The agony of wanting in her voice undid him. He hauled the skirts of her gown up,
running his hands over her thighs and bare buttocks. Then he lifted her up, resting her buttocks
on a shelf and, as she wrapped her legs about his hips, fumbled desperately with his own clothing
that he might bury himself within her, and as he did so, as he moaned and dug his fingers into her
buttocks, pulling her hard against him, there came the faint memory of Matilda‘s words two
months earlier: You will not dishonour me with her?
Never! he had cried.
Never…
He thrust deeply into Swanne again, and then again, and she cried out and tightened her
legs about him.
Never.
And then William became aware of that damned belly of Swanne‘s digging into his, and
he wondered if she had cried out like this under Harold of Wessex, and whether or not she had
ever promised Harold what William had promised Matilda.
Never.
―I can‘t,‖ he said, groaning, and pulled out of Swanne so abruptly she almost tumbled to
the floor.
She flushed, and he knew her well enough to know it was anger.
―Not yet,‖ he said, readjusting his own clothing.
―What?‖ she hissed. ―You don‘t want to dishonour your wife? ‖
William‘s face reddened—she had picked up his thoughts. ―She is important to me.‖
―And I am not?‖ Swanne said, dangerously quiet.
―Listen to me, Swanne.‖ William stepped close to her and took her chin between fingers
less gentle than they had been earlier. ―Neither of us can afford to relax our guard. Each of us has
a part to play so that, eventually, we can both play our parts together. Yes, Matilda is important to me. She brings at her back military might and alliances that I can ill afford to ignore if I am to
seize the throne of England. For the love of Christ and His army of damned Christian saints,
Swanne, have you not heard of my dilemma? I spend eleven months of the year, year in, year
out, fighting rival claimants to Normandy; men and armies sent by Asterion, I have no doubt, to keep me occupied and away from England. I need Matilda, her dowry of military support and
alliances, if ever I am to consolidate my hold on Normandy and then turn to England.
Matilda…damn it, Swanne, Matilda is my way to you and to the Troy Game!‖
She had quietened and relaxed a little as he spoke, and now she reluctantly gave a small
nod. ―You think Asterion sends these armies to annoy you?‖
―Aye. Again and again they come back. That‘s Asterion‘s hand, none other.‖ He paused.
―Is he in England? Do you know him?‖
She shook her head. ―I cannot tell who he is, but the ‗where‘…well, I am certain he is in
England. I can feel his presence sometimes, generally when Edward is holding court, but that
sense is only faint, and there are so many people about…‖
―We must be wary, Swanne.‖
―Yes. I know.‖
He kissed her. ―It won‘t be long, surely…not now.‖
She gave a half smile. ―No. It won‘t be long.‖ Then, ―Where are your kingship bands,
William? You feel naked without them.‖
He grimaced. ―After…after you died—‖
―After my murder at that bitch‘s hands.‖
―Aye. After Cornelia murdered you, I burned you atop a great pyre on Og‘s Hill. Then,
mindful of your warning—‗ Save the Game. Hide it, for Asterion is surely on his way. ‘—I took
the bands from my limbs and hid them around London. They lie there still, even though I think
Asterion hunted through two thousand years for them so he could destroy the Game.‖
She shivered, and moved in close against him. ―I do not know what amazes me more,
William. That for two thousand years Asterion sought those bands—and kept us apart—or that
you have such power you could frustrate him for that long. William, can you still feel the bands?
You know they are safe?‖
He nodded. ―They are safe. I would know the instant anyone touched them.‖
―And the Game?‖ she said. ―Do you feel it even as far from it as you are?‖
He nodded. ―It is strong still. Unweakened by all the time it has been left to itself.‖
There was a small silence.
―It is different, William.‖
He hesitated before answering. Yes, the Game was different.
―Could the Game have changed in the two thousand years it was left alone ? ‖ Swanne
said.
