Charles’ bed.
But this night, Charles was secluded with his tiny, inner circle of “mistresses”, that unknown coterie of Eaving’s Sisters. These women shared not only Charles’ bed, but his heart and soul and ambition as well. They knew his innermost secrets, and gloried in them.
Marguerite rolled onto her back, smiling in contentment, her eyes staring at but not seeing the shabby bed curtains about her. The twelve years since she had joined Charles had treated her well. Her beauty had mellowed from that of the young girl to that of the mature woman: her hair was darker, but just as thick and luxurious; her form was a little thicker, but the more sensual because of it; her softly rounded belly showed the marks of the three children she had borne Charles. Without looking, she raised a hand and rested it on Kate’s pregnant belly. This was Kate’s first child, a daughter, and growing well.
“Matters are stirring,” said Charles, rising and walking to the curtained window. He twitched one of the curtains back, staring out into the dark. It was May Day (May Night, now), and spring celebrations would be well under way across Europe.
It was one of the nights of power in the annual cycle of seasons, the night of the land’s rebirth and reawakening. It was one of those four or five nights during the year that Charles always spent closely closeted with this magical, powerful inner coterie, Eaving’s Sisters, as well as…“Louis?” he said.
Both the women sighed, and Charles repressed a grin, hearing their disappointment in the lack of
Louis’ presence.
“He said he would attend as soon as possible,” said Marguerite. “Edward Hyde kept him a while, to go over some detail regarding money, I believe.”
“Where would we have been without Louis and his money?” asked Charles, his tone indicating he expected no reply. The Marquis de Lonquefort had kept his bastard son well supplied from the Lonquefort coffers, which in turn had kept the wolf from the door of Charles’ court. Well might he bear a pretty title, and even prettier pretensions, but Charles was a king without a kingdom, and without the money with which to support his court. His mother had done her best (the sale of the crown jewels had kept them in bread and wine for a few months), as had Charles’ relatives spread about Europe.
But there comes a point when relatives grow tired of supporting what appears to be a lost cause, and over the past few years Charles had literally existed from hand to mouth on those handouts his loyal supporters were able to secure. If this chamber was plainly furnished, then it was because Charles had no money to spare.
That they could actually eat was due almost entirely to de Silva money; Louis offered more, but Charles refused. He had given up many things over the past thirteen years, but his pride was not one of them.
“There is something happening,” Charles said. “Not just in the land. I can feel darkness closing about, and I can feel the Game moving.” He raised both his hands, resting them on his biceps, as if he could feel the golden kingship bands of Troy there. “Something will happen tonight. Something powerful.”
Both Marguerite and Kate shivered as they stared at Charles. Their intimacy with him greatly increased their respect, not only for his intuition, but also for his power. If Charles said something was going to happen tonight, then tonight would be a night of power, indeed.
And not necessarily benevolent power.
“Asterion?” said Marguerite.
Charles shrugged. “I don’t know. It is just a tightness in my belly. An intuition only.”
“Will we be safe?” Kate said, resting her hand on her belly.
“I can never guarantee safety,” Charles said. “You have always known that. If you want safety, then leave now. Leave me, leave this house, leave this Circle.”
Kate had joined the Circle that Charles, Marguerite and Louis had first formed twelve years earlier as a matter of course. She was one of Eaving’s Sisters, she was sworn to Eaving’s protection, and she had the power. The group used the Circle to reach out to Eaving where she lived at Woburn Abbey, to ensure that she was safe, and to send her all the wellbeing they could muster.
It was not much, but it was enough, and it was all they could do to help her until they were back in England, back with their feet touching the Troy Game.
It was also potentially dangerous. They all feared that Asterion might sense the power of the Circle, sense the reaching out to Eaving, and, in so sensing, that he might leap. They had all imagined, and then discussed, the nightmarish possibility that one day Asterion himself would rise up from beneath the piece of turf that Marguerite transformed into the circle of emerald silk.
There had been no indication yet that Asterion was aware of their activities in any way, but they were apprehensive nonetheless.
Everyone had learned from their previous lives that it was murderously foolish to underestimate the Minotaur.
Kate dropped her eyes, chastened. “I’m sorry. I was concerned for the child only.”
Charles’ stern gaze did not turn away from her. “Then you should not have conceived it. Kate, the child is as much a part of this as you or I, or Marguerite, or Louis, or Cornelia-reborn. Fate has us all caught in its whim. If we don’t have the courage to dare it, then we will never succeed.”
Kate raised her eyes, moving her hand away from her belly. “I know.”
“We must be strong, Kate,” Marguerite said.
Even more chastened now that Marguerite had spoken, Kate coloured, then nodded. “I have endured too much to walk away now,” she said. “I will be strong.”
“Cornelia-reborn needs you,” Marguerite said. “As she needs all of us.”
As Marguerite spoke, the door opened, and Louis de Silva entered.
He looked drawn and tired, as if Hyde’s undoubtedly anxious queries about money had sapped his strength, but he smiled as he set eyes on the women and Charles, and the smile lifted away much of the tiredness from his face.