Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

merely because of his resemblance to Brutus.

―Aye,‖ Silvius said eventually. ―Do you know,‖ he touched the pale flesh about his

biceps, ―that even though I was once a Kingman, and had kinship with the bands of Troy, I

cannot feel where Brutus has put them. Can you feel them?‖

I frowned, then shook my head. ―No. He will find them, eventually. Surely.‖

―Aye. He will. Meantime, there is but you and I.‖

He smiled, and it made him look so handsome, and so appealing, that I felt my heart race

a little, and I knew that he realised it.

―Caela,‖ Silvius said, then he stepped close to me, and leaned forward once more, and

laid his mouth on mine, and the last thing I remembered as I rose towards wakefulness was the

taste and strength of his tongue in my mouth, and I swear that taste stayed with me all through

the day, and at times that memory made me tremble and wonder if Silvius was everything that

Brutus had not been.

SEVEN

―William? William?‖ Matilda shook her husband‘s shoulder, concerned at his tossing and

muttering. Sweet Christ, of what was he dreaming? ―William!‖

He jerked away, sitting upright so abruptly he almost knocked Matilda out of the way.

―Ah,‖ he said, blinking. ―I am sorry, my love. A nightmare engulfed me, and for a

moment I thought I was lost to it.‖

―A nightmare?‖ She slid an arm about his waist, pulling him gently against her, and

kissed his shoulder. ―Tell me of it, for then it will lose all power over you.‖

He licked his lips, and for a moment Matilda thought he would not respond, but just as

she was about to broach the silence he began to speak in a harsh tone.

―I dreamed I was in the Labyrinth, trying to save…I don‘t know who, but someone who

was so important to me that I would have died if it could have given th is person freedom.‖

―The Labyrinth?‖ Matilda said softly, kissing his shoulder once again.

―She was trapped—‖

Matilda held her breath at that ―she‖.

―—and I could not find her. The blackness swarmed all around, and I thought it would

overwhelm me… had overwhelmed her…ah, Matilda, this is making no sense, and I am sorry for

it. It makes no sense to me, either.‖

―But why dream of a Labyrinth?‖

He gave a half shrug. ―It no doubt has meaning that the local village wise woman can

decode for me.‖

―Perhaps it represents England, and you fear that England will be a trap.‖

―Perhaps,‖ he said eventually.

―William,‖ Matilda said, unnerved by her husband‘s dream, ―there is something I should

say to you.‖

She saw a flash of his white teeth as he grinned. ―What, wife? You feel the need to

confess a passion for the stableman? For the houndsman? You need to tell me that none of my

children were fathered by me, but by a variety of rough-speaking peasants?‖

She did not grin as he had expected her to. ―Matilda?‖

―William, perhaps England will be a trap.‖

―What do you know?‖

―Hardrada lusts for England. You know this.‖

He nodded. ―The King of Norway has long cast envious eyes south. What of it?‖

―It is possible that he conspires with Tostig, Harold‘s brother.‖

―Against Harold?‖

―Who else?‖

―How do you know this?‖ William asked eventually.

―Womanly gossip, my love.‖

He regarded her silently for some time, then nodded. If she would not tell him then he

would respect that for the moment.

For the moment.

EIGHT

Swanne glanced over her shoulder, saw that Harold was ensconced in some doubtless dry

conversation with Earl Ralph, Edward‘s nephew, Wulfstan, the Bishop of Worcester, and

Harold‘s younger brother, Tostig. Swanne knew there had been some bad blood between Harold

and Tostig recently, but they seemed to have resolved whatever differences they had in the past

few days, and now were back to their old, easy friendship. There was an empty chair set next to

Harold‘s: Swanne‘s chair, but she had no intention of filling it this evening. Just behind the

group of men, sitting attentive on a bench, were Harold and Swanne‘s eldest sons, Beorn and

Alan. Saeweald was sitting with the boys, and managed to catch Swanne‘s eye during her brief

glance.

