Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

Swanne kept her eyes on the ground, her skirts lifted delicately away from the

ever-present mud. Gods, she thought, could not Edward have seen to the laying of a few

flagstones to make the way a little easier?

As they approached the eastern apse, the bells of the western towers suddenly burst into

tongue.

Swanne flinched, as did most people. Although everyone had known the bells were to

sound out for the first time this morning to welcome the king into the new abbey, the actuality of

their tremendous peal was a shock to both ears and nerves.

If Swanne flinched, then Edward stopped dead in his tracks (forcing everyone to stumble

to a halt behind him) and crowed with delight, clapping his hands and raising his fa ce

heavenward.

―Glory be to God on high!‖ he shouted, and the shout was dutifully taken up by the

clerics clustered in a small adoring flock behind him.

Glory be to God on high!

Swanne mumbled something which she hoped would be taken for a similar response,

feeling such a rush of loathing for the entire Christian church and its damned crucified sons,

saints and sundry martyrs that for an instant she had a surge of sentimental longing for Mag. At

least that silly bitch hadn‘t wrapped herself and her followers in ridiculous conditions, sins and

unachievable objectives in order to keep them unthinking and under control.

At least she hadn‘t demanded the building of cold, dark, useless stone tombs in which to

herd her mindless minions.

Swanne looked ahead, and realised with a jolt that Caela had turned and was looking at

her with a small smile on her face—almost as if she knew exactly what Swanne was thinking.

The fine linen veil Caela wore about her forehead and over her hair had fluttered loose in the

wind, as had a few wisps of her dark hair. The wind had also brought a glow to her cheeks and a

sparkle to her eye, and for a moment, a single moment, Swanne was struck at how lovely the

woman looked.

How certain. How happy.

Then Swanne hardened both her heart and her face, and Caela turned away as Edward

resumed his triumphant march into his abbey and his immortality.

As Swanne had expected, the internal space of the abbey could have been a block of ice

for all its warmth. The abbey‘s nave was full of dust, dirt and a few remaining scaffolds for

workmen to put the final touches to the sculptures about its soaring walls.

At least the screech of the bells was muted in here.

Edward was almost capering in his joy, pointing out this and that for his equally joyous

sycophants. He had taken William‘s ball of golden string from a pocket within his robe, and

Swanne supposed he was about to lay out the Labyrinth. Fool.

Swanne turned away, trying to seek out Caela in the shafts of weak sunlight that filtered

through the stained-glass windows.

―Is this not a sight to gladden one‘s heart?‖ came a voice behind her, and Swanne

managed, just, to put a pleasant smile on her face as she turned around.

It was Aldred, the Archbishop of York, beaming at her as if she would truly think this

abbey the most wondrous site in creation.

―Indeed,‖ she said, inclining her head politely.

Aldred looked around, checking that no one was within hearing distance. ―And won‘t

William enjoy it, don‘t you think? So… Norman.”

Swanne drew in a sharp breath of dismay, her eyes glancing about, praying to whatever

gods were listening this morning that no one had heard Aldred‘s remark. The fat fool!

―You need not be so indiscreet!‖ she hissed.

His face hardened. ―Indiscreet, madam, is passing written intelligence from your chamber

to his!‖

―To which you have ever been a willing party,‖ she retorted.

Swanne found Aldred repulsive, but he had been her means to contact William for the

past eight or nine years. Aldred was a man of great influence who knew many people and he was

a Norman sympathiser. Over the years he had told her (in foul-breathed whispers, his liking of

sweet pastries having rotted away most of his teeth) that he would like nothing else than to see

William ensconced on England‘s throne and would work with her to ensure this end.

Swanne wasn‘t sure if she could truly trust the man…but he had not failed her over all

the years she‘d been communicating with William, and Swanne was sure that if treachery was to

have been forthcoming, then it would have engulfed her by now.

