is wedded to the Game.‖
―But the Game is so…foreign.‖
―Now? After so many years? I don‘t believe so, not any more. You may as well say that
Caela is ‗foreign‘ and unacceptable, yet Mag chose her for her rebirth. The Sidlesaghes, most
ancient of creatures, have accepted both Caela and the Game. Imagine the power of all these
things combined—the ancients, the gods, and the Troy Game.‖
Judith frowned a little at Saeweald‘s emphasis on power. ―And if Caela is Mag-reborn,
and will become the Mistress of the Labyrinth, then who is to become Og-reborn?‖
Saeweald was silent, but he smiled very slightly as he stared upwards towards the ceiling
where strings of drying herbs swung gently in the warm air that radiated out from the brazier.
―By Mag herself,‖ Judith said softly, ―you think it will be you!‖
Saeweald focused on her face. ―And who else, eh? I cannot think myself worthy of the
honour…but who else? Not Harold, for Caela said so, and surely he is the only other one among
us who Og‘s spirit could inhabit.‖
―Saeweald…‖
He grinned, and lifted his head enough to kiss the tip of her nose. ―Ah, I know. You think
of the intimacy that must exist between the Mistress and the Kingman, but that is a mere part of
the ritual, a step in the dance, and you should not take it personally. Besides, when did you
assume such a cloak of Christian morality? We have both had different lovers, in both our lives.‖
―That was not what I meant.‖
―Then what?‖
She hesitated, then gave a half smile and laid her head back on his chest so that he could
no longer see her face. ―Nothing,‖ she said. ―I think it is all just too much to absorb at once. Mag
and Og, reborn, and dancing the Game. Imagine.‖
He laughed, and they chatted some more about inconsequential things, and then they
made love, and Saeweald spoke no more of his ambition to become Og reincarnate.
But all Judith could think of as she lay with Saeweald through that night was the moment
in their previous life when Loth had challenged Brutus within the Labyrinth. Brutus had seized
Loth, and had lifted his sword to take the man‘s head off, but then Og himself, by some
supernatural effort, had careered from the forest and dislodged Brutus‘ sword arm so that, instead
of decapitating Loth, Brutus had merely crippled him.
Had that been happenchance (Brutus‘ sword must go somewhere, and better in Loth‘s
spine than through his neck), or design? Had that sword stroke been as much Og‘s judgement on Loth as Brutus‘ displaced anger?
Was Loth‘s crippling, in that life as well as this, Og‘s judgement? If so, then Saeweald
would never become Og-reborn.
Whatever he himself believed.
And if not Saeweald, then who?
FIVE
Swanne had noticed something different about Caela during the past few days, and it
disturbed her greatly. There was something altered in the way that Caela moved, in the way that she sat—very, very still—and in the way Caela looked around her when she observed her
husband‘s court.
There was certainly something very different in the manner Caela looked at
Swanne—with sadness and regret, almost—and that difference was driving Swanne almost to
distraction.
There was already enough to worry about. She did not need to fret about what Caela was
doing as well.
Consequently, when an opportunity presented itself—one afternoon when the court was
adjourned for the day (Edward had retired to murmur and mutter in a chapel)—Swanne took it in
both hands. She asked for admittance into Caela‘s private chamber, received it, and then asked
that she and the queen be allowed to speak in some privacy for a time.
As Caela‘s serving women and attending ladies retreated, Swanne took a seat close to
where Caela sat at her ever-present needlework.
―You wonder what is changed about me,‖ Caela said simply, putting her needlework
down, and lifting her deep blue eyes to Swanne‘s face. ―It is merely this: I have remembered.‖
Momentarily shocked, Swanne‘s expression froze. ―Remembered what?‖ she said
stupidly.
―That I am,‖ Caela said in a very even voice, ―merely a body to be penetrated and a pair
of legs to be parted…if I remember rightly how you taunted me so long ago.‖
Swanne stared, saying nothing, still trying to absorb the shock.
