Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

She was a pretty girl, her attractiveness resting more in her extraordinary stillness than in

any extravagant feature. Her glossy dark brown hair, on this occasion tightly braided and hidden

under a silken ivory veil (held in place by a golden circlet of some weight, which may have

partly explained why Caela kept her eyes downward-facing for so much of the feast), was one of

her best features, as were her sooty-lashed deep blue eyes and her flawlessly smooth white skin.

Her features were otherwise regular, her teeth small and evenly spaced, her hands dainty, their

every movement considered. Caela was dressed almost as richly as her new husband: a

heavily-embroidered blue surcoat over a long, crisp, snowy-white linen under-tunic embroidered

with silver threads about its hem and the cuffs of its slim-fitted sleeves. Unlike her husband and

her father, however, Caela wore little in the way of adornment, save for a gold circlet of rank on

her brow and a sparkling emerald ring on the heart finger of her left hand.

Edward had shoved it there not four hours earlier, during the nuptial mass held in her

father‘s chapel. Now, that nuptial ring‘s large square-cut stone hid a painful bruise on Caela‘s

finger.

Caela‘s eyes rarely moved from the hands in her lap—someone who did not know her

well might have thought she sat admiring that great, cold emerald—and she spoke only

monosyllabic replies to any who addressed her.

That was rare enough. Edward had not said a word to her, and the only other person who

addressed Caela (apart from the occasional shouted enthusiasm from her gloating father) was the

man who sat on her right side.

This man, unhappy looking where Edward was sullen and Godwine buoyant, was

considerably younger than either of the other two men. In his early twenties, Harold Godwineson

was the earl‘s eldest surviving son and thus heir to all that Godwine controlled (lands, estates,

offices and riches, as well as the English throne, which meant that Edward loathed Harold as

much as he did Godwine).

Like his father, Harold was a warrior, blooded and proved in a score of savage,

death-ridden battles, but, unlike Godwine, a man who also had the sensitive soul of a bard. That

sensibility showed itself in Harold‘s face and his dark eyes, in the manner of his movements and

his engaging ability to give any who spoke to him his full and undivided attention. His hair was a

dark blond, already stranded with grey, which he kept warrior short, as he did the faint stubble of

his darker beard. He was a serious man who rarely laughed, but who, when he smiled, could

lighten the heart of whomever that smile graced.

Harold was not so richly accoutred as his father and his new brother-in-law, although

well dressed and jewelled enough as befitted his status of one of the most powerful men in

England. Like Edward, Harold toyed with his wine cup, rarely bringing it to his lips.

Unlike Edward, Harold spent a great deal of time watching his sister, occas ionally

reaching out to touch her with a reassuring hand, or to lean close and whisper something that

sometimes, almost, made the girl‘s mouth twitch upwards. Harold had adored Caela from birth,

had watched over her, had spent an inordinate amount of time with her, and had argued fiercely

with Godwine when their father proposed the match with Edward.

Some people had rumoured that it was not so much the match that Harold raged about,

but that the girl was to be wedded and bedded at all. In recent years, as Caela approached her

womanhood, Harold‘s attachment to his sister had attracted much sniggering comment. There

was more than one person in the hall this night who, under the influence of unwatered wine or

rich cider, and who thought themselves far enough distant from the dais to dare the whisper, had

proposed that Godwine‘s flamboyant happiness this eve was due more to his relief that he‘d

managed to get his daughter a virgin to Edward‘s bed than at the marriage itself, as advantageous

as that might be.

If one were to guess, one might think that Harold‘s wife, sitting on his other side, if not

the instigator, had been party to many of these whispers. Swanne (also an Eadyth, but known far

and wide as Swanne for her beautiful, long white neck and elegant head carriage) sat almost as

still as Caela, but with her head held high on her lovely neck, her almond-shaped black eyes

watching both her husband and his sister with much private amusement.

Swanne was a stunningly beautiful woman. Of an age with Harold, or perhaps a year or

two older, she had curly, black hair that, when unveiled and unbound, snapped and twisted down

her back in wild abandon. Her skin was as pale as Caela‘s, but drawn over a face more finely

wrought and framing lips far plumper and redder than her much younger sister-in-law‘s.

And her eyes…a man could sink and drown in those eyes. They were as black as a

witch-night; great pools of mystery that entrapped men and savaged their souls.

When combined with her tall, lithe body…ah, most men in this hall envied Harold even

as they whispered about him (the envy, of course, fuelling many of the whispers). Even now,

leaning back in her chair so that her swollen five-months‘ pregnant belly strained at the fabric of

her white surcoat, most men lusted after Swanne as they had lusted after little else in their lives.

She was a woman bred to trigger every man‘s wildest sexual fantasy, and she was the reason

why over a score of men already had dragged female thralls outside to be pushed against a wall

and savagely assaulted in a vain attempt to assuage their lust for the Lady Swanne.

On those occasions Swanne did not watch her husband or his sister, her black eyes trailed

languidly over the hall, her mouth lifted in a knowing smile as she saw men staring at her,

lowering frantic hands below the table to grab at the lust straining their trousers. Swanne was a

woman who enjoyed every moment of her dominance, yet loathed those who succumbed to her

spell.

Among the other members of the wedding party on the dais sat Harold‘s younger brother,

Tostig, a bright-eyed, lively-faced youth, and sundry other noblemen, earls or thegns closely

allied with Godwine. King Edward had a few supporters also: two Norman noblemen who had

remained at Edward‘s side since he returned from his twenty-year exile in Normandy at the

young duke‘s court, and the rising young Norman cleric, Aldred. Aldred had come to England

with the returning Edward‘s retinue, and now he enjoyed a powerful position in the king‘s court.

Indeed, he had performed the nuptial mass, although most had not failed to note that Aldred

spent more time watching Swanne than either his benefactor or the tender bride. Aldred was a

thickset man who, having cleaned his own platter, was now leaning over the table to lift uneaten

portions of food from the platters of other diners. A trail of spiced wine thickened his unshaven

chin, and had stained the front of his clerical robe.

Aldred was not known for the austerity of his tastes.

He snatched a congealing piece of roast goose from the platter of a Saxon thegn, stuffing

the morsel inside his mouth.

All the time his eyes—strange, grey, cool eyes—never left Swanne‘s form.

Eventually came that moment when Godwine decided that the wedding was not enough,

and that the bedding must now be accomplished.

At his signal (shout, rather), Swanne rose from her husband Harold‘s side and, together

with several other ladies, took Caela and led her towards the stairs at the rear of the hall which

led to the bedchambers above.

The largest and best of the bedchambers had been prepared for the king and his new

bride, and once Swanne had Caela inside, she and the other ladies began to strip the girl of her

finery.

There were no words spoken, and Swanne‘s eyes, when they occasionally met Caela‘s,

were harsh and cold.

When Caela at last stood naked, Swanne moved back a pace and regarded the girl‘s

pubescent flesh. Caela‘s hips were still narrow, her buttocks scrawny, and her pubic hair thin and

sparse. Her waist remained that of a girl: straight and without any of that sweet narrowing that

might lead a man‘s hands towards those delights both above and below it. Her breasts had barely

plumped out from their childish flatness.

Swanne ran her eyes down Caela‘s body, then looked the girl in the eye.

Caela had lifted her hands to her breasts, and was now trembling slightly.

―You have not much to tempt a husband‘s embraces,‖ Swanne said. She moved slightly,

sensuously, her breasts and hips and belly straining against her robes, and then smiled coldly. ―I

cannot imagine how any husband could want to part your legs, my dear.‖