Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

either side of his body.

Harold stood a little distance away, dressed in the scarlet tunic with the golden dragon

emblazoned across

its breast that he‘d been wearing when he had been struck down by Swanne‘s foul arrow,

but without his warrior‘s chain mail beneath it, merely simple cream linen trousers. His hair was

pulled back and tied with a thong in the nape of his neck, his beard close trimmed to his cheeks,

his face calm as he regarded Caela lying dead at William‘s feet.

―You promised you would not harm her,‖ said Harold. ―You vowed it to me!‖

―I—‖

―This is a bad day,‖ Harold said, then raised his eyes from Caela to William. They were

steady, impassive.

―I had no choice—‖ William began.

―This is a bad day that, after all the days and years and aeons you refused her that simple

grace of a kiss, the moment you do kiss her, you choose only to taste foulness.‖

―I—‖

―Did you taste foulness because that is what you wanted to taste, William?‖

―She had lain with Asterion, willingly. She was his creature.‖

―You are a fool, William.‖ Suddenly Harold had closed the distance between them,

although William did not actually see him move, and had his hand tight in William‘s hair, and

had wrenched William‘s head back until his neck screamed in agony.

―You are a fool. You tasted only what you wanted. I lay with her, did you know that?‖

―I—‖

― I lay with her, and kissed her mouth, and because I loved her, I tasted only sweetness

and goodness. You bring corruption to everything you touch, William. No one else. You.” He wrenched William‘s head again, and the man cried out, but made no move to pull himself free.

―Who corrupted her, William? Asterion…or you, that first night you lay with her in her father‘s palace in

Mesopotama? That night you raped her?‖

Harold let William‘s head go and the man staggered a little as he regained his balance.

―No,‖ Harold said, his voice thick with contempt. ―No one has corrupted Cornelia-Caela,

not even you. She is incorruptible, did you not know that?‖

―But she, too, thought that—‖

―She thought so because she looked into your eyes, and your face as you told her how

depraved she was. She looked at the man she has always loved, and what she saw in his eyes and

his face made her believe in her own corruption. She had waited aeons for that kiss, William,

lived for it, and you used it to destroy her.‖

Harold paused, his chest heaving, then laughed hollowly. ―Have neither you nor Asterion

thought, pitiful fool, that if Caela said to Asterion-as-Silvius, thinking he was Silvius, ‗Yes, I lie

with you willingly,‘ then that promise was given to your father, even if he was not there, and not to Asterion?”

William stared at Harold, his eyes unblinking, trying to make sense of what Harold said.

―You sent her into death believing she is Asterion‘s creature,‖ Harold said, his voice now

expressionless. ―What a magnificent parting gift for the one woman who has always loved you,

eh? How you must always have hated her.‖

―I do not hate her.‖

Harold raised an eyebrow.

―I do not hate her.”

Harold turned his back.

―I have always loved her,‖ William whispered, sinking to his knees and holding out his

hands in supplication. ―Always.‖

Harold turned his head slightly, enough to see William over his shoulder. ―Then may

mercy save her from a man who loves as you do,‖ he said, and vanished.

TWENTY-FOUR

Mother Ecub sat in her priory with Matilda at her side and had known that moment Caela

died.

Concomitant with that knowledge came such a terrible wave of despair and fear that Ecub

knew Caela had died in the worst possible circumstances.

The women of the priory, known among themselves now as Eaving‘s Sisters, came to sit

with Mother Ecub and with Matilda. They formed a circle, and held hands, and spoke quietly,

wondering, and wept.

Two hours after the knowledge of Caela‘s death had overwhelmed Ecub, there came a

ringing at the priory gate.

―I will go,‖ said Ecub.

And she set her face into harsh lines, rose, lifted a lamp, and walked to the gates, Matilda

at her heels.

When she swung them open, she was not overly surprised to find William of

Normandy— Brutus—standing there, Caela‘s bloody body in his arms.

Matilda gasped, her hands flying to her face. She started forward, but Ecub held her back.

―Help me,‖ William said. He did not seem surprised to see his wife standing with Ecub.

―Why?‖ Ecub said.