She arched an eyebrow at him, then deliberately turned her back, walking slowly and

gracefully down the hall towards a gathering of southern thegns listening to the sweet voice of a

Welsh bard. Swanne smiled as the group rose to greet her, then accepted a seat from one of the

thegns.

This would be a more pleasant means of spending the evening than having to pretend to

smile at Harold. Truly, now that events moved apace, and William was surely so close, she

would not have to submit to him for much longer.

The king had retired early, well before vespers, whining about a headache and a

congestion of his belly. Freed from the necessity of attending the king during evening court,

Harold and his retinue had moved, thankfully, to the earl‘s own hall and chambers at the

southern end of the palace complex. Caela, Swanne assumed, as she settled down and allowed

the thegns and bard to fawn over her, was trapped with her husband, wiping either his brow or

his arse, whichever needed the most attention at the moment.

Her grin broadening, Swanne relaxed and tried to concentrate on the song the bard was

now singing for her. In truth, she‘d not had many settled moments these past few days.

Something had happened…something had shifted.

Oh, yes, part of it was Caela suddenly recalling all that had been—for no apparent

reason—but that was not the whole of it.

Was it something about the land? The very soil and the forests and the waters? It made

Swanne uncomfortable. Once she would have known. Once she had been the MagaLlan, and

nothing occurred within and to the land without her being fully appraised of it. But Swanne‘s

powers as MagaLlan had passed with her previous life, and her darkcraft lay untouchable, and

something was moving beneath her feet that she was not privy to.

Asterion, no doubt.

Damn you, William, Swanne thought, keeping the smile light on her mouth and the

desperation from her eyes, reach out to me! Let me know that you, at least, are well.

William still had to reply to her request that he tell her where the golden bands of Troy

were. Damn him for delaying the information! They were all in danger of dancing to Asterion‘s

call…and Swanne had no doubt at all that Asterion would be trying to locate those bands before

William arrived in England to claim his throne and his heritage.

Hadn‘t that been what Asterion had been doing these two thousand years while delaying

their rebirth?

She had to find those bands now! Before Asterion.

Swanne could not entirely prevent the shiver of apprehension that shot from the base of

her spine to her neck. If Asterion found those bands, then he would effectively prevent her and

William from dancing the final Dance of the Flowers and completing the Game. It was all

Asterion had to do. He need not even face William.

He only had to find and hide, or destroy, those bands.

From the corner of her eye Swanne saw the door at the end of the hall open, and glanced

over.

More churchmen! Was the entire land swarming with them? The Archbishop of York,

Aldred, and Eadwine, Abbot of Westminster Abbey, had entered, smiling and nodding,

and—damn them!—were making their way towards Swanne and her group of musicians and

admirers.

Swanne‘s smile slipped, but she had it back in place by the time Aldred and Eadwine sat

themselves down a few places from her, bobbing their heads pleasantly to all about. Eadwine

began a muted conversation with the thegn beside him, while Aldred waved the bard to continue

as he sat back, and, closing his eyes, folded his hands over his huge belly. His expression relaxed

into one of total enjoyment, and Swanne had to admit that perhaps the archbishop did find the

soulful music of the Welsh bard a more enjoyable entertainment than the constant wail of sinners

and beggars and the incoherent mumble of monkish prayers that must surely fill most of his

days.

The great door opened again, admitting yet another party, but this time Swanne ignored it

as she finally relaxed under the spell of the bard‘s beautiful voice.

It would be another group of clerics, or sycophants perhaps, come to scry out the lay of

the land in the court of, possibly, the king to follow Edward.

If only they knew, Swanne thought, closing her eyes herself and allowing her body to

sway slightly to the rhythm of the bard‘s music. If only they knew.

William, her lips formed slowly, and, briefly, the tip of her tongue glistened between her

teeth.

Asterion saw her from his place within the hall, and read her thoughts, and kept his face