had been Cornelia, she had continually felt something strange about Cornelia. Something hidden.
Now she felt it again. The woman was hiding something, something sly.
What? What? Not Mag, for Mag was dead.
What else?
Again Swanne felt a shiver of fear slide through her. What else?
Alan had departed, and Swanne became aware that Aldred was looking most peculiarly
between the two women.
Swanne laughed, daintily and prettily, and patted his hand.
―You must forgive us, Father, for our chatter about babies. I am sure you are bored by it.‖
―Indeed not, madam. You would be surprised at how much matters of the womb amuse
me.‖
Then he changed the subject, talking first about the abbey, and how splendid it must be
for Eadwine to be able to conduct services within its grandeur (―My cathedral of York is, I am afraid, a sad affair, indeed‖), then about Harold (―Has anyone seen the great earl recently? I
confess to have missed his wit about the king‘s court this past week‖), then about the River
Thames (―So grey and lifeless, don‘t you think? I cannot but agree with those Holy Fathers who
preach that such wide expanses of water are but examples of sinful wasteland, unfit for
consideration‖), before, eventually, bringing the subject back to the matter of children.
―My dear, gracious queen—‖
Swanne looked at Caela, and saw that her face was strained, and paler than it had been.
Either Aldred himself was beginning to try her (a distinct possibility, as far as Swanne was
concerned) or some of what Aldred had been talking about had somehow upset her, and Swanne
found herself intrigued by that possibility.
―—I have always sorrowed that your womb has borne no fruit,‖ Aldred continued, his
face wrapped in palpably false sorrow and concern. ―It must be a great tragedy for you that—‖
―I am afraid, my good archbishop, that I can see my husband is looking for me. I should
rejoin him.‖
Swanne‘s eyes had not left Caela‘s face. So, she was upset over something.
―—you have proved so barren,‖ he finished. ―Should I pray for you?‖
From the corner of her eye, Swanne saw something quite horrible slither across his face.
She half turned so she could see him more clearly, when Caela gave an audible, and patently
horrified, gasp.
Swanne looked back to her, then saw that Caela was staring at the altar, some distance
away.
Curious to see what it was that had so distracted Caela, Swanne looked also…
…and froze, so terrified she could barely continue to breathe.
The altar was not yet fully completed, and there was still some scaffolding behind it. This
scaffolding was perhaps some fifteen or twenty feet high, and hanging from its central supports,
in a frightful parody of the Christian crucifixion, stretched Asterion.
He was completely naked, his muscular body gleaming with sweat, his black bull‘s head
twisting slowly from side to side as though he moaned in agony.
Swanne was vaguely aware that Aldred was still babbling on about babies and wombs
and barrenness, but she truly could not distinguish a word he said. All she could see was
Asterion, crucified before her, blood trickling down his arms, his chest, his belly.
Then, horrifyingly, Asterion‘s head stopped rolling from side to side, and his eyes
opened, and they stared directly at Swanne.
Do you know, the Minotaur whispered in her mind, what Ariadne promised me? Do you
know how much she enjoyed me?
Swanne realised, frightfully, that the Minotaur was fully erect.
Do you have any idea of how much good I could do you?
And then he was gone, and Swanne was left staring open-mouthed at the altar, trembling
so badly that she thought she would tumble to the flagging at any moment.
―Swanne!‖ she heard Caela say, and felt the woman grasp at her arm. ―Swanne!‖
And then, in her mind, It was trickery, Swanne. Ignore it! He thinks only to taunt you.
Swanne, so slowly she could feel the tendons behind her eyes popping with the
movement, dragged her eyes away from the altar and to Caela. The woman was staring at her,
looking almost as horrified as Swanne felt.
―Swanne,‖ Caela whispered, close enough now that she could put an arm about Swanne‘s
waist, ―ignore him, I beg you.‖
―Ignore me?‖ Aldred said indignantly, staring bemusedly between the two women. ―Have
I said something to upset such noble ladies?‖
SEVEN
Exhausted by his day spent inspecting the abbey, Edward fell into a dreamless sleep as
soon as he closed his eyes. The bowerthegn likewise, prompted less by exhaustion than a little
too much ale taken at supper. Judith, who often slept on the pallet at the foot of the king and
queen‘s bed, was not here. Caela had told her she could spend the night with Saeweald, if she
wished; that she, Caela, had no need for her.
