near, has eased much of my pain.‖
Ecub knew he was not referring only to his physical aches.
―Who else?‖ she said softly.
―Genvissa, but then you must know that.‖
Now it was Ecub who made the face. ―Yes. The gracious and beautiful Lady Swanne.
She and I have exchanged bitter looks, and a few even more bitter words, but my duties within
the priory—and to the stones atop Pen Hill—allow me to avoid much of her poison. You?‖
―We have spoken only once, when she crowed with delight at this.‖ Again Saeweald
tapped his hip. ―As with you, I avoid her.‖
―Harold,‖ Ecub said very softly, watching Saeweald‘s face.
―Oh, Ecub! How did that witch trap him?‖
―He does not remember, does he?‖
Saeweald shook his head. ―In the past few weeks I have come to know him well. We
have re-formed our old friendship and bond, although Harold is not consciously aware of it.‖ He
sighed. ―Ecub…it is a mercy for him, I believe, that he does not remember. I think it best that
way. But that Cornelia and Coel were reborn as brother and sister…to yearn for each other, and
yet to believe that to touch would be the ultimate vice. What evil mischief is this? Fate, or
Asterion?‖
―Who can tell, Saeweald? But you are sure that Harold is Coel-reborn?‖
―Yes. Yes . Like so many people he adheres to the old ways while he mouths Christian
pieties. He is my old and beloved friend, Ecub. Ah! How I hate to see him tied to that witch!‖
Ecub grinned. ―But he is her husband, and thus she his chattel by law of this land. Is that
not deliciously amusing? Have you not thought how Swanne must chafe under that? And she
must bear him sons…oh, I laughed when I heard she had birthed a male child. How that must have riled the oh-so-powerful Mistress of the Labyrinth.‖
―And Brutus-reborn. Have you realised his identity as the Duke of Normandy?‖
―Aye. I have heard of that ‗gift‘ he sent to Edward, and have seen Edward in court
crawling through that evil Labyrinth on his hands and knees, thinking he is crawling towards
Jerusalem and salvation instead of towards monstrous terror.‖
―I can foresee the sorrow that is to come. It will be Coel against Brutus, Harold against
William, the moment that Edward dies. Edward means to get no heir on Caela; thus, when he
dies England will disintegrate under those who would claim the throne.‖
―Coel against Brutus,‖ Ecub repeated softly, ―Harold against William. And Swanne,
rising in all her malevolent witchcraft to ensure that it shall be William to succeed. Gods,
Saeweald, how long do we have?‖
―How long do we have for what, Ecub?‖
She was silent, dropping her face to study her work-worn hands.
―Caela,‖ Saeweald said for both of them, finally bringing up the name they had both been
avoiding. ―I can understand why Harold does not remember his previous life as Coel—that is
nothing short of a kindness to him. But Caela? Gods, Ecub! She carries Mag within her womb.
She is our only hope against Swanne and William and the ever-cursed Troy Game! And she does
not remember! ‖
―You have spoken to her, then?‖
Saeweald nodded tersely.
―As have I,‖ Ecub said. ―We have engaged in several conversations over the past months.
Sometimes I push a little—mention a name, a deed—but she does not respond, save to stiffen as
if the name I mention causes her great fear. And yet Cornelia is there. Caela founded my priory when she had no need to, and I hear her womb bleeds, as if Mag weeps within her.‖
Again Saeweald nodded.
―There is nothing we can do,‖ said Ecub, ―but to wait and trust in both Mag and Caela.‖
―And wait for Edward to die,‖ said Saeweald.
―And wait for the storm to gather,‖ said Ecub. ―Saeweald, sometimes I sit on Pen Hill
and cast my eyes down to London, to the cathedral of St Paul‘s which now sits atop Genvissa
and Brutus‘ foul piece of Aegean magic, and I shudder in horror. It still lives there, Saeweald. I
can feel it, festering under the city and the feet of the people who inhabit it, poisoning this land.‖
―Ecub,‖ Saeweald said. ―We can do nothing until Caela—‖
At that moment they both jumped as the outer door opened, jerking their heads about as if
this were the storm approaching now, or perhaps even the Game itself, stepping out to consume
them.
