about her).
In that instant before the snake-creature struck, Matilda also understood one other thing.
That this terrible demonic creature was a woman‘s revenge incarnate, and Matilda knew the
woman who had created this revenge must surely be the greatest Darkwitch who had ever
walked the face of the Earth.
The stag was screaming now, his struggles maddened as he sought to escape the
snake-creature writhing ever closer.
Matilda shrieked, backing away several paces, her hands to her face.
The snake-creature struck, lunging down with its vast mouth, and before Matilda could
manage to wrench herself from her dream she saw the demon‘s fangs sink so deeply into the
stag‘s body that it tore asunder, and blood spattered all about.
She woke, drenched in sweat, still caught in the terrible imagery of the stag‘s murder.
―William,‖ she whispered.
TEN
On the following morning, when the Normans faced the English on the battlefield of
Hastings, there were not two forces ranged against each other, but many. Harold and William
were, and always would be, the face and tragedy of Hastings, but behind them and at their side
ranged other forces which influenced both the battle of that day and the one which would come
over the following centuries: Asterion, the Minotaur; the Troy Game itself, determined to ensure
the future it wanted; the land, and Eaving, who spoke on its behalf, as on behalf of Og, her
all-but-dead future; finally, Swanne, the Mistress of the Labyrinth. All of them, in their own way,
participated in the battle at Hastings.
Harold had massed his army on the ridge that lay nine miles from Hastings. Fate could
not have picked for him a better site. The ridge was a natural fortress. Before it the land sloped
gently away before rising again towards another hill. To either side of the ridge were steep escarpments which were in turn flanked by marshy streams. If William wanted to attack
Harold—and there was no way he could ignore the English king and allow him time to build up
his forces—then he would need to attack from a position directly in front of Harold. There was
no real hope of trying to outflank the English, because that would mean lengthy delays and the
splitting of the already small Norman force into two or even three tiny and weak secondary
forces.
Harold was as ready as he could ever be by the time the sun rose. He‘d deployed his men
so that William would face a mighty shield wall.
William had armoured cavalry, but even they would be of little use against a phalanx of
armoured and shielded men who could range pikes, lances, axes, swords, stones and arrows—as
well as the supporting landscape—against the attacking force.
Weary his men might be, but Harold knew that in theory they had a very good chance.
Save that he knew they would not win. Not in terms of a battle victory.
Where would the treachery come from? he wondered.
William attacked soon after daybreak. He‘d marched his army from Hastings, massed on
the hill opposite Harold‘s ridge, then sent in both cavalry and infantry in three divisions.
If William thought to break Harold‘s shield wall, then he was grossly disappointed.
Harold‘s men held, and wave after wave of Norman attackers were driven back.
By mid-morning it appeared that the battle was turning into a rout. The Normans were
milling, often ignoring the shouted commands of William, who fought within their midst, and
falling one after another to the axes and swords of the English.
William changed tactics. He screamed at his archers to direct their missiles into three or
four specific areas of the English line, and then to his horsemen and knights to follow up the
arrow barrage with a concentrated attack on those areas. While the English were still in disarray
from the arrows, the knights stood a better chance of breaking through the shield wall.
Crude, but effective. Very gradually the English were worn down. Where they had held
in the earlier part of the day, their weariness caused them to stumble during the latter.
The Normans began to break through the shield wall and engage the English in terrible
hand-to-hand combat.
― I want Harold alive!” William screamed to his men as he saw them break through in
half a dozen different places. ― I want him alive!”
―And I do not!‖ muttered Swanne, still standing within the embrace of her dark grove.
She could not see the battle with her eyes, but she could with her power. ―Ah, what a fool you
have become, William. The Game has no use for such as you.‖
Then she relaxed. She must not think this way. She must practise the pretty, smiling face
she needed to present to William. In the meantime, she needed to ensure that he actually won this
battle. The bands could be irretrievably lost (for this life at least) if the damn fool was killed by
some stray English sword.
―Harold!‖ she whispered, and she spoke with the voice of passion.
Harold!
It stunned him, for it automatically drew him back through the years to that time when he
and Swanne had been young lovers, and he had entertained no doubt that she loved him nor that
she was anything else but what she appeared to be.
Harold!
He was fighting desperately in the very thick of the battle where the Normans had broken
through. Covered in sweat and grime and blood, hearing the shouts and grunts and cries of those crowded about him, feeling their thrusts and hopelessness and dying, still he heard Swanne‘s
voice as clear as a clarion call.
Harold!
He looked up, and never saw the arrow which plunged directly into his eye, killing him
instantly.
Caela moaned, almost doubling over in the intensity of her sorrow. How pitiful a death,
to be so duped by Swanne.
Then she managed to collect herself, and wipe the grief from her eyes, and straighten, and
compose her features and smile.
She stood in the stone hall—save that only the western end of the hall was stone. The
eastern half, that which stood at Caela‘s back, was built entirely of flowing, emerald water.
Caela stood at the border of this life and the next.
A figure appeared at the far western end of the hall. He was not dressed in battle garb, nor
did he bear the stains of sweat and grime and death.
Instead he walked straight and tall, as beautiful and as content as ever she had seen him.
England‘s king, as William would never be.
She drew in a deep breath, and could hardly see for the tears of joy which now filled her
eyes.
―Harold!‖ she said as he drew near.
―Eaving.‖ He smiled, and it was composed of such pure love and acceptance that the
tears spilled from her eyes. He lowered his head and kissed her, then gathered her into a tight
embrace, lifting her from the floor and spinning her around. ―I had not thought to meet you
here.‖
―How could I let you pass without—‖ She stopped.
―Saying goodbye?‖
―It will never be goodbye,‖ she said, very softly. ―You should know that.‖
―Aye, I know it.‖
She pulled back slightly from him, and her face was grave and angry all in one. ―Swanne
murdered you with her darkcraft.‖
―Again.‖ His voice was virtually inaudible.
―Do you know,‖ Eaving said, ―that for this you are owed vengeance?‖
Harold laughed shortly. ―When shall I collect it?‖
―Whenever you will. Harold, the Sidlesaghes showed you the paths between this world
and the next. You can travel them as well as I.
―Whenever you will, Harold,‖ she said, her eyes locked into his.
―Ah, Eaving,‖ he said, resting the palm of a hand against her soft cheek, and she knew
that he‘d put Swanne from his mind for the moment.
―Harold, I need you to grant me a favour.‖
―Anything.‖
―Take these with you.‖
He looked at what she had in her hands, then his eyes flew back to hers, shocked. ―I
cannot touch those!‖
―Please. For me.‖
He laughed, the sound bitter. ―These will eventually take you from me.‖
―You already knew that.‖
―Oh, gods, Eaving—‖
―Please, Harold. Please.‖
He sighed, and reached out, taking the two golden bands from her. ―Where shall I put
them?‖
She shrugged, and suddenly he grinned and laughed. ―You are so beautiful to me,‖ he
said.
Then, kissing her one last time, Harold walked past Eaving, through the water cathedral
and into the Otherworld.
As with the previous four bands, the moment that these two were moved the Game
shuddered…and grew.
Into the Otherworld.
ELEVEN
William had spent all of his life since the age of seven fighting battle after battle. He‘d
lost a few, he‘d proved victorious in more, and he‘d walked the field of death in the aftermath of
combat more often than he cared to remember.
But never before had he been as sickened as he was this evening as he picked his way