Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

god-favoured. It is not wise to deny me.‖ He smiled, holding my eyes, and it was one of the

coldest expressions I have ever seen. ―I control Mesopotama. I control this palace. I control you.

Be wise. Do not deny me.‖

―Brutus?‖ I whispered.

And then I fainted.

I have only Judith‘s and Harold‘s relation to say what happened next. Harold and Judith

both grabbed at me, and the men-at-arms lunged forth, sure that the strange man, Silvius, had

somehow murdered me.

In the confusion, apparently, he slipped away. Harold sent men after him, but he was

never discovered. When Harold questioned the guildsmen who had taken part in the strange

event, they shrugged and said that he was a foreign merchant who had seemed perfect for the

role as King of Troy, but when asked to remember his name and country, they blinked, and each

recounted a different name and origin.

The man Silvius was never found.

I woke after only a few moments, seemingly well, and Harold calmed down once he saw

me smiling and apologising for the fuss. I lifted my arm, and studied the bracelet. It was

beautiful, and the stones glittered in the late afternoon sunshine, and so I decided that it would do

me no harm to wear it an hour or two longer.

So, as the crowds dispersed, Harold and I and our retinue made our way back to

Westminster. There I repaired to bed, claiming a headache myself, and taking a smaller chamber

next to Edward‘s to sleep in so that I should not disturb him.

I left the bracelet on as I slept, I do not know why, but perhaps it was that which caused

me again to dream strangely.

I walked through the massive stone hall in which I”d found myself previously.

And there, as if waiting for me, was this man called Silvius.

He stepped forward and, as if the most natural thing in the world, kissed me hard on the

mouth.

I wondered if this were my frustrated virginity causing me to dream of all these men who

kissed me.

“You and I,” he said, “shall be greater friends than you can possibly realise.”

Then he was gone, and I slipped out of the stone hall and back into dreamlessness.

In the morning, as she aided me to dress, Judith said, ―Madam…are you well?‖

I frowned, because I felt there was much more to her question than her bald words. ― Of

course I am, Judith. Now, watch what you do with that sleeve. It is all twisted.‖

Much later, at court (Edward having risen, his ache dissipated), I saw Judith lean close to

Saeweald. He asked a question, glancing at me, and she shook her head, as if imparting news of

inestimable sorrow.

I do not know the import of that question, but Judith‘s answer made Saeweald frown, and

sigh, then turn away, and I had to fight down an unwarranted irritation at their behaviour.

SIXTEEN

Harold had kept late hours with several of his thegns, returning to his bedchamber when

Swanne was already asleep, so it was not until the next morning that she heard of what had taken

place at Smithfield.

Harold, imparting the news as if it would be of little interest to her, was stunned by her

reaction. In all his years of intimacy with Swanne, he‘d never seen her so shocked she could

barely speak.

―They played what? ” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harold watched her carefully, trying to discern the reason behind her shock. ―The Troy

Game. It was one of the most skilful displays of horsemanship I have ever seen.‖

―Describe it,‖ she said.

―Two lines of riders, each describing a series of twists and turns that intersected and

interwove.‖ He paused, thinking. ―Labyrinthine-like, truly.‖

Swanne paled, but Harold kept on speaking. ―The Trojan king, he who led one of the

lines, and the ultimate victor, recreated the walls of Troy with his dance—seven walls, seven

circuits. It was up to the Greek king, who led the opposing line, to defeat him.‖ He gave a small

shrug. ―But Troy won out. Its circuits held against the Greeks, who were left, trampled and in

disarray, in the dust. Swanne? Why does this intrigue you so greatly?‖

She gave a light laugh, but Harold could see the effort it cost her. ―It is not something I

could ever imagine the common guildsmen re-creating, my love. The legend of Troy? Why, who

among the commoners of London‘s back alleyways has ever heard of it?‖

―Many, my lady,‖ said Hawise, who had just entered the chamber to see to the bed linens.

Swanne, who had literally jumped when Hawise spoke, now regarded her with a frown.

―Many? Explain yourself, Hawise.‖

The woman licked her lips, wondering if she had spoken out of turn.

―Hawise?‖ said Harold, curious himself.

―The story of Troy is retold many a night about kitchen hearths, my lady,‖ Hawise said.

―How the Trojans escaped the destruction of their wondrous city, and fled here to ancient

Britain, led by a man named Brutus. Why,‖ Hawise smiled, finally relaxing as she realised she

had the undivided attention of both Swanne and Harold, ―is it not true that London itself was

founded by Brutus?‖

There was a silence, during which Swanne continued to stare at Hawise and Harold

looked at Swanne.

Then Swanne smiled, an expression which seemed to Harold to be one of the few genuine

smiles he had ever seen her give, and touched Hawise gently on the cheek.

―So it is said,‖ Swanne said softly, ―and so it may be. And do the Londoners say anything

else about the Troy Game?‖

―Oh,‖ said Hawise, ―it is but a foolish game, my lady. Children have played it in the

streets for years, dancing a pretty pattern across the flagstones outside St Paul‘s, claiming that

whoever steps on the lines first shall be eaten alive by a monster from hell.‖

―And that is what the horse game of yesterday was based on, Hawise?‖ Harold said.

―Aye, my lord. One of the guildsmen was watching his daughters dancing out their

childish game across the flagstones when he thought that perhaps their play could be modified

and made into a far more spectacular sport.‖

―Well,‖ said Harold wryly, turning away to pick up his over-mantle, ―it certainly was

that.‖

When, much later, she managed to find some quiet time to herself in the palace orchard,

closely wrapped in a heavy woollen cloak, Swanne finally allowed herself to take a deep breath

and think on what she had heard.

The Londoners were playing the Troy Game?

Whether children or skilled horsemen mattered not… they were playing the Troy Game.

Oh, it was not the Game that she and William would control, but it was clearly a

derivative of it. It would not command the magic and power of the Game she and William would

control, but it was surely a memory of it.

How had they known? How had this come to be?

There were many possibilities, the least unsettling of which was that the Trojans of Troia

Nova had passed the Dance of the Torches (which they had witnessed her and Brutus dancing)

down to their children. The story of the Troy Game may well have survived the generations

between that day Brutus alighted on the shores of Llangarlia and this, even if the city and

surrounding country had been ravaged so many times, and so mercilessly. It took only one

person to remember the tales, and to speak them, for a memory to become permanent myth.

And yet what Harold had described, and then what Hawise had said about the children‘s

games, was too accurate to be ―myth‖. The horsed game had been devised by an expert, someone

who had known the Game intimately.

Or…Swanne took another deep breath…or the entire event had somehow been arranged

by the Game itself.

Was the Game seeping up through the very foundations of London? Was it making

London, and its inhabitants, its very own?

For years, ever since she had come to London, Swanne had felt that the Game had

changed, had even become self-aware.

But this self-aware? This cognisant? Gods, that was terrifying. What if it refused to allow her and William control over it?

Swanne gave a small, disbelieving laugh. What if the Game decided it would rather have

some dirt-smudged child from London‘s back streets to dance it to a conclusion?

―My lady?‖

Swanne jumped, some stray disassociated part of her mind thinking that she truly needed

to ask Saeweald for some herbal potion to calm her nerves.

It was Aldred, the Archbishop of York.

―My lady,‖ he said, grunting with effort as he sat on the bench beside her. ―I do hope I

am not disturbing you. It is just that I saw you sitting alone in the orchard while I was taking my

afternoon stroll, and I thought to pass a few words.‖