Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

slowly over the ridge where Harold‘s army had made its stand.

It wasn‘t just the dismembered corpses—Norman as well as English—that lay in their

thickened, coagulated blood.

It wasn‘t the moans and the screams, or the pleas for mercy or quick death, that came

from those maimed men who lay twisted in indescribable agony amid their silent, dead

companions.

It wasn‘t the shrieks of the crippled horses, or the stench of spilt blood and split bowels.

It was sadness which sickened William. The fact that he could not quite understand the

reason for this sadness, nor even comprehend its depths, only made it worse.

He picked his way slowly through the battlefield, stepping over the piled corpses,

ignoring the cries of the wounded save for a jerk of his head to those companions who trailed

after him to see to the needs of the wounded.

William was looking for Harold. He was not among the captured, and William knew the

man well enough to know that neither would he have been among the few score English who‘d

managed to escape the field. Harold was lying here somewhere amid this stinking, reeking,

shrieking carpet of humanity, either dead or wounded, and William feared very much that he was

dead. He found himself praying over and over that Harold would still be alive, but William knew

that he was dead.

He could no longer scry out his presence, although, oddly, he could still feel Harold‘s

sense of peace and contentment.

It was, finally, one of the Count of Boulogne‘s captains who raised the shout, standing

thirty or forty paces away towards the northern end of the ridge, waving his arms slowly to and

fro above his head.

William‘s stomach lurched, and he froze momentarily, staring at the man‘s waving arms

as if he signalled the end of the world, before he managed to collect himself and stride over.

He stopped as he reached the man, then looked at the ground that lay between them.

Harold‘s body lay bloodied and twisted, his legs half covered by the headless corpse of

an Englishman. The dead king‘s arms lay outstretched, as if Harold had willingly relinquished

his spirit. His body, so far as William could see, was unscathed.

Save for the arrow that protruded from his left eye.

William could not tear his eyes away from it. He stared, unblinking, then his stomach

suddenly roiled, and he turned away and retched.

The arrow! There as solidly as if William had thrust it in himself.

As he had thrust the arrow into Silvius” eye in order to seize his heritage.

Was he cursed to repeat this foulness over and over, through this life and all others? Was

everything he set his heart on to be destroyed with the cruel thrust of an arrow deep into a brain?

William straightened and wiped his mouth. He did not look back at Harold.

―Take him from here,‖ he said to the men who had gathered near, ―and treat him with

respect. We will bury him tomorrow.‖

Then William turned, and walked away.

By midnight William was back within Hastings, conferring with his captains about the

likelihood of the remaining English regrouping and attacking, when a soldier entered the

chamber and saluted, then stood expectantly as if he had news of vast import to share.

―Yes?‖ said William.

―My lord,‖ said the soldier, ―Harold‘s wife is here and craves an audience.‖

William froze, staring at the man.

―The Queen Alditha?‖ said Hugh of Montfot-sur-Risle, frowning.

―No,‖ said the soldier, ―the other one. The Lady Swanne.‖

As one, everyone looked to William.

He was sitting in his chair, his face now expressionless, his eyes still glued to the soldier.

―Bid her enter,‖ he said, finally, his voice very soft. ―The rest of you may leave. I think we have

done enough this night.‖

The Count of Boulogne, Eustace, shared a glance with Hugh of Montfot-sur-Risle. ―My

lord,‖ he said, shifting his gaze back to William, ―she might be dangerous.‖

William gave a soft, harsh laugh. ―Oh, I know that all too well. But I will be safe enough,

my friends. Pray, leave me alone with the lady for the moment.‖

Again his men shared concerned glances, but they did as he bade them, and as they filed

slowly out the soldier reappeared with a dark-cloaked woman.

William nodded to the man, and he turned and left, closing the door of the chamber

behind him.

William rose slowly from the chair. ―Swanne.‖

―Aye!‖ She threw back the hood of her cloak, then undid the laces at her neck and

discarded the heavy garment entirely.

