Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

Among these were many hoping that Edward would sponsor their religious order, as he had that

of the Westminster abbey monks. Many of these he did indeed aid; some he turned away.

One he did, almost, turn away was a woman of a particularly annoying frankness and air

of independence. She presented herself at Edward‘s court in order to petition him to fund the

establishment of a female religious priory.

―In honour of St Margaret the Martyr,‖ the woman said to the king as she knelt before his

throne.

Edward watched her silently, not only wondering precisely who St Margaret the Martyr

was (possibly one of those forgettable Roman noblewomen who had somehow managed to

achieve martyrdom and subsequent sainthood on the strength of their donations to the emerging

church), but also wondering how he could rid himself and his court of this unsettling woman as

quickly as possible. She was of some forty years, rotund, and with a cheerful round face, but

there was a strength and determination underlying that cheerfulness that truly disconcerted

Edward. Women should know their place, and he was not at all sure that this one did.

―I am afraid—‖ he began, when, to his amazement, his wife broke in, leaning forward in

her throne and speaking to her husband.

―My husband, may I perhaps take this care from your already over-burdened shoulders?‖

Edward stared at Caela, his mouth open. This was the first time he could ever remember

her speaking openly in court, let alone interrupting him.

―My father has endowed me well,‖ Caela continued, her cheeks flushed as if she realised

her transgression, ―and I would like this opportunity to repay Christ and His saints for their

goodness to me. Perhaps I could use a small portion of my own reserves to endow this holy

woman‘s priory?‖

At this her courage failed her—by now over half the court were staring at Caela,

open-mouthed—but Edward smiled, suddenly pleased with her. If she was this pious, then

perhaps she could eventually retire to the order she founded and he could be rid of her.

His smile broadened. ―Of course, my dear. As you will.‖

Caela blushed even further, perhaps astounded by her own temerity, but she turned to the

woman still kneeling before Edward (with her round and generous face now turned to Caela) and

asked her name.

―You may call me Mother Ecub,‖ said the woman, and then looked at Caela as if she

expected some reaction.

But Caela only smiled politely, and begged Mother Ecub to visit her within her own

private chamber on the morrow.

Mother Ecub bowed, rose to her feet, and left.

And as she left, so she locked eyes momentarily with Swanne, Harold of Wessex‘s wife,

newly risen from childbed. Both understood each other immediately; each sent ill will coursing

the other‘s way before each turned aside, and pretended indifference.

Thus was the Priory of St Margaret the Martyr founded, with Mother Ecub as its prioress.

The small priory was built at the foot of Pen Hill just to the north of London, and within a year it

had attracted some twelve or thirteen women who lived within its walls. The nuns contented themselves with good works to travellers, lepers and the destitute, and soon earned themselves

such a good name among the Londoners that they called the priory Mother Mag‘s as a measure

of their affection.

It pleased Mother Ecub no end.

The third arrival into Edward‘s court in this first year of his marriage caused much

comment, where the other two had scarcely caused a ripple. King Edward had recently suffered

pain from the gradual swelling and heating of the joints in his hands, elbows and knees. Many

physicians attended him, but there was only one who consistently relieved Edward‘s discomfort

and he the youngest of those who presented the king with their herbals and unguents.

His name was Saeweald, and he was but eighteen or nineteen years of age. Born to the

north of London, he had only recently completed his apprenticeship. Despite his youth, in his

craft Saeweald combined an assurance, knowledge and skill that most of his older fellows

envied, and the youth quickly became a fixture at Edward‘s side.

