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.
Was Harold at peace because he had come to terms with his own imminent death? At that
thought William felt a gut-wrenching sense of loss, the strongest emotion he‘d felt since coming
to stand here in the open air staring out into nothingness. He didn‘t want to kill Harold. He didn‘t
want to be a party to his death.
Not again.
Why hadn‘t he taken the trouble to know Coel better?
Or Cornelia, as Caela had once been? Why hadn‘t he taken the trouble to treat her better?
To understand her?
William gave an almost indiscernible shake of his head. He might as well wish the sun to
rise in the west. Brutus had not taken the trouble to know anyone well, not even himself.
―I have a command,‖ William said suddenly, making his commanders jump. ―I would
that in the coming battle, if we prove victorious, Harold be taken alive. I do not want him killed.‖
―My lord duke,‖ said Hugh of Montfot-sur-Risle, one of William‘s most trusted men, ―is
that wise? If we prove successful, then to have Harold still alive would be to invite—‖
William had not looked at Montfot-sur-Risle as the man spoke, keeping his eyes on the
landscape. ―I do not want him killed. Not by my hand, nor by any of my men.‖ William finally
turned to looked at his commanders. ―Is that understood?‖
As one they bowed their heads.
NINE
Harold sat upon his horse on a long ridge some nine miles from Hastings. Behind him
came his army; weary, footsore, straggling in disjointed groups rather than in the units into
which they‘d originally been organised. Harold turned so he could see over his shoulder. He
knew the true depth of his command‘s exhaustion, and he wished he had the ability to bring the
full complement of men he‘d commanded at Stamford Bridge against William.
But that could not be. Many men were wounded, many more scattered along the long
road between here and the north. William had both fate and luck on his side.
Harold looked back to Hastings. He could feel William. Somehow, in the few days since
he‘d been with Caela, Harold had grown far more attuned to the land, to its spaces and