Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

enough men and arms to keep his throne safe from the ambitions of the Danes and Norwegians;

for that he needed the immense power of the Wessex lands and the men within its army. The

king‘s dependence on the assets of Wessex gave whoever held the earldom a powerful hold over

Edward. Edward resented this dependence, and he hated Harold as much as he had hated our

father, and almost as much as he hated me.

Harold and I were close, and Edward saw that closeness, and made of it a terrible thing.

He hinted to me in our cold bed in the dark hours of night—he would not dare say it aloud where

Harold might hear the words—that he knew Harold and I were unnatural lovers. He watched the

way that Harold‘s laughing eyes followed me about a chamber and said that Harold lusted for

me.

This tactic terrified me. I feared for Harold far more than for myself. I wished great

things for Harold: for one, the throne, once my frightful husband had departed for his place at

God‘s right hand, but above all joy and contentment and achievement.

Edward could destroy this with a single, hateful remark. I could imagine it now, Edward

finally deciding that he no longer needed Harold‘s support for his throne and remarking at court,

as if in passing: ―Ah, yes, the Earl of Wessex. His sister‘s lover, don‘t you know?‖

Maybe that would not be enough to destroy Harold. Maybe my brother was powerful

enough to overcome even that slur.

Maybe.

And maybe Edward‘s threat had so much power over me because, in my hearts of hearts,

I wished that it were true. Because, in my dreams at night, I often imagined myself in Harold‘s bed.

I closed my eyes tight, hating myself. I could hear Edward‘s voice murmuring as he

spoke to some of his pet priests, and I felt more loathsome than the darkest worm.

Mother Mary, I was repulsive! To lust after my own brother! When I was a child, I

adored Harold. As I became older, that adoration grew into something…else. Something that

should not grow between a brother and a sister. Harold knew it, for sometimes I caught him

watching me strangely, darkly, as if I represented a threat to him.

It was rare now that Harold allowed himself to be in a chamber alone with me. We should

have been close, Harold and I, but instead we found ourselves avoiding each other, sliding our

eyes away from the other, our words stumbling to an awkward close whenever we found

ourselves addressing each other.

Edward had noticed it, and I am sure most others did also. I know that Harold‘s achingly

desirable wife, Swanne, saw it and recognised the awkwardness for what it was.

I know it for fact, for one day soon after my loveless marriage had begun, Swanne leaned

her elegant, beautiful head close to me, and with her soft, red lips whispered in my ear, ―Shall I

tell you, my dear, of how fine a lover your brother is? How he makes me squeal and twist under

him? Would you like to hear that, my poor virgin girl? Would you? Would you like it, my dear?

I‘m sure Harold has enough for you as well.‖

And then she‘d leaned back, and laughed, and made a comment so crude that even now I

could not bear to form the words in my head.

―Wife?‖

I jumped, then blushed, for I was sure that somehow Edward could read my thoughts. He

sat in a chair some distance from me, although not, unfortunately, so far distant that it prohibited

conversation. About us in the Lesser Hall (that smaller hall we used when not holding formal

court) our small evening court had fallen silent, watching, wondering what humiliation Edward

had in store for his wife tonight.

A tongue-lashing, perhaps?

An order to spend the night on her knees confessing her sins to Eadwine, the Abbot of

Westminster?

A tirade on the sins of the flesh, at the least…

―My dear…‖

Only Edward could make an insult of those two words.

―Are you not going to greet the Lady Prioress? She has been standing before you for the

past few minutes while you have wandered in your thoughts. You have duties as queen, Caela. I

would that you occasionally remembered them.‖

Humiliated, not the least because I knew I deserved the reprimand, I looked before me.

There, sure enough, her cheeks stained pink in embarrassment, stood Mother Ecub as she

had probably been standing waiting for my regard for the past half an hour.

―Mother,‖ I said, stammering in my discomfiture, ―I beg you, forgive me.‖ I held out my

hand, and Mother Ecub shuffled forward— Lord Christ, when had she grown so old and

arthritic? —and took it briefly, laying her mouth against the great emerald ring I wore on my

heart finger.

Edward had given me that as a wedding ring. Christ alone knew he had never kissed it.

―My apologies to you, good prioress,‖ I said as Ecub stepped back and slowly

straightened. ―I have kept you standing far longer than I should. Judith…‖ I turned my head

slightly, and beckoned to my favourite and most senior lady, ―fetch a chair for Mother Ecub.‖

As Judith hurried to do my will, the court slowly relaxed, and muted conversation started

to again fill the background. Our evenings were usually spent in this smaller hall rather than the

great audience hall, and only the closest and most valued among the court attended us after

supper. Around Edward were clustered several members of the witan, all looking grave, perhaps

with the latest news from France, or Normandy, or with tidings of another crop failure. They

were true men, and hardy, but they never seemed cheerful.

Just behind that group stood Saeweald, physician to both Edward and myself. He saw me

looking at him, and lowered one eyelid in a slow, reassuring wink.

I looked away, both grateful for the gesture and annoyed at his presumption. I liked

Saeweald, I truly did (how could a man stay so cheerful when his right leg and hip were so

twisted as to make every one of his steps a painful, tottering journey?), but that liking had taken

years to mature. Saeweald had been attending court since the first year of my marriage, but my

liking for him had taken some time to establish itself. During his first six months at court, the

physician had greatly unsettled me.

When first we met Saeweald called me by another name—what was it again? Corvessa?

Contaleia? Analia?—and had seemed irritated with me when I would not respond to it. I had

tried to be patient—after all, the pain in his leg must surely addle his mind somewhat from time

to time—but all the same his insistence had unsettled me. Over a period of some weeks and

months Saeweald tried to talk to me of a time long ago, and I had bade him to be silent, for I had

no mind to hear of the witchery which must have made him scry out such memories. And, at

another time, he begged me to remember a woman, Mag he called her, to whom I apparently

owed a debt…or some such…

I would have none of his wanderings, and commanded him to silence with the greatest

sharpness. I had said to him that even though he be the greatest physician within Christendom, I

would have none of him at court if he carried on so. I wept.

Eventually Saeweald, weeping himself, had lowered himself to his knees before me (and

what agony that must have been for him!) and had said that he would talk of these matters no

more. I had nodded, once, stiffly, and motioned him to rise, and Saeweald had done so, and had

kissed my hand, and had kept his word and held his tongue.

That had been many years ago now, and even if Saeweald had held his tongue, I still

often came upon him watching me as though he expected me to…to do what I do not know, but

that very expectation in his gaze unsettled me.

I had grown close to him, nonetheless. He was witty, and comforting, and largely

non-judgemental, and through several murmured remarks over the years I knew that Saeweald

honoured me far above my husband. That was largely a novel sentiment (only Judith and Mother Ecub seemed to feel thus), and one which disposed me to have much good feeling for the man.

And I liked Saeweald because the physician was the only person who had the requisite

skill with herbs and potions to ease my monthly fluxes, which had become an increasing trouble

over the past few years. One might have thought that my womb, finding itself not needed, would

have settled into a resigned quietude, but, no, apparently it resented its empty state so greatly it