Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

Westminster. It was massive, far vaster than the one Tostig‘s father had built in Wessex: twice as

large again, its walls great stone blocks for the first twenty feet, then rising another eighty in

thick timber planks. Above the ceiling of the hall, reached by a great curving staircase behind the

dais at the southern end, was a warren of timber-walled chambers that Edward used for his private apartments, as well as those of his closest retainers.

The focus of the hall was the dais. Here Edward currently sat conversing with Harold,

who stood just to one side and slightly behind the king‘s throne, and with Eadwine, the newly

appointed abbot of Westminster. Caela, the king‘s wife, sat ignored on her smaller throne set to

her husband‘s right. Her head was down, her attention on the needlework in her lap, an isolated

and lonely figure amid the hubbub of the Great Hall.

Tostig halted as soon as they‘d moved into clearer space, and now he stared towards the

queen. ―Will there be a child soon?‖ he asked quietly of Swanne.

She laughed, the sound musical and deep, and for an instant Tostig felt her body press the

harder against his. ―Nay,‖ she said, ―there will never be a child of that union.‖

―How can you be so sure?‖

Swanne put her lips against Tostig‘s ear, and felt him shudder. ―He will not lie with her,‖

she said. ―He believes fornication to be such great evil that he will not participate in it…‖ she

paused, ―especially with a daughter of Godwine. He will have no Godwine heir to the throne. My

dear,‖ she said, allowing a little breathlessness to creep into her voice, ―can you imagine such restraint?‖

―With you in his bed, no man, not even Edward, would be capable of it.‖

―You flatter me with smooth words,‖ she said, but let Tostig see by the warmth in her

eyes how well she had received his words.

―But…‖ Tostig struggled to keep his voice even, ―but if he has no child of his body, then

surely there will be a Godwine heir.‖

―My husband,‖ she said. ―For surely, who else? To think, Tostig, you stand here now

with the future Queen of England pressing herself against you like a foolish young girl. How do

you feel?‖

Emboldened by her words and touch, Tostig said, ―That you will be Queen of England

there can be no doubt, but who the lucky Godwine brother is that sits beside you as your lord can

still be open to question.‖

That I will be Queen of England is undoubted, Swanne thought, laughing with Tostig,

encouraging his foolish words, but that you will ever sit beside me, or Harold, can never be. I

have a greater lord awaiting me in the shadows; a mightier lover, a Kingman, and the day he appears, so shall all the Godwine boys be crushed into the dust.

At that moment Harold looked up from his discussion with Edward, and saw his wife

standing too familiarly close to Tostig. He frowned, and spoke swiftly to one of his thegns who

stood behind him.

The next moment the thegn had stepped from the dais and was approaching Tostig and

Swanne.

―My lady and lord,‖ he said, bowing slightly, ―the Lord Harold begs leave to interrupt

your mirth and requests that his wife join him on the dais. We have received word that a

deputation from the Duke of Normandy has arrived, and the king wishes to receive him.‖

― I am not invited?‖ said Tostig.

―You are not my lord‘s wife,‖ said the thegn.

―I am a Godwineson!‖ Tostig said, seething.

The thegn was a man of enough years and experience not to be intimidated by the

brashness of youth. ―All the more reason why our king would not want you standing beside

him,‖ he said. ―Harold stands there as representative of his father, who cannot attend. Edward

tolerates him, but only him. My lady, if you will accompany me.‖

And with that, the thegn led Swanne away, leaving Tostig standing red-faced and

humiliated.

Harold took Swanne‘s hand as she mounted the dais, and led her to a chair. ―Was Tostig

annoying you?‖ he asked, smiling gently at his wife. By God, even now he could hardly believe

he‘d won such a treasure.

―He is a youth,‖ Swanne said, her expression now demure as she sat. ―All youths are

abrasive, and annoying.‖

―I will speak to him,‖ Harold said.

―No,‖ Swanne said. ―It would embarrass him, and only create bad blood. Let it rest, I

pray you.‖

Harold began to say something else, but just then Edward leaned over and hushed them

both, waving Harold to his own chair on the king‘s left.

―I dislike people whispering behind my back,‖ Edward said, and Harold bowed his head

in apology as he sat. Once Edward had returned his attention to the hall, Harold leaned back,

looking behind Edward‘s throne to where Caela‘s own throne sat aligned with Harold‘s chair. He

tried to catch her eye, but she was so determinedly focused on her embroidery that she did not, or

chose not to, notice his gaze.

Sighing, Harold turned his eyes back to the front. He‘d had so little chance to speak with

Caela in the past two months, and no chance at all to ask her, in privacy, why she wore such a

face of misery to the world.

Damn their father for giving such a wondrous girl to such a monstrous husband!

In truth, Harold would have vastly preferred to have spent the morning out hunting, but

he‘d had to stand in for his father who was not well. Despite the strained and often hostile

relations between the Earl of Wessex and Edward, Godwine was the leading member of

Edward‘s witan, a council of noblemen advisers, and thus by right sat on the dais beside Edward.

If Godwine could not attend, then it was best his eldest son and heir do so in his place. Not only

would Harold represent Godwine during court proceedings, but his presence would also further

cement the Wessex claim to the throne should Edward‘s piety prevent him from getting an heir

on Caela.

Godwine was determined that one day either he, or his son Harold, or the far less likely

prospect of his grandson by Caela, would take the throne of England.

Once the dais was still, Edward waved to the court chamberlain to admit the Duke of

Normandy‘s entourage. As the double doors at the other end of the hall slowly swung open, and

the press of bodies within the hall parted to allow the entourage passage, Edward allowed

himself to relax a little more in his throne. His friendship with Duke William was not only deep,

but of long standing. Many years earlier Edward had been forced into a lengthy exile by his

stepfather, King Cnut. Edward had spent the majority of that exile in the Duke of Normandy‘s

court where he had come to deeply respect the young William. Not merely respect, but trust. In

his own kingdom Edward had to continually fight to maintain his independence from the cursed

Godwine clan. Godwine and his family had sunk their claws of influence and power deep into

most of the noble Anglo-Saxon clans, and one of the very few ways that Edward could maintain

his authority was to surround himself with Normans, whether in the secular or clerical branches

of England‘s administration.

Edward had two great weapons to use against the Godwine clan. The first was his refusal

to get an heir on Caela; the second was his deep ties to the Norman court, which carried with it

the possibility that Edward would name the Duke of Normandy as his heir.

As far as Edward was concerned, William was not only a friend and an ally, he was one

of the few weapons Edward had against Godwine and his sons.

Edward liked William very much.

The Norman entourage entered the Great Hall with a flourish of horns, drums, the sound

of booted and spurred feet ringing out across the flagstones and the sweep of heavy cloaks

flowing back from broad shoulders. Edward grinned as he recognised several among the

entourage whom he knew personally.

There were some twenty or twenty-two Normans marching in military formation behind

William‘s envoy, Guy Martel. Directly behind Martel came Walter Fitz Osbern and Roger

Montgomery, two of William‘s closest friends. Their presence was a mark of respect by William:

See, I hold you in such love I send my greatest friends to honour you.

Guy Martel led his entourage to within three paces of the dais, then halted, gracefully

bending to one knee.

Behind him, each member of the entourage likewise dropped to a knee, bowing their

heads.

―My greatest lord,‖ Martel said, his voice ringing through the hall, ―I greet you well on

behalf of my lord, William of Normandy, and convey to you his heartiest congratulations on the