Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

of the court. It was a good chance for the king to display himself (and his wealth and power and

might) to the general public, and to make generous offerings of prizes to those who won the

games. All in all, the day was generally one of light-hearted fun and competition and, as long as

the weather held clear and the crowd didn‘t become too raucous from the over-abundant supply

of ale and beer, Caela generally enjoyed herself immensely.

This year promised even greater enjoyment.

The night before the festival Edward had succumbed to a black headache. He‘d retired to

his bed, and demanded that he be left alone save for two monks who were to sit in a corner and

recite psalms. Saeweald had given him a broth and applied a poultice which had eased the king‘s

aching head somewhat, but when Saturday dawned, and Edward‘s head still throbbed

uncomfortably and his belly threatened to spew forth with every movement, the king decided to

forgo the fun of Smithfield for the peace of his bedchamber.

The queen should still attend, Harold escorting her—this was, indeed, a true indication of

just how deeply Edward‘s aching head had disturbed his mind. To make matters even better for

Caela (and for Harold), Swanne decided to remain behind as well, vaguely stating some

indisposition which she felt would only be exacerbated by the noise and frivolity of Smithfield.

Thus it was, at two hours past noon, that Caela found herself seated with Harold in a

temporary wooden stand on the north side of Smithfield. In truth, she also should have remained

behind, her collapse in court being but ten days previously, but she declared that nothing could

keep her from attending, and the sheer joy she felt at escaping the confines of Westminster

showed in her bright eyes, her constantly smiling mouth, and in every movement.

She was dressed splendidly in a deep ruby, silken surcoat embroidered all over with

golden English dragons, a matching golden veil, and a jewelled crown. Beside her, Harold had

dressed somewhat similarly, if in bright sky blue rather than ruby. His surcoat was also

embroidered with the English dragon, although his beasts snarled and struck out with their talons

while Caela‘s merely scampered playfully. Harold wore a golden circlet on his brow,

gold-encrusted embroidery covering the tight-fitting lower sleeves of his linen under-tunic,

heavily jewelled rings on his fingers and, to remind everyone of his exploits and renown as a warrior, a massive sword hanging at his hip. He looked the king as Edward never had: vital,

healthy, handsome, powerful, and the crowds gathered at Smithfield roared in acclaim when he

and Caela took their places.

They stood to receive the cheers, waving and smiling, and the breeze caught at Caela‘s

veil and blew it back from her face.

―They adore you,‖ Harold said softly.

―They adore you,” she responded, turning to laugh at him.

The crowds continued to roar, and as the sound pounded over them in wave after wave,

Harold took Caela‘s hand and held her eyes. ―I meant what I said to you, that day I came to you

in your bedchamber,‖ he said, his voice only loud enough that she could hear him. ―There could

be no better queen for me than you. No woman I could want more.‖

The laughter died from her face. ―Harold…‖

―I know,‖ he said. ―I know. But I needed to say that.‖ His face lightened from its

seriousness. ―And what better place than here, and now, when perhaps we can pretend?‖

―Harold, it can‘t be.‖

―Of course not…‖ he said, and leaned forward and kissed her cheek, where perhaps his

lips lingered a moment longer than they should and where, as he finally moved his face away,

too slowly, she felt the soft momentary graze of his tongue.

―Unfortunately,‖ he finished, and then the sound was fading away, and they sat, and

Caela used the excuse of settling her skirts to hide her pinked cheeks from her brother.

Behind and to one side of them, Judith and Saeweald exchanged a worried glance.

The afternoon was filled with good-natured sport and competitions. Men wrestled, ran,

leaped and shot arrows into distant targets. To each winner, Caela graciously gave a prize: a

carved box here, a fine linen shirt there, a copper ring somewhere else. Each time she rose and

the successful sweating combatant knelt down before her, the crowd cheered and called

good-natured jests, and when Caela had done with handing the victor his gift, then she smiled

and waved and revelled in the good cheer of the day.

The final event had been something the city guilds and fathers had spent weeks planning.

It was a new contest, one designed not only to demonstrate the grace and athletic ab ilities of its

participants, but also to delight and astound the crowd.

A man, clothed only in trousers, strode into the centre of the arena, beating a drum which

hung from a cord about his neck. He was a fine man, tall and muscled, and had been the winner

of two of the earlier events. He walked to a spot some ten paces before the stand in which Caela,

Harold and their attendants sat and, still beating the drum, cried: ―Behold!‖

At his word two lines of horsemen entered the arena from opposite gates. They rode

barebacked, the horses controlled merely with bridles through which had been threaded

late-autumn greenery, while the riders themselves wore only trousers, leaving their shoulders and

chests bare. Each man carried a long wooden lance, tipped with iron. Each line was headed by a

rider dressed slightly more elaborately than those he led. At the head of one line rode a man

wearing a chain mail tunic and Saxon helmet. He carried a bow, fitted with an arrow.

At the head of the other line rode a man wearing nothing but a snowy-white waistcloth,

sandals on otherwise muscular, brown bare legs, and a bronzed helmet, of a design and shape

that was not only unfamiliar but markedly exotic. A plait of very black, oiled hair protruded from

beneath the helmet, and hung halfway down the man‘s back. Around his biceps and upper

forearms twined lengths of scarlet ribbon, and the same around his legs, just below his knees.

This man carried a sword.

Caela frowned, leaning forward slightly. ―What event is this?‖ she asked softly, but to her

side Harold only shrugged, and no one else had a response.

The man beating the drum waited until all the riders were in the arena, the lines pulled to

a halt on opposite sides of the square, then he abruptly gave a flurry of much louder and more

insistent beats, then his hands fell still.

―Behold,‖ he cried, ―the Troy Game!‖

The crowd roared, intrigued at the display thus far and at the novelty of the event. Judith

and Saeweald went rigid with shock. Harold grinned, anticipating some military game that might

well prove entertaining, while Caela‘s frown merely deepened.

―The Troy Game,‖ she whispered to herself, and shivered.

―Behold!‖ cried the man with the drum once more. ―Listen well to the rules of the Game.

Two lines, two ambitions, two corps of riders, skilled beyond compare. Two kings! One the King

of the Greeks,‖ he indicated the man wearing the chain mail and the Saxon helmet, ―and one the

monarch of that ancient, wondrous realm—Troy!‖ and he indicated the beribboned warrior

wearing the bronze helmet and the simple linen waistcloth.

The crowd roared again. History pageants were always popular.

The King of the Greeks kicked his horse forward a few paces, as did the King of Troy.

They raised their arms above their heads, flexing their biceps, then shook their fists each at the

other.

―What can we do?‖ whispered Judith, her face drained of all colour.

―Nothing, but watch and see,‖ said Saeweald. He was watching the King of Troy, his

eyes narrowed.

―We propose a dance!‖ cried the drummer. ―He who is quickest and most agile, he who is

most skilled, shall win. He who falls first… loses! ‖

Again the crowed roared in anticipation.

As the drummer ran to safety the two lines of horsemen began to move: first at a walk,

then at a trot, then at a carefully controlled canter, the lines of horsemen moved into an intricate

and dangerous dance, the two lines first interweaving as they each crossed the arena on opposite

diagonals, then in a dozen different points as the lines performed circles and serpentines.

As the horses cantered, their paces carefully measured, then the riders swung their lances

in great arcs from side to side: at all the intersecting points where the opposing lines crossed

there was only ever half a breath between the flashing down of one lance and the passage of

another rider. A single misstep, a minor miscalculation, and the wicked blade which tipped the

end of one lance might cut another rider in half.