Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

Perhaps it was a truth.‖

―If it is a truth,‖ said Caela, ―then it will be a dangerous one.‖

―We agree,‖ said all three Sidlesaghes simultaneously.

―We have little time,‖ added Long Tom.

―The bands,‖ Caela said.

―You must move the first one tomorrow night,‖ said Magog. ―Long Tom shall aid you.‖

Caela shivered, and Long Tom placed a surprisingly warm hand on her shoulder.

EIGHT

Rouen

They had left the castle at Rouen before dawn, heavily cloaked against the frost, their

horses‘ hooves dull thuds on the straw-strewn cobbles of the castle courtyard and then the

frost-hardened mire of the streets that led to the city gate. They were a small party: William of

Normandy; Harold of Wessex; Walter Fitz Osbern; Ranuld the huntsman, on horseback himself

for this dangerous adventure; Thorkell, a thegn from Sussex, and Hugh, a thegn from Kent, both of them close companions of Harold‘s who had accompanied him on this journey to Normandy;

and, finally, two men-at-arms from William‘s own personal guard at Rouen. All eight men were

heavily armed with swords and knives and the men-at-arms also carried with them wickedly

sharp, long pikes, two apiece, which they could share with any other of the hunters as need be.

The gatekeepers were awake and alert, having been forewarned of this expedition the

previous night. They bowed as William rode up on his black stallion, then put in motion the

grinding and clanking which signalled the raising of the portcullis. William and Harold and their

companions sat waiting silently, their eyes set ahead, their expressions drawn, their thoughts on

what lay before them while their horses stamped and flicked their tails with impatience, lowering

their heads and testing the strength of bit and rein and the hand of the man who held them.

The portcullis rattled into its place in the heights of the gate, and the riders kicked their

horses forward.

―Which way?‖ William said over his shoulder to Ranuld, riding several paces behind.

Ranuld nodded toward the line of trees that stretched along a creek some two miles

distant. ―There, my lord. The report I had last night said they nested along that creek bed.‖

―Take the lead,‖ William said, and Ranuld kicked his horse forward, guiding the party

towards the distant trees.

For the first few minutes of the ride they kept to the road, and William pulled his horse

back until he rode side by side with Harold. He‘d given the Saxon earl one of his best stallions,

better even than the one William himself rode, and William noted that Harold controlled the

spirited bay easily and gently. The horse was unmanageable for most riders, and William had

given it to Harold as a test.

Strangely, as he‘d watched Harold gather the stallion‘s reins and mount, William had

found himself hoping that Harold would be able to control the beast. He didn‘t want to see

Harold tossed into the mire of the stableyard, or suffer the humiliation of having the horse bolt

from under him while half the garrison watched from dormitory doorways or leaning over the

parapets.

And why not? Brutus would have relished the chance to arrange Coel”s humiliation.

Wouldn”t he?

The horse had given one initial plunge as he felt Harold‘s weight settle on his back, but

then Harold had taken control, soothing the stallion with a calm but firm voice, reining him in

with a determined yet gentle hand, and stroking the horse‘s muscled neck when he‘d finally

settled.

Then Harold had turned amused eyes to William, knowing full well that he‘d just been

set a test.

William had given the earl a single nod— that was well done—and then mounted himself,

leading the party out.

They‘d not spoken since. But now, riding through the hoar-frosted countryside beyond

Rouen‘s walls, William felt the need to talk.

Honestly.

Harold had been with William now for some time, and this time had, after their initial

conversation, been spent in hedging and wary verbal circling, interspersed with long and

significant periods of eye contact over the rims of wine cups. Neither wanted to concede

anything to the other, but both wanted to scry out the strengths and weaknesses of the other as

much as possible.

They were, after all, likely to meet on the battlefield, and this time spent together was as

much a part of that distant battle as would be the eventual clash of sword on sword.

Through all of this, William had not forgotten Matilda‘s injunction to be Harold‘s friend.

