Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

deeper and deeper, not so much into the river, although that was what encased them, but deeper

into a realm that was unknowable to any who watched from above.

The water sprites waited until her body was cold and still, drifting lifeless in the current,

and then they stripped her of all her clothing, leaving only the ruby and gold bracelet she wore

about her wrist.

I blinked, and woke, and found myself lying curled into a tight ball on a cold stone floor,

utterly naked and dripping wet. For the longest time I did not move. I just lay there, my arms

hugging my knees to my chest (not quite naked, for I could feel a band of jewellery about my

wrist which cut into the soft flesh just below one of my knees), blinking, not thinking, just being.

Then, very softly, the sound of a name being called. Was it my name? I did not think so,

but at that moment I was not even sure what my name was.

There was the faint sound of thrumming hooves, coming ever closer, and I raised myself

on one elbow just as, at the very reaches of my vision, a white stag burst into the stone hall in

which I lay.

He was huge, vital, brimming with power and sexuality and meaning, and he lifted his

head and cried out, trumpeted, tidings of such joy that I cried out myself, and raised myself to my knees.

The stag ran closer, closer, and I could feel his heat and feel his breath on me, and then I

saw…

I saw…

I saw about his delicate, tightly muscled limbs the golden bands of Troy, two on each of

his forelimbs and a pair about his hind limbs.

And I remembered…and I knew where we were going and where we had been.

I gave one incoherent cry, and then, as the beast came to a halt before me, and lowered

his noble head and I felt his lips gently move within my river-dampened hair, I said, ―Og, Og,

can we truly manage this?‖

He said, ―We must.‖ And then he groaned, and I both felt and saw his body crumble

about me, crumble away to nothingness until there was nothing but six golden bands, rolling

about on the stone floor…

I woke, and I was no longer who once I had been although I was what I had always been.

I lay naked at the tide‘s edge, my lower body still rocked by the gentle waves of the river.

The Sidlesaghe was leaning down over me, his dark face smiling with such love I thought

I could not bear it.

― Resurgam, pretty lady,‖ he said, and his voice was full of simple, unrestrained joy.

Part Three

1065

It is an opinion generally received, …

It is an opinion generally received, that the tournament originated from a childish

pastime practised by youths called Ludus Troia (the Troy Game), said to have been so named

because it was derived from the Trojans…

In the middle ages, when the tournaments were in their splendour, the Troy Game was

still continued, and distinguished by a different denomination; it was then called in Latin,

behordicum, and in French, bohourt or behourt, and was a kind of lance game, in which the

young nobility exercised themselves, to acquire address in handling of their arms, and to prove

their strength.

Joseph Strutt, Sports & Pastimes of the People of England, late 18th century

London, March 1939

Daddy!

Dear gods, his daughter! He”d thought her dead, a victim first of Genvissa”s

malevolence, and then of Asterion”s.

And yet there she was, standing in the street outside Frank”s house, holding the two lost

kingship bands of Troy, and calling to him.

Skelton pulled on his uniform trousers, fumbling with the buttons on his fly, then hauled

on a shirt, opened the door and took the stairs three at a time before he”d done up a single

button.

Violet stepped out of the kitchen, butter knife in hand. “Major?”

Skelton ignored her, opened the front door and ran into the street.

The little girl was gone.

He stood there, barefooted, his shirt flapping in the cold wind, staring up and down the

street.

Gone.

“Major?” Violet was at the front door now, her pretty face crinkled up with doubt, her

voice cautious. “Is there anything the matter?”

“Old chap?” said Frank, now standing directly behind Violet, a hand on her shoulder,

staring at Skelton. He had raced out of his bedroom when he”d heard Skelton”s mad dash for the

front door.

Skelton ignored them. He turned this way, then that, his movements abrupt, frantic, his

face distraught.

Frank”s hand tightened momentarily on Violet”s shoulder, then he walked out to Skelton.

“Old chap…what”s up?”

“She was here,” Skelton muttered, the skin of his face grey. “She was.”

Frank glanced back at Violet. “Who?”

“My daughter.”

Now Frank openly stared. “I say, I didn”t know you had…in England?‖

“A long time ago,” Skelton whispered.

The door to one of the neighbours” houses opened, and two women came out. They were

both in their late thirties, their short waved hair freshly combed, and with matching dark blue

candlewick dressing gowns tied about their trim figures. Both looked somewhat amused at the

sight of Major Skelton standing half-naked and crazed in the street.

Frank looked embarrassed. “I”m sorry, Mrs Flanders. A bit of a disturbance, I”m

afraid.”

Mrs Flanders pursed her lips, but her eyes sparkled with humour. “And just as I have my

sister staying, Mr Bentley. Mrs Ecub is quite overwrought by such a sight, I”m sure.”

At that Skelton turned about and stared at the two women. “My God,” he said. “Matilda?

Ecub?”

They both grinned at him.

“We”re all gathered,” said Matilda, who Frank had addressed as Mrs Flanders. “Every

one of us.”

Skelton took a step froward. “Where is my daughter?” he said.

“Perhaps Stella has her,” said Mrs Ecub.

“I do apologise,” said Frank, “but Mrs Flanders, how can you possibly know Major

Skelton?”

“We”ve had many dealings over many years,” said Matilda Flanders. Then her face

softened from humour into pity, and she stepped forward, took Skelton”s hands, and kissed him softly on the mouth.” Welcome back, my love,” she said, so softly that only he could hear.

“Welcome back.”

ONE

Rouen, Normandy

Matilda, Duchess of Normandy, shifted slightly in her chair, easing her still-tender

muscles, and looked to where her husband sat on his dais at the head of the bright, commodious

hall. William had returned from his morning‘s hunting not an hour before, and now sprawled in

his huge chair, his face still flushed with the excitement of the hunt, one hand gesturing

effusively as he relived the chase with his two closest companions, Walter Fitz Osbern and

Roger Montgomery.

She smiled, happy that he was, for the moment, content.

Then she sighed, and shifted yet again to ease her aching muscles. She‘d given birth a

few weeks previously—another daughter—and had only just rejoined William‘s public court.

She would also, Matilda thought as she watched William‘s eye slipping to wander over the form

of one of her more youthful waiting women, shortly have to rejoin him in their marital bed.

William‘s natural lusts made him wander sometimes, and Matilda knew full well that on

occasion he bedded a village woman and had sired three or four bastards about his many estates,

but the knowledge did not perturb her overmuch.

She was the woman he respected and honoured before all others, she was the one to

whom he confided his most secret thoughts and greatest ambitions, and she the one to whom he

turned for advice and counsel.

Matilda felt a tiny kernel of fear. She was the woman he trusted and honoured and

respected above all others, but what would happen once he won England? England—and thus

Swanne—had been so distant for so long that Matilda had all but forgotten her fears regarding

Swanne. But now…now that Edward‘s health was declining…suddenly neither England nor

Swanne were far away at all.

William grinned at the expression on his wife‘s face, knowing full well she‘d seen him

ogling the luscious form of Adeliza.

Adeliza would be sent home to her family estates and Matilda would be back in his bed

before a new day dawned.

That thought contented William. The tedium of birthing always annoyed him; he

appreciated the fine healthy children Matilda gave him, but he was irritated that it should remove

Matilda from his bed in the weeks immediately preceding and then following the birth. He

missed those hours holding her, and talking through his problems with her, in that one place

where they had utter privacy and need not guard their words.

Matilda was worth more to him than all the gold in Christendom. William did not think

he could have borne the uncertainty and fear of the past years if it had not been for her.