Aldred had his hands clasped across his not inconsiderable girth, his eyes narrowing as he

studied her. ―I have heard that Harold has set Caela to procuring him a more suitable wife, my

dear. One who can comfortably sit next to him on a Christian throne. One who is not…‖ he drew

out his pause with infinite delicacy, ―…tainted.‖

Swanne considered his words. Aldred, after all, was a cruel man underneath his jovial

flab and enjoyed a taunt almost as much as he enjoyed a pastry. ―Are you certain?‖

Aldred raised an eyebrow. ―Of course, my dear. Now you are more, ahem, married to

William‘s cause than ever, eh? A pity about Matilda, though. I hear also—‖

Swanne gritted her teeth.

―—that William has promised Matilda that she shall be crowned next to him. What place

for you in all this, then? Neither man seems to want to publicly associate himself with you. And

yet, one or the other shall surely be England‘s king.‖

―William will never—‖ she began, leaning close to the archbishop, when the man‘s eyes

widened, and one plump hand whipped out and seized her forearm.

Swanne snapped her mouth closed.

―My good lord archbishop,‖ Caela said, inclining her head politely to both Aldred and

Swanne as she walked close, ―do you find this abbey pleasing?‖

―Most pleasing, gracious queen,‖ Aldred said. ―It is a true monument to Edward.‖

Caela glanced about the frigid, empty stone interior. ―Oh, aye, it is that,‖ she said, not a

hint of sarcasm in her voice. ―And you, my lady sister, what think you?‖

Swanne tried to smile politely, then abandoned the effort, realising she was failing

miserably. ―I find it empty,‖ she said, tired with all the pretence and the lies. ―And cold.‖

Caela nodded slightly to her. ―Not many people would have spoken such truth, sister.

That was well done of you.‖

Swanne momentarily closed her eyes, fighting back the impulse to slap the patronising

bitch across her glowing cheeks.

At that moment, one of Swanne‘s sons, Alan, who had accompanied the party, came over

and greeted his mother and the archbishop. He exchanged one or two words with them, then

made a small bow to Caela.

―Madam,‖ he said, ―forgive me for not speaking to you first, but your beauty this

morning, in this cold grey hall, struck me dumb, and I could not find the words with which to

adequately greet you.‖

His eyes sparkled as he spoke, and Caela burst into delighted laughter.

―Ah, I was standing in the good archbishop‘s shadow, my dear,‖ she said, ―and it was

only now that you saw me. You thought to cloak oversight with flattery.‖ She paused, her grin

widening. ―You shall make a true courtier, indeed.‖

Well, well, thought Swanne. You grace my son with your laughter and insult the

archbishop all in one. From where did you discover this courage? She glanced at Aldred, and

saw his face tighten with humiliation, and had to dampen a moment‘s grudging admiration for

Caela.

Her boy had turned to Aldred, engaging him in conversation about the estates of his

archbishopric, and Caela moved a little closer to Swanne, taking her arm and moving her away a

pace or two.

―I am glad to have you to myself a moment,‖ she said, ―and Alan‘s delightful interruption

has made me

curious about something. Let me phrase this as delicately as I might, considering always

that there are other ears about.‖

Swanne stiffened. She held Caela‘s gaze with easy arrogance, but the queen did not let

her eyes drop.

―Swanne,‖ Caela said, ―I remember that you, a very long time ago when I was but a naive

girl, said that you only ever wanted daughters. Yet here you are, a mother to three fine sons to

Harold. How can this be? Has my recently returned memory somehow…misremembered ?‖

Swanne knew what Caela was truly asking. How does a Mistress of the Labyrinth bear

sons when they only truly want daughters?

―I am glad for the sons,‖ Swanne said, sure she could actually hear her teeth grate, ―for

otherwise Harold would have set me aside.‖

―Ah,‖ said Caela, and the expression on her face said: the truth of the matter.

And then Swanne knew, as surely as she drew breath, that Caela was hiding something

from her. Something deep.

She remembered how, long ago, long, long ago when she had been Genvissa and Caela