―I loved her,‖ he said. ―I want—‖

―It is too late to want,‖ she said. But Ecub stood back once she had spoken, and beckoned

William inside. Having closed and bolted the gate, she led him to the

priory‘s chapel where she directed him to lay Caela‘s body on the altar.

Matilda followed behind, crying silently.

The chapel‘s altar was clothed in snowy linen, its hemline embroidered with depictions of

the running stag and the twists of the Labyrinth. The altar‘s surface was bare, derelict of any

Christian paraphernalia; waiting, perhaps, for a duty such as this.

As Matilda straightened Caela‘s limbs and smoothed her hair away from her brow, Ecub

stood behind the altar, arms folded, staring at William.

―What happened?‖ she said.

William‘s face was haggard, that of an old man, and when he lifted a hand to rub at his

close-shaven beard Ecub saw that it trembled.

He began to speak, in a broken, stumbling voice, and he told Ecub everything that had

happened in the crypt. Everything that had been said, and everyone who had been present.

―And so you killed her,‖ Ecub said as he faltered to a close.

―It was what she wanted.‖

Ecub did not reply, not verbally, but her face set into hard, judgemental angles, and

Matilda hissed in disbelief.

―Mother Ecub—‖ he began, then whipped about, shocked, as a new voice spoke.

―Well, well, Brutus of Troy, William of Normandy,‖ said the Sidlesaghe, walking slowly

forwards from where he stood within the chapel doorway. ―Grimly met, I fear.‖

―Who are you?‖ William said, one hand at his sword.

―William—‖ Ecub began, fearful, but the Sidlesaghe waved her to silence.

―I am Long Tom,‖ he said. ―I am a Sidlesaghe. I keep company, I sing, I watch over her.‖

He nodded at Caela‘s corpse.

William addressed the Sidlesaghe again. “What are you?”

―What I am does not concern you at this moment. Tell me, William of Normandy,

Kingman of the Troy Game, are you going to retrieve the bands of Trojan kingship now that you

are here?‖

―What is the point?‖ William said. ―Asterion will only haunt me if I try to find them, and

as for Swanne, she is so corrupted that—‖

―Swanne is dead,‖ said Long Tom.

William just stared at the Sidlesaghe, shocked.

―Harold came to her before he came to you,‖ Long Tom finished.

―Well, the night has some joy in it, at least,‖ said Matilda, speaking for the first time.

William shook his head, as if trying to shake some understanding into it. ―Gods,‖ he said.

―What am I going to do?‖

Ecub and the Sidlesaghe shrugged simultaneously. What William did, as long as he let

the bands be, was of no concern to them.

―Go now,‖ Ecub said finally. ―There is nothing more you can do here.‖

William looked at her, then walked forward until he stood by the altar. He laid a hand on

Caela‘s face and then, as Ecub had done, smoothed the hair back from her brow. ―Next time,‖ he

whispered.

And then, without word or look to either Ecub or the Sidlesaghe, he turned and strode

from the chapel.

Matilda hesitated a moment, looked at Ecub, then hurried after William.

As the door slammed closed behind them, the Sidlesaghe smiled at Ecub. ―Do not fear,

Mother. All is not lost. Asterion does not know about Eaving. He does not know about me. And

he does not know…‖ He raised his eyebrows at the Mother.

She nodded, understanding. ―He does not know about Harold.‖

―Yes.‖ The Sidlesaghe‘s smile broadened. Then he sobered, and looked again on Caela‘s

corpse. ―Will you care for her?‖

―Aye. We will wash her, and stitch her wound, and clothe her in fine array, and then we

will bring her to you atop Pen Hill.‖

―And there,‖ the Sidlesaghe whispered, ―we will watch over her.‖

Epilogue

Christmas Day, 1066

Aldred, Archbishop of York, crowned William of Normandy and his wife Matilda as

King and Queen of England on Christmas Day in a lavish ceremony held in Westminster Abbey.

It was a celebration day in London, although there was little in the way of feasting or joy,

or even mild cheer. Most craftsmen stayed home, their workshops closed, while the markets

were empty of all save children playing hopscotch on the pavements.

Don”t jump on the cracks, or the monster will snatch!