Beneath, Swanne wore a simple white linen robe, a low, scooped neckline revealing the

first swell of her breasts, her narrow waist spanned by a belt of plain leather, the heavy skirt left

to drape in folds to her feet.

The simplicity of the robe, its starkness, set off her beauty as nothing else could have

done. William felt the breath catch in his throat. Even though she was a little too thin, as if she

had been ill recently, Swanne was still as desirable as she had ever been.

And yet there was something about her, something apart from her thinness.

Something…harsh.

―William,‖ she said, shaking her head so that her heavy, black curls shook free from their

bindings. ―William!‖

She held out her arms, her eyes shining, her red mouth slightly parted, the tip of her

tongue glistening between the white tips of her teeth. ―William.‖

―Swanne,‖ he said, feeling ridiculous, as if he‘d been caught in a child‘s play. Gods!

Could he do nothing but stand here and mutter her name? Is this not what he had waited for,

lusted for, for so many years?

Then, in a moment of almost horrifying revelation, William knew that she was not.

Swanne was not what he sought at all. She was merely his unavoidable companion.

Was this what Theseus felt, when he abandoned Ariadne on Naxos? Did he feel as I do

now, when I look on a woman I once thought to love and think, “murderess”?

As cold as ice, William stepped forward, took one of Swanne‘s outstretched hands, and

laid his lips to it in courtly fashion.

His eyes never left her face.

Something shadowy crossed Swanne‘s countenance, but vanished within an instant.

―William!‖ she cried yet one more time as she threw herself against him, pressing her

body the length of his, her arms tight about his waist, her face uplifted to his.

―Finally…finally…‖

He gave a small, tight smile, then lowered his face to hers, and, reluctantly, kissed her.

Her mouth grabbed at his, her hands tangling within his hair, her body writhing against

his flesh.

William felt as though he was being devoured.

Worse, her mouth tasted foul, as if it were full of the coppery aftertaste of old blood…

He pulled back, pushing her away with hands on her shoulders.

―William? I have waited for this moment for so long. I have been through so much for

this moment. Shared Harold‘s bed—‖

―Harold is dead.‖

―Yes! Praise all gods.‖ Swanne clasped her hands before her, her face lighting with

delight. ―And you must ensure his children die as well. You cannot have any of his blood lurking

in the hills, ready to make a play for your throne.‖

William‘s face froze. ―They are your children as well.‖

―Ah,‖ she said, making a deprecatory gesture, ―mere necessities to keep Harold happy.

They are of no importance to me. A discomfort only. I could not wait to rid my body of their

weight.‖

Swanne leaned forward, lifting her face to again be kissed, but William turned away. He

walked a short distance to a table where lay a scattering of parchments: intelligence and reports.

He did not touch them.

―William?‖ Swanne stepped up behind him, and laid a hand on his back. ―What is

wrong?‖

―Harold is dead.‖

―Yes?‖

―Goddamn you, woman!‖ William swung around to face her. ―You shared his bed for

over sixteen years. You bore his children. Have you not a care for the fact that this man is

dead?”

―Harold discarded me,‖ she snarled. “No one discards me!” Then she relaxed, and

smiled. ―Have you seen his body, my love?‖

William gave a terse nod.

―Did you like the arrow? I thought it a nice touch. I thought…‖

Swanne stopped, appalled at the expression on William‘s face. ―He was nothing to us,

William. Why look at me as if I were the most loathsome witch on earth?‖

―He was a good man, Swanne. He did not deserve to die. And not in that manner.”

William paused, his face working. ―And to now beg me to murder his children. Your children. I

cannot credit it. Is there nothing within that breast of yours but hatred and ambition? Nothing?‖

―What is wrong with you, William? You and I are the only things that matter. And the

Troy Game. Nothing else counts. We are here, we are together, and we can complete the Game.