His wary circling had been a way of sensing Harold‘s character as much as sounding out the

man‘s strengths and weaknesses.

And William had discovered that he did, indeed, like Harold. The earl was as honest and

true a man as ever William had met, in either of his lives, and William had come to regret

bitterly his actions of his previous life.

William checked to ensure that Ranuld, and the riders following, were not within easy

earshot, and said, ―Tell me of Swanne.‖ He made no attempt at dissimulation, for that would

have been an insult to Harold‘s own integrity. ―Did you ever love her, and she you?‖ Is that why

she lied to me about you, because then she loved you?

Harold shot William a wry look. ―What is this, William? She has not told you everything

that has passed between us?‖

No. ―She has only mentioned that she is your wife, but nothing more.‖

Harold raised his eyebrows, although his gaze had returned to the road before them. ―I

am her husband, I am the man who should rightfully succeed Edward, and I am thus the one she

betrays the most both as husband and as future king. How strange that she has ‗not mentioned‘

me, apart from naming me husband.‖

He turned his head, looking at William once more. ―If Matilda betrayed you with, for

instance, the Duke of Gascony, and plotted to hand him your duchy, would you not expect her to

hand him some reason for this betrayal? Would you not expect Gascony to ask, ‗Why, madam,

do you betray your husband and your homeland in this manner?‘ I find it passing strange,

William, that Swanne does not ‗mention me‘. You never thought to ask?‖

―I asked her once, many years ago. She said you were but a man. Nothing more.‖

Harold laughed bitterly. ―Just a man. Nothing more. When I first married her I loved her

more dearly than I had thought possible. She bewitched me. You have surely heard of her

loveliness, if not seen for yourself.‖

William nodded, his eyes now on the road before them.

―Gods, William. I could not believe I had won such a trophy to my bed. In the early years

together she provided me with bed sport such as I‘d never enjoyed before.‖

William winced.

―And then…‖ Harold hesitated.

―And then…?‖

―And then, as the years passed, I realised that Swanne‘s loveliness was only a brittle

thing. A sham, meant to bewilder and entrap. Swanne uses her beauty and love only as a

weapon.‖ He paused. ―I do not think Swanne knows what love is. Not truly. William, how is it

you have fallen under her spell? What did she use to entrap you?‖

Power. Ambition. The promise of immortality. ―I am not ‗trapped‘,‖ William said.

Harold grunted.

―I hear tell you lust for your sister,‖ William said, stung into attack. To his amazement,

Harold only laughed.

―You would have done far better to recruit Caela to your cause, William. Caela could

have been born the lowliest of peasant women, and still she would have been a queen.‖ He

looked directly at William, forcing the duke to meet his gaze. “She has true power, William, not Swanne, and that is beauty of spirit, not darkness of soul.‖

―Caela is well served in you, Harold. She has always been so.‖

―And I in her,‖ Harold said quietly, and for a time they rode in silence, each wrapped in

their own thoughts.

―Harold,‖ William said eventually, ―you cannot fight me. When Edward dies, I have the

closest blood link to the English throne. I will have the stronger claim. Don‘t oppose me.‖

Please.

Harold grinned, easy and comfortable, and William felt his stomach turn over. Gods!

Was this guilt? A conscience?

―A tenuous blood link,‖ said Harold, ―through your great-aunt, and well you know that

the English throne is not handed automatically from father to son…or from king to—what are

you?—great-nephew through marriage. The witan approves and elects each new king. If there is

a strong son with a good claim, then it will lean toward him…but they will not elect you,

William. Never.‖

They lapsed into silence again. Ranuld had led them from the road, and now their horses

were cantering through stubbled meadowlands, the hay long since cut and carted for winter

fodder. The pace had quickened, and everyone‘s heart beat a little faster.

The treeline of the creek bed loomed.

―I will invade,‖ William said. ―Believe it.‖