In truth, Caela did not want Judith—who did not know of Asterion‘s appearance—awake
and near, fretting over Caela‘s obvious and unexplained worry. And so Caela lay awake, staring
at the canopy over the bed, replaying the events of the day over and over in her mind.
Her hands lay on top of the bed covers, and they twisted and warped the material until,
eventually, broken threads began to work themselves loose from the weave.
The night deepened.
Well past midnight, when even the owls were silent, Caela‘s hands paused, and she raised
herself up on one elbow.
A trapdoor had materialised within the floor.
―Praise the lady moon!‖ Caela whispered and, rising from the bed, hastily threw a gown
over her nakedness, slipped her feet into some shoes, and snatched at her cloak which hung from
the back of the doorway.
The trapdoor opened, and an arm and hand emerged, beckoning Caela.
She stepped through the trapdoor, unhesitant, as the arm disappeared.
She walked with the Sidlesaghe through a tunnel that seemed not of this world, or of any
that Caela could remember. Above them and to either side curved walls made of red clay bricks,
of a uniformity of shape and colour and of a size that Caela had never seen before.
Even stranger, the floor of the tunnel consisted of a thick layer of gravel upon which her
feet continually slipped and slithered. Stranger yet, through this gravel ran two ribbons of shiny
metal as wide and as high as the palm of her hand.
Every so often Caela noted that the ribbons of metal quivered violently, shaking to and
fro, and when they did then a moment later there invariab ly came a rush of air so violent that it
almost blew Caela off her uncertain feet.
―We walk through a part of the Game that is yet to be,‖ said the Sidlesaghe. ―Sometimes
this happens.‖
Caela nodded, curious but not unbearably so. Asterion, his naked form and his
malevolent words—rich with unknown meaning—kept repeating themselves over and over in
her head.
Eventually they came to an opening within the wall on their right. It was the height and
just over the width of a man, and the Sidlesaghe turned and entered the aperture.
Caela followed, swallowing down her apprehension.
The footing was firmer here, gravel no longer, but what felt like brick.
Whatever relief the firmer footing afforded was consumed almost immediately by the
fear caused by the dark. Caela put her hands to either side of her, using the enclosing brick walls
to orientate herself and to give her some comfort within the blackness. She could not see
anything, but could hear the Sidlesaghe‘s footsteps ahead of her.
Occasionally, she bumped into his back, and whenever she did that Caela lifted one of
her hands from the brick walls and rested it momentarily on the Sidlesaghe‘s shoulder, seeking
reassurance in his nearness and warmth.
They walked for what seemed like hours, but which, Caela realised, was probably only a
fraction of that time, until a faint light emerged before them.
A doorway into the night.
Caela gave a great sigh of relief as she followed the Sidlesaghe into the cold night, taking
a moment to recover from her claustrophobia before she looked at her surroundings.
They stood within London, near the northern approach to the bridge. Immediately before
Caela was the bridge itself, the two stones of Magog and Gog standing to either side of its
entrance way.
The Sidlesaghe put a hand in the small of Caela‘s back, and she walked forward.
As she did so, the stones wavered in the gloom, and metamorphosed into Sidlesaghes,
slightly shorter than Long Tom, who had brought her through the tunnel, but otherwise virtually
indistinguishable.
―We saw Asterion,‖ said the one who had been the stone Magog.
Caela nodded, her hands pulling the cloak closer about her shoulders.
―He spoke,‖ said he who was Gog.
―It was vile,‖ said Long Tom.
―What did he mean?‖ said Caela, looking between the three Sidlesaghes. ―What did
Ariadne promise Asterion?‖
―Who can tell?‖ said Gog. ―Perhaps it was a falsehood, sent to disturb you and Swanne.