―Why Harold?‖ said Caela. ―Why him? What pleasure did you take, then, in seducing
Coel-reborn to your bed?‖
―Do you want him now?‖ said Swanne, finally finding her voice. ―I find that I have tired
of him, somewhat.‖
―William must be close then. Do you send him reports of Harold? Beg him to invade and
take you?‖
Swanne‘s face flushed. ―He will ever be distant to you!‖
―Did you not know,‖ Caela said, her demeanour remaining very calm, ―that once you
were dead he took me back as his wife? Back to his bed? I bore him two more children.‖ Caela
lowered her face, resuming her needlework as if this conversation were of no importance to her.
Now Swanne‘s face drained of all colour. ― Never! I cannot believe that lie.‖
Caela shrugged slightly, uninterestedly.
―He loathed you,‖ Swanne continued. ―He found you vile!‖ She drew in a deep breath,
then resumed in a more even tone, ―How is it that you have suddenly remembered all that you were, and all that you did? Did Asterion draw close, and plant an enchanted kiss upon your lips
to wake you?‖
Caela‘s needle threaded in and out, in and out. ―Asterion has not—‖
―Has he roused you from your slumber so that you might once again work his will?
Hark!‖ Swanne put her hands to her face in mock fright. ―Is that a dagger I see at your girdle?‖
Despite herself, Caela‘s eyes jerked upwards, and her cheeks reddened. She immediately
looked away, hating the smile of triumph on Swanne‘s face.
―Where is he, Caela? Where is Asterion?‖
―I do not know.‖
―Ah! Do not expect me to believe that! You are his handmaiden! His dagger band).‖
―No! I will not again—‖
―Have you taken him to your bed yet, Caela? If I caused the midwives to examine you
again would they now not find you the same virgin you were a few weeks past?‖
―I am a virgin still, Swanne. Unlike yourself, I do not need to use my bed to make my
way in life.‖
―Ah, poor little virgin, can you not even find one man eager to take it from you? And
now even Mag has deserted you. Poor, worthless bitch goddess. Dead. Was that what woke you,
Caela? The corpse of your one true friend slithering dead in the hot blood running down your
thighs?‖
Ignoring the look of distaste on Caela‘s face, Swanne leaned forward, jerked the
needlework out of the way, then took Caela‘s hands in her own. To any of Caela‘s ladies
watching from across the chamber it seemed only that the Lady Swanne was comforting their
queen.
―My only regret is that Asterion did not murder you as well. You are as useless as ever
you were, Caela. Take my advice and cast yourself into the cold waters of the Thames. Who
wants you? No one. You are a pathetic queen—even your husband cannot bear to take you.
When William comes, and come he will, Caela, then I shall be his queen, and you shall be locked away in a nunnery in the cold, grey reaches of the north where even the scurrying rats will be
hard put to remember your name.‖
She let go Caela‘s hands and sat back.
―You were ever the failure at being the wife. Ah, no! I lie! There is one small thing at
which you ever excelled as the wife, Caela, and that is in attracting husbands who despise you,
and who can hardly bear to touch you.‖
Finished, Swanne raised an eyebrow, as if daring Caela to even attempt a response.
―How strange,‖ said Caela very softly, her eyes unwavering on Swanne‘s face, ―that you
should say that my husbands despise me, Swanne, when you have misnamed both my husbands.‖
Swanne‘s face assumed an expression of affected curiosity.
―I am married to this land, Swanne, and it is not me that this land despises.‖
Swanne‘s expression froze, and she did not move as Caela rose and walked away,
brushing aside Swanne‘s skirts as she did so.
By all the gods, Caela, Swanne thought, keeping her face expressionless under the regard
of the other ladies in the chamber, I will make you suffer once William is here, and the Game,
and England, are ours.
SIX
CAELA SPEAKS
Ilay at night beside my unmoving, cold husband—one part of me thinking that,
ironically, nothing had changed—and tested my memory and powers.
It all felt so comfortable and so overwhelmingly right, but still…still…
There was something missing, as I had felt it on the banks of the Thames. Something not