Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

for him. I do not know if this was simple sexual desire (I cannot imagine any woman coming

into the presence of William the Duke of Normandy and not feel her belly turn to water as he

looked at her), some greater depth of love, or that much greater need I had of him for the future

of both this land and the Game.

I was so grateful for Matilda. I had mooned over William like some virgin girl, and she

did not berate me for it. He and I spoke in what were riddles to her, and she did not ask for an

explanation. Beyond that, I was most beholden to Matilda for another reason; it was obvious to

me that William‘s transformation away from that hardhearted, ambitious brute he had once been

into something more reasonable was all her doing. But what I blessed Matilda for, most of all,

was her gut instinct about Swanne‘s danger, and her actions according to that instinct. I‘d heard

that she had come unexpectedly to Hastings a day or so after the battle,

and I had no doubt that it was her arrival that had kept William whole.

Safe.

I had felt that from him the moment I took his hands in mine. He was still safe from

Swanne! I swear I almost threw myself at his feet and wept in relief at that moment of

realisation. Instead, I did the better thing and embraced Matilda, for she was the one responsible

for his current wholeness.

Matilda had managed to find for me a small, but private, space within the abbey house. I

had no women with me, not even Judith, and so I was almost like a child in my sense of freedom

as I did for myself that night (Matilda had offered me one of her women, but I had declined). So

I lay there, sleepless, as my thoughts tumbled about, thinking almost entirely of William (my

thoughts oscillating between relief at his wholeness to a slight feminine numbness at his

attractiveness), and occasionally of Matilda.

Eventually, my thoughts were rudely drawn to Swanne.

She came to visit me in the small hours of the night.

I had not been asleep, but the soft footfalls approaching my tiny chamber nevertheless

disturbed me. At first I had thought they might be William, and I was terrified, for I did not know

what to say to him, but then I realised that whoever it might be was far too light for his tall

frame.

In the end, I wished it had been William, for Swanne was far more terrifying than

anything he could have been.

I had not seen Swanne since that terrible night when I had gone to her as Damson. There

had been no reason for us to meet, and I, most certainly, had not tried to instigate a meeting.

So it was that, as I raised myself to my elbow and studied the dark figure that slipped in

my door, I had a

sudden, terrifying moment of sheer panic when I realised who my visitor was.

Could she harm me?

Could she see who and what I had become?

And then I felt a moment of self-loathing for my cowardice. I would need to deal with

Swanne eventually and, moreover, I needed Swanne. Nothing in my future could be achieved

without her aid.

Somehow.

But still, knowing her alliance with Asterion, I simply could not help that tremor of fright

as she came to my bed, saw me looking up at her, and then sat down on the edge of the mattress.

―Well, well, Caela. Come to your man, have you?‖

―He is not ‗mine‘,‖ I said, grateful my voice remained steady, ―nor shall ever be.‖

―Good girl,‖ Swanne said patronisingly, and reached out and patted my cheek. ―What do

you here then?‖

―I come to surrender London into William‘s hands.‖

―And then run back to your convent, I hope.‖

I said nothing. It was difficult to see any details of Swanne‘s features, or her expression,

in the dark, but, silhouetted against the faint light coming through the doorway, I could make out

an ever-changing landscape of lines and angles in the outline of her face. ―Snake‖, Matilda had

called her, and I thought that an apt name for her.

―I am amazed that you lie here so quietly,‖ Swanne said after a moment‘s silence, ―when

William undoubtedly heaves and grunts over Matilda in their chamber.‖

―I am unsurprised to find you here so unquietly,‖ I responded, ―when William

undoubtedly makes love to Matilda in their chamber.‖

I saw her stiffen.

―She is nothing,‖ Swanne said.

―I do not think so,‖ I said.

―She is not the Mistress of the Labyrinth,‖ Swanne hissed.

―She is far more to him.‖

―You simpleton! You have no idea—‖

―To everything a purpose,‖ I said, edging myself up in the bed so that I sat upright. ―Is

that not what the Bible says?‖

―The Bible is nothing but worthless—‖

―Matilda is your penance,‖ I said, very softly, ―for what you did to me in our former life.‖

I think I struck her dumb. I know she sat there, rigid with emotion, staring at me for a

long time. Finally, she broke the silence.

―And where have you found your backbone, my lady?‖ she asked.

―From life, and experience, and tragedy. Through loss of innocence, Swanne. For that

loss, I think, I have you to thank.‖

Again, a silence. I considered her, and I remembered how powerful she had been as

Genvissa, both as MagaLlan and as Mistress of the Labyrinth. I remembered also her years as

Harold‘s wife, when she had been so influential within the court. Yet, as Swanne, Asterion‘s

creature, she had lost all power, whatever she may have thought. Oh, she was still dangerous,

and could command magic, but she had lost completely that aura of extraordinariness that had

once so set her apart from everyone else.

I realised that now Swanne, even as menacing as she remained, had become little more

than a shadow flitting like a forgotten ghost through the unlit hallways of whatever court she

thought to seek power within. Few people paid any attention to her. Most people had likely

forgotten her existence, or ceased to care about it.

For the first time since I had known her, either as Swanne or as Genvissa, I felt sorry for

her.

At that thought, my mouth opened and words tumbled forth from some dark, intuitive

place.

―Swanne, if ever you need shelter, I will give it to you.‖

“What?”

―If ever you need harbour, I am it.‖ This is what I should have said and done when I went

to her as Damson. Suddenly I knew what I was doing. It had become clear to me, as I had trusted it would. In offering Swanne shelter, in offering to be her friend, I was opening the way for the

day when Swanne would hand to me the powers of Mistress of the Labyrinth. Willingly. As

Damson I had tried to bargain with Swanne, tried to extract the powers of Mistress of the

Labyrinth from her as payment for services rendered. That had been a foul thing to do. Instead, I

should have offered her friendship.

Freely. No conditions.

Swanne started to draw back, but I reached out a hand and grabbed her wrist. ―Swanne, if

ever you need harbour, then I am it!”

―Let me go!‖ She wrenched her wrist from my grip and rose, almost stumbling in her

haste. ―Your wits have gone, Caela.‖

―If ever you need a friend, Swanne, then I am it.‖ Suddenly, as I said that, I no longer

hated her, nor even feared her very much. Poor Swanne…

She took a step backwards, stumbling momentarily as her heel caught in her skirts.

―If ever you need a friend, Swanne…‖ then I am it.

Then she was gone, and I found that as I lay back down to my pillow sleep came easily to

me, and I slept dreamlessly until the following morning, when the sound of Normans clattering

down to their breakfast awakened me.

Matilda and I sat chatting, passing the day in idleness, while men and horses bustled

through the courtyard. William prepared to march on London.

London had been given; he wasted no time taking.

It seemed to me that I had wasted a lifetime in idle chatter over needlework. I had

certainly wasted most of my marriage to Edward bent submissively over wools and silks. And

here I was, a former queen with the queen yet to be crowned, talking of children and babies and

childbirth and, of course, wools and silks.

Thus it was that when Matilda sighed, placed her needlework to one side, and said, ―I am

curious as to how it can be that William loves you so deeply,‖ that I was somewhat

dumbfounded.

Then, as I stared at her with, I am afraid, my mouth hanging very slightly open,