Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

into a greater maturity—the only physical changes wrought by the passing years were the greater

sprinkling of grey through his dark blond hair and the deeper creases of care near his eyes—and

Tostig into full manhood. Eight years earlier Godwine had settled the earldom of Northumbria

upon Tostig, and it was this earldom and the responsibilities that went with it which now directed

the conversation between the two brothers.

Tostig was a dark, handsome man, and the insecurities of youth which had once so

amused Swanne had been set aside for an assurance of manner that sometimes bordered on the

arrogant and overbearing. Now, as he and Harold sat before the glowing embers of the fire, with

only the soft presence of servants clearing away the tables in the hall behind them, Tostig leaned

forward, his face set, his eyes snapping, and stabbed a finger at Harold.

―Their insolence is unbelievable!‖ Tostig said.

Harold, slouched back in his chair as if half asleep, sent Tostig an unreadable look from

under lowered lids, but said nothing.

―They demand that I step down from the earldom!‖

Harold closed his eyes briefly, resisting the urge to lean across to Tostig and shake some

sense into the man. Tostig had ruled Northumbria well for years, but over the past eighteen

months had begun to meddle in local politics with disastrous consequences. The situation had

been exacerbated by Tostig‘s assassination of two popular noblemen several months previously.

Now Northumbria was threatening to rise up in revolt.

―Tostig,‖ Harold said, ―stifling opposition by murdering the voices who speak it has

never been the best course of action.‖

―I have had to withdraw forces from the border regions closer to home,‖ Tostig went on,

ignoring Harold, ―with the result that now the Scots threaten to invade. Harold, you must aid

me.‖

Harold leaned forward and emptied the dregs of his wine cup into the fire pit.

The embers hissed momentarily, then fell quiet.

―No,‖ he said.

―No?‖

―That earldom is yours to keep or to lose as you will, Tostig. If you currently find

yourself mired in mutinous resentment, then may I suggest you have only yourself to blame.‖

―You have an army at your disposal,‖ Tostig hissed. ―Give it to me.‖

Harold sat up straight in his chair, his hands light on the armrests, the only sign of his

anger the gentle thrumming of his fingers against the wood. ―No.‖

Tostig stared at his brother, then abruptly spat into the fire. ―You think only of yourself.‖

―I think only of England.‖

Tostig sneered.

―Edward is old,‖ Harold continued in an even voice. ―His days are numbered. He has no

heir and, in his own sweet recalcitrant manner, refuses to name one. If he takes this truculence to

the grave with him, England will disintegrate into crisis. I will need the army here when that

happens, Tostig, not trapped in the north trying to settle your domestic disputes.‖

―You mean you want to grab the throne yourself. I can go to hell for all you care.‖

Harold took a moment to respond. ―My primary responsibility is to the realm, Tostig. Not

to you.‖

Tostig rose, his face twisted with anger. ―Desert your family, brother, and you may find

yourself without either throne or realm!‖

With that Tostig turned on his heel and stalked off.

Harold sighed, refilled his wine cup, and spent the next hour staring into the fire as he

slowly sipped the wine.

Finally he rose, and went to his bedchamber for the night.

FIVE

Hawise checked to make sure that her lady‘s gown was safely folded and settled into the

chest, then turned back to her mistress. Swanne sat before a burnished mirror, brushing out her

thick mass of curly, ebony hair with long, slow strokes, and Hawise hesitated before walking

over and taking her leave for the night.

Sweet Mother Mary, but she was beautiful!

In the mirror, Swanne‘s eyes slid Hawise‘s way, and the woman dropped her own eyes

and fidgeted with her skirt, embarrassed at being caught staring.

―I am done with you for the night,‖ Swanne said.

Hawise nodded, coloured a little—she had served Swanne for twenty-five years, but the

woman still retained the ability to make her uncomfortable—dropped a small curtsey and walked

from the private bedchamber that sat above Harold‘s hall.

As the heavy drapery that served as a door fell closed behind Hawise, Swanne smiled at

herself in the mirror. ―Oh, aye, my dear,‖ she murmured, ―I am beautiful indeed.‖

Then her smile faded a little. What use was such beauty when William lingered within

Normandy? Fifteen years ago they had believed that only a year or two separated them from each

other and from their dream of completing the Game. But William‘s problems in Normandy had

continued; he could not turn for England, and Swanne had been forced to a wait far longer than

she‘d anticipated. She might have tried to see William again, to touch him, but both he and she

had felt Asterion‘s malevolent, cruel presence close by, and they had not dared. Together they

would have presented the Minotaur with too tempting a target.

Fifteen years since she had seen him. Fifteen years of frustration and of being tied to

Harold. Swanne had never loved Harold, but now she also resented him. Fifteen years of Harold

when she could have had William.

And it had been that bitch whom he had visited in dream! It still rankled that William had graced Caela‘s dreams, and not hers. William was so concerned about Asterion that he kept his

mind and powers closely shuttered; Swanne had tried to touch him through dream previously and

had not been able to get past the barriers he put in place.

But he had visited Caela in dream. It mattered not that William had apparently done

nothing but speak of Swanne.

He had visited Caela in dream and not Swanne!

―You foolish virgin bitch,‖ Swanne muttered. ―Even now you can‘t resist trying your

petty, childish charms on him, can you?‖

There was a movement at the door.

Harold.

Swanne smiled easily at him—at least those fifteen years had made her the mistress of

deception—and turned back to her reflection in the mirror as Harold undressed and slid beneath

the bed covers.

Finally, tiring of her pose, Swanne shook her head so that her ebony hair rippled

luxuriously down her back, and put down the brush. She stood, slowly and elegantly, aware of

every movement that she made, and smoothed down over her body (still slim and fine after the

six children she‘d borne to remain in Harold‘s good graces, thank the gods!) the thin lawn

nightrobe whose delicate weave scarcely hid any detail of the body over which it draped.

She placed a hand over her stomach, flattening the lawn against her, and again admired

herself in the mirror.

―Do you think yourself with child again?‖

For an instant, Swanne‘s eyes hardened to a flat bleakness, but then she turned to the man

who had spoken, and in that movement she masked her hatred with a practised coquetry.

―Are six children not enough for you, my love? Do you want me to swell again so that

your manhood can be proven before all at court yet one more time?‖

He lay on his back on the bed, the covers pulled down to his stomach exposing his

well-muscled chest, hands behind his head, studying her with unreadable eyes. ― Are you with child?‖

―No.‖ Swanne sauntered over to the bed, allowing herself to admire the man‘s physique

and handsome face even if she loathed who and what he was.

Swanne parted her lips, allowing him to see the wetness of her tongue between her white

teeth. Slowly she tugged the robe over her shoulders so that it fell to the floor, then c limbed on to

the bed, pulling the bed covers further down over his body, then lifted one leg over him so that

she straddled his body as she settled her weight atop his warmth.

His eyes darkened almost to blackness, and she could see the muscles tense in his upper

arms. You are a very lucky man, Harold, she thought, to have me in your bed at night.

Her lips parted even more, and she moved her hips very slowly atop his.

He moved his hands and grasped her hips, pulling her the tighter against him.

She drew in a deep breath, and watched his eyes drift to her breasts. I should have taken

you as a lover when you were Coel. You were wasted on Cornelia.

―Harold,‖ she said, and leaned down so that he could take one of her nipples between his

teeth. Hate him she might, but for the moment Swanne saw no reason to deny herself his body

and the skills he employed as a lover.

Later, when she could hear him breathing in the deep steadiness of sleep, she moved

away from the warmth of his body, rose from the bed, and used the wash bowl to wipe away the