―Perhaps,‖ William said, but his voice was slow and not reassuring. ―We had not closed
it. It was still alive, and still in that phase of its existence where it was actively growing. Who
knows what…‖
He stopped then, but his unspoken words were clear. Who knows what it could have
grown into.
―Oh, gods. William,‖ Swanne said, ―how long before you can come?‖
He gave a small shrug. ―With the resources Matilda brings at her back? With her father
and her entire clan as allies? A year, maybe two at the most. Swanne, listen to me—we cannot
risk this again.‖
―Meeting like this? Are you afraid that next time your Matilda might discover us?‖
He tensed, and she knew the truth of her words.
―I cannot afford to alienate her, Swanne, but, no, I fear more for what Asterion might do.
You can be sure that he‘s somewhere, watching us. Manipulating us.‖ He paused. ―Is there
anyone at Edward‘s court who you can trust to carry messages between us?‖
She thought, frowning, then her brow cleared. ―Yes. Do you know the cleric, Aldred? He
is a Norman, so…‖
―Yes, indeed. I know him well.‖ William paused for thought, then gave a decisive nod.
―He is an excellent choice. Either he, or his subordinates, travel to and from Normandy
throughout the year.‖
―And he favours you. I have heard him talk well of you to Edward.‖
William smiled. ―Aldred then. But be careful, for—‖
He stopped suddenly, his head up. ―Gods, Matilda is but fifty paces away. She is looking
for me. Go, Swanne. Go! ‖
―William—‖
― Go! ‖ He kissed her once, hard. ―Go! It won‘t be long. I swear. It won‘t be long, but go! ‖
And then she was gone, and William staggered, caught his balance, and looked up to see
Matilda staring at him from the doorway.
SIX
She was only seventeen, the crown of her head scarcely reached his chest, and she had
none of the mystical power of the woman who had just left him, but Matilda‘s simple, still
presence and her clear, questioning gaze made William‘s heart thud with nerves.
―There has been someone with you,‖ she said, and, closing the door, walked into the
room, her eyes now sliding this way and that about the tack room.
Suddenly her eyes were back on him, very still. ―Someone unsettling enough that your
breath rasps in your throat and your cheeks flush. What is this, William? That look I only
thought to see in the more intimate moments of our marriage.‖
―You surprised me.‖
―I think I should have surprised you a moment or two earlier than I did. Yes?‖
William thought of what Matilda might have seen had she been that bit earlier. Swanne,
legs about his hips, moaning in abandon? Gods—
―You vowed,‖ Matilda‘s voice was harsher now, and William could hear the grate of pain
and judgement underlying it, ―that you would never dishonour me with her. Not two months
since.‖
Gods, what had she seen? Or was Matilda more perceptive than he had credited?
William thought of all the lies he could tell, would have told had this been Cornelia
instead of Matilda, and he thought that when he began to speak one of those glib lies would slip
smoothly out. But he found himself remembering their marriage night, and what benefits the
truth had brought him then, and so when he spoke, it was truth rather than falsehoods. ―She was
here, that woman of whom I spoke, and she begged me to take her. Oh God, Matilda, I wanted
to. Thus my breath. Thus my flushed cheeks.‖
―And you did not?‖ Matilda had not moved, and her eyes were very steady on his.
―I began,‖ he said. ―I was roused, and for a moment I did not think. Then I remembered
you, and I stepped back from her.‖
―You remembered what I bring at my back, more like.‖
―I remembered you, Matilda. If it had been your dowry at the forefront of my mind then I
could have lied to you just now.‖
―Who is she, William?‖
―She is the Lady Swanne, Harold of Wessex‘s wife.‖
―I have heard of her, and of her legendary beauty. How came she here, William?‖
Oh gods, how to explain this to her?
―She was raised among the ancient ways,‖ he said, ―and, when a baby, suckled at the
breasts of faeries. She…she commands powers that many would condemn.‖