slimmer in this life than she had been as Genvissa; elegant, where once she had been earthy.
Swanne pulled the veil from her head and tossed it contemptuously to the far corner of the chamber. All Anglo-Saxon ladies wore lawn or silk veils over their head in public, and Swanne
loathed this single badge of womanly subjection more than any other. Who could imagine it?
Veiling a woman‘s beauty! Pulling the pins from her hair with almost the same amount of vigour
as she‘d pulled away the veil, Swanne tipped her head to one side, letting her heavy hair fall over
her shoulder, admiring the way her long neck glowed ivory in the candlelight. As a child,
Swanne had been named for her long, exquisite neck, and for the manner in which she held her
head atop that neck. Even as a baby, apparently, her beauty had been remarkable.
―Thank the gods this child has swollen only my belly and not my feet, or even my face,‖
Swanne muttered. She continued to study herself critically, unfastening her heavy outer surcoat
and allowing it to fall away from her shoulders and arms to the floor so that she stood only in her
under-gown of pale linen.
She remembered how Tostig had lusted after her in the Great Hall earlier.
She remembered how other men had followed her with their eyes.
She remembered how Harold still used her body night after night in their bed.
She remembered how she and Brutus made love when, as Genvissa, she had been heavily
pregnant with their daughter. Her belly hadn‘t deterred him then…why would it now?
She smiled. So her belly was all crowded out with child—that made her no less desirable.
―I won‘t tell him about Coel,‖ she murmured. ―Why? What does it matter?‖
Her hands stilled, and her eyes stared at her reflection. ―William,‖ she whispered. Ah,
gods, he was so close! ―William!‖
Then again, her voice riddled with desire: ― William! ‖ He had sent the message, he must
be as consumed with the need to know her name as she had been to know his.
Finally, her mind so inflamed with need and want and desire that all thought of Asterion
and of prudence disappeared, Swanne opened her arms, cried out one more time, ― William‖, and
vanished.
FIVE
Rouen, Normandy
William stood in the tack room of the stable complex in his castle at Rouen, going over
the saddles he used for hunting and war with his Master of the Horse, Alain Roussel. Several
times a year they did this: checking war and hunting gear for faults, fractures or worn spots that
needed repair. Better to spend a few hours in the relative warmth of the stables peering at metal
and leather than to have it give way suddenly amidst the heat of battle.
They had just decided that one of William‘s most prized saddles needed a seam restitched
when William suddenly raised his head and peered into the middle distance, his eyes unfocused,
his face drawn.
―My lord?‖ Roussel asked softly, wondering if his duke had heard the sounds of a distant
battle that his own ageing ears had yet to discern.
―Leave me,‖ William whispered.
―My lord—‖
― Leave me! ‖ Then, in a more moderate tone that was nonetheless tense, ―Ensure that no
one disturbs me.‖
―Yes, my lord.‖ Roussel bowed his head, turned on his heel, and left, closing the door
behind him. Whatever he thought of the abrupt and strange command it did not show on his face.
The instant Roussel had departed William began to pace back and forth within the
relatively narrow confines of the tack room.
Genvissa! She had seen, or heard about, his gift to Edward, and recognised it for what it
was.
She was on her way.
William felt nerves flutter in his belly. Gods, he wanted to see her, to hold her! Yet, at
the same time, William worried, his eyes roving from this dark corner to that, wondering if
somehow this would expose Genvissa-reborn or himself; if somehow this demonstration of
power on her part would awaken Asterion to madness…
And then she was there, directly before him, breathless, laughing, tears running down her
cheeks, her arms held out and William forgot everything else and went to her, holding her tight,
laughing and crying with her, kissing her. She was pressing her body into his, grabbing at his
arms, his shoulders, then her hands running through the short black curls on his head.
―You‘ve lost your great mane,‖ she said, somehow managing to get the words out
between kisses.
―It did not suit a Norman man of war,‖ he said. Then, summoning all his control, he put
his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back a little so he could see her face, and study it.
―You‘re beautiful,‖ he said, and the wonder and admiration in his voice made her laugh
and cry all over again. ―More beautiful than ever. Sweet Lord Christ, Genvissa, thank all the
gods we‘ve found each other!‖
―I was desperate, I didn‘t know who you were, where…and then your damned envoy
arrived this morning, and presented Edward with that wonderful ball of string, and I knew, I
knew, I could hear you screaming for me…I came…‖
They embraced and kissed again, and then again William pushed her back, gently. ―I had
thought Edward a pious man,‖ he said, grinning at her, ―but I see he has wasted no time getting
an heir on you.‖
Swanne‘s expression stilled. ―What?‖
William laid a hand on her swollen belly. ―You‘ve been married only, what? Two
months, and yet this is a six- or seven-month belly you carry.‖
She frowned all the more.
William opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, ―You are Caela, are you not?‖
Her reaction stunned William. She tore out of his arms, stepped back, and looked so
angry that William almost thought she might hit him.
―I am not that fool!‖ she said. ―I am Swanne, a lady of Wessex. Caela! Caela? Why her?
Why did you think I was her?‖
―Swanne—what a lovely name—Swanne, I am sorry. Like you I worried for years where
you were, and who. Then I heard Edward was taking a wife, and I wondered if it was you. It
seemed to fit…I knew you would do everything in your power to consolidate yourself within
London and the Veiled Hills, and what better way than as queen?‖ He smiled, trying to restore
her good humour, and ran a thumb down her cheek. ― I was the fool, my love. I should have
known. Caela is but a girl, is she not? And you…‖ His voice deepened. ―You are a wondrous
woman, all grown into what I need.‖
Swanne was not appeased. ―Caela is Cornelia-reborn. ‖
William stilled, his hand partway down Swanne‘s cheek. ― Cornelia? By the gods, what is
she doing here? What mischief does she plan?‖
Swanne‘s mouth curled. ―She couldn‘t plan the curdling of a milk pudding, my dear. Fate
has this time been kind to us. Cornelia has been reborn as the timid, helpless daughter of
Godwine, so sexless and so undesirable that she at least will never be swelling with child.
William, hate her all you might, for that at least she deserves, but do not fear her. She has been
reborn into such weakness that she does not even remember her past life.‖
William frowned. ―She doesn‘t remember?‖
―No.‖ Now Swanne moved back into him again, running her hands over his body, and her
mouth, slowly and teasingly, over his neck and jaw.
He drew in a deep breath, and she smiled, and nipped at him with her teeth. ―She is of no
account,‖ she whispered. ―None.‖
Again he breathed deeply, then ran a hand over her belly. ―So who gave you this then, if
not Edward? You said you were a lady of Wessex…you have married into Godwine‘s family?‖
―Aye. His eldest son, Harold.‖
There was something in her voice, a tightness, and William took her face between his
fingers and tilted her face up to his. ―Harold? A powerful catch.‖
―He has been my path into London, and into the centre of power.‖ Her face twisted a
little. ―To think, that circumstance should force me to stoop to marriage. Me, a Mistress of the
Labyrinth.‖
―And who is Harold, Swanne?‖
She twisted her face out of his fingers and kissed his neck again. ―No one. A man only.‖
―He is no one reborn?‖
She laughed throatily. ―Of course not.‖ Her teeth nipped into his skin, and he felt tiny
pinpricks of pain as her teeth drew blood, and he forgot Harold in the rising tide of his desire.
―You should have chosen a better place to come to me, my love. This dusty tack room
isn‘t quite—‖
―It will do,‖ she said, and loosened the laces holding together the neck of her under-robe
so that he could run his hand over her breasts. ―For all the gods‘ sake, William…‖