Saeweald attracted comment not only because of his youth and his talent. Apart from the

green of his eyes, he was very dark, bespeaking more the ancient British blood than the Saxon in

his veins, but even this was not what made him stand out at court. Saeweald‘s right hip and leg

had been brutally mangled during his birth, and the newly appointed royal physician walked with

the greatest difficulty, dragging his deformed leg behind him, and, on his worst days, requiring

crutches to stand upright. But in a strange manner this endeared him to many. Saeweald‘s

rasping breath of discomfort, the drag of his leg, the tap of his crutches and the constant jangling

of the small copper boxes of herbs which hung at his belt announced his imminent arrival more

efficiently than any clarion or horn. No one could ever accuse the physician of spying, for there

was no means by which he could creep unheard upon any conversation and this made everyone

in the court comfortable with his comings and goings.

Yet Saeweald did keep secrets, and it was Tostig, younger brother to Harold of Wessex,

who discovered one of these a few months after Saeweald‘s appointment as royal physician.

Tostig and Saeweald had become friends soon after the physician‘s arrival at court. Outwardly,

this seemed a strange friendship, for Tostig was a youth dedicated to the military arts, to heroic

action and to the bravado of the warrior, while Saeweald was far more introspective and given to

the pursuit of knowledge and mystery rather than a warrior‘s heroisms.

This was, after all, all that his leg would allow him.

Tostig and Saeweald did find some common ground, however; perhaps their mutual

youth, as well as their mutual indulgence in the fleshly delights the court and community of

Westminster offered them (such fleshly delights kept well away from Edward‘s attention). Thus

it was one afternoon, when Tostig was trying to find Saeweald in order that they might plan

which of the accommodating ladies they would prevail upon this night, that he found him

soaking away the aches in his leg in a large tub of heated water redolent with herbs.

Edward had given Saeweald three chambers (an unheard-of allocation of private space

for this crowded community) in one of the palace outbuildings. Saeweald used the space to live

and sleep, as well as to store and dispense his herbs. The first chamber was given over to the

herbs and a dispensary, the second Saeweald used as his sleeping and living quarters, and the

third…well, the third Tostig had never entered. But this day, as he walked silently through the

first and then the second chamber, seeking his friend, Tostig heard the sound of splashing

coming from the third chamber, and so, without any announcement—assuming his friend was

merely enjoying a soak—Tostig walked straight in.

Saeweald jumped in surprise, an unfortunate reaction which instantly gave Tostig full

view of something he‘d not ever suspected of his friend. True, he‘d never previously seen

Saeweald utterly naked, and Tostig had always assumed this was because Saeweald was

sensitive about his deformed hip and leg.

Now he saw there was another reason—a far darker one.

―What is this?‖ he said quietly, coming to stand at the side of the tub.

Saeweald had sunk under the water, but now, observing the strange light in Tostig‘s eyes,

he sat himself upright, allowing Tostig to see his chest.

Tostig looked at Saeweald‘s chest, then at his face, then back to the man‘s chest. He

stepped closer and, very slowly, lowered his hand on to Saeweald‘s wet skin.

Saeweald‘s skin jumped a little as Tostig‘s hand touched him, and the man tensed, but

then he relaxed as he saw the expression on Tostig‘s face.

Awe. Reverence.

Tostig breathed in deeply and, as Saeweald remained still, moved his fingers over

Saeweald‘s chest and shoulders, their tips tracing the dark blue, tattooed outline of a magnificent

spread of stag antlers.

―I should have known,‖ Tostig whispered.

Saeweald said nothing, his dark eyes unmoving from Tostig‘s face.

―You follow the ancient ways,‖ said Tostig, very quietly. ―By the gods, Saeweald, no

wonder you are so skilled with the healing herbs!‖

He lifted his hand from Saeweald‘s chest and looked the man full in the face. ―This mark

is enough, my friend, to have you executed at the order of our most Christian of kings.‖

Still Saeweald said nothing; still he watched Tostig carefully.

Tostig breathed deeply again, visibly affected by what he had discovered. ―Moreover,

this tattoo marks you as not just a follower of the ancient ways, but as…as…‖

―Are you too afraid to say it, Tostig? Then I will, for already you know enough to have

me killed. I am Saeweald, but I am also of the bloodline that traces back to the ancient priests of