But it was only the laundress, Damson, come to collect Saeweald‘s linens, and both
Saeweald and Ecub relaxed into silence as the unassuming peasant woman did her task, then left.
Part Two
1065
As in days of old, …
As in days of old, the labyrinth in lofty Crete is said to have possessed a way, enmeshed
„mid baffling walls and the tangled mystery of a thousand paths, that there, a trickery that none
could grasp, and whence was no return…just so the sons of Troy entangle their paths at a
gallop, and interweave flight and combat in sport…this mode of exercise and these contests first
did Ascanius* revive, when he girdled Alba Longa with walls, and taught our Latin forefathers to
celebrate after the fashion in which he himself when a boy, and with him the Trojan youth, had
celebrated them…even now the game is called Troy, and the boys are called the Trojan Band.
Virgil, The Aeneid, Book V
* Father of Silvius and grandfather of Brutus.
London, March 1939
“Eaving?” Jack Skelton whispered into the sorry, grey dawn light of the Bentleys” spare
bedroom. “Eaving!”
For a moment nothing, then a creaking noise somewhere deep within the house.
Skelton leaped out of bed, his heart racing, and then realised, horribly, that Violet
Bentley had made the noise. She was moving from her and Frank”s bedroom, down the stairs, to
the small kitchen on the ground floor where she was doubtless about to prepare Skelton one of
those horribly fatty English fried breakfasts.
Skelton subsided back to the bed, almost hating Violet for causing him to hope so
terribly, so momentarily.
Eventually he made the effort to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. He
paused there, then dropped his head into his hands, trying to find the energy to rise and wash
and then dress for his first day in his new posting.
And then it came. From outside the window this time, not inside where Violet was making
an increasing amount of clatter over the breakfast.
The sound of a child”s voice. A breathless, joyful catch of laughter. A spoken word,
murmured.
Daddy.
“Gods!” Skelton said, his voice a harsh, shocked whisper. He scrambled to the window,
almost falling in his haste, and stared out.
On the street below, looking up at the window, was a little girl of some seven or eight
years old. She had very black curly hair, an image of Skelton”s own, and a pale face with deep
blue eyes ringed with sooty lashes.
Daddy , she mouthed.
And then she held out her hands.
In each palm rested one of the golden kingship bands of Troy.
The two lost bands of Troy, for which Asterion had searched for centuries.
ONE
England
Autumn 1065
Mother Ecub, prioress of the small but wellendowed priory of St Margaret the Martyr,
which lay just off the northern road from London, sat worshipping in the weak mid-morning sun.
She did not sit in the chapel of her priory, which had been well constructed of the best
local stone and decorated with beautiful carvings and statues, as well as rare and costly
stained-glass windows.
Neither did Mother Ecub sit before the altar in her solitary cell, nor in the refectory where
hung a cross on the wall, nor even in the herb and vegetable gardens of the priory, which were
close enough to the wall of the chapel to do in a crisis.
Mother Ecub did not worship within the walls of the priory, nor even within shouting
distance of them.
Rather, Mother Ecub sat worshipping atop the small hill which rose two hundred paces
west of the priory.
Pen Hill, as it was known both in ancient times and present.
The ring of stones that had graced the hill two thousand years ago still stood, although
they were now far more weatherbeaten than once they had been, and there were gaps where the
Romans had hauled away the better stones to use as milestones on their roads. Two of these
milestones now stood guarding the London-side approach to the bridge over the Thames.
Londoners called them Gog and Magog, and carved crude faces into them, claiming the stones
housed the spirits of the ancient ones who had built the city.
Their faith made Mother Ecub, and the seventeen personally picked female members of
her order, smile and manage to keep the faith. If people remembered the ancient gods of this