Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

Harold shrugged. ―Then you will meet the might of the Saxon army. You will meet

England.”

―For sweet Christ‘s sake, Harold, I have a battle-hardened force second to none! I have

spent thirty years fighting for this duchy, and I will loose all that experience on you.‖

Unwittingly, Harold echoed Matilda‘s words. ―And you are prepared to waste another

thirty trying to seize England, William? For I assure you, thirty years of spilled Norman blood is

what it is going to take.‖

Furious now—although at quite what, William was not sure—he kicked his horse

forward with a terse, ―As you will.‖

They descended into the all-but-dry creek bed, their horses slipping and sliding down the

steep slope before splashing into the bare inch of water that wound its sludgy way around the

larger of the stones in the channel.

At the head of the party, Ranuld reined his horse to a halt and held up his hand. ―Prepare

yourselves,‖ he said once the seven men had pulled up behind him. ―They are not far.‖

He extended the hand he‘d held up until it was pointing straight ahead. ―There,‖ he said,

his tone quieter now. ―See? In those bushes lining that slope?‖

The other men peered, some swallowing in nervous anticipation, others tightening their

mouths in grim attempt at fortitude.

All reached for weapons, and Thorkell and Hugh, Harold‘s men, took a pike each from

the men-at-arms.

All eight looked between each other, then forward again to the distant bushes.

At this time of morning, when the sun was barely risen, the shadows were so long and

strong about the shrubs that it was difficult to distinguish detail.

Then a shadow moved, deepened lightly, and a single ray of sunlight penetrating into the

creek bed revealed the roundness of flesh.

A shoulder, perhaps, or even a haunch.

The shadow moved, shuffling about, and then, for an instant, the watchers saw a head

with thick curved tusks and small, bright, mean eyes.

William very slowly withdrew his sword from its leather scabbard and, even with that

slight sound, the creature hiding in the bushes squealed in anger, and the world erupted into a

seething mass of leaves and branches and hot flesh and terrible, grinding tusks.

The riders scattered, the horses—even as well trained as they were—terrified by the

suddenness of the attack.

A boar, half the size of the horses, its hairy hide mottled tan and black and pink, had

roared from the shrubs and charged down the creek bed towards the group of riders. It moved

with the agility, grace and power of a master swordsman, and it used its vicious, deadly tusks

with as much effect, breaking a leg on no less than three horses on its first charge.

The horses went down in a flurry of snorting fear and flailing legs, tossing their riders on

to the sharp stones of the creek walls and channel.

A man-at-arms was one of those who was tossed. Horribly, he had fallen directly into the

path of the boar which had made a nimble turn and was making a returning charge at the

disarrayed hunting party.

The man screamed, rolling away. He got to his knees, his hands reaching for the roots of

a tree higher up the bank, his feet scrabbling for purchase, then the boar slammed into his back,

driving its tusks deep into the man‘s ribs.

The man-at-arms screeched, so terrified—or so paralysed by pain and shock—that he did

not even think to reach for his sword or knife.

The boar twisted its head and, aided by the immense muscles in its neck and shoulder,

bodily lifted the man off the ground and tossed him some feet away.

The man, still screeching, landed with a sickening thud, his head smashing into a large

rock.

He convulsed, then lay still.

The rest of the party had either got their horses back under control or, as in the case of the

two riderless men who had regained their feet relatively uninjured, had grabbed pikes. The

remaining seven men closed in on the boar, which had now turned its ire on one of the luckless

horses, disembowelling it with two vicious sweeps of its tusks.

Harold was the closest and, guiding his horse in with the pressure of his knees and calves,

hefted his sword. As the boar swung to meet him, he plunged it with all his strength into the

boar‘s back.

The blade of the sword missed the boar‘s spinal cord by a mere inch, burying itself into

the thick muscle that bounded the creature‘s ribs.

Harold leaned back, meaning to pull the sword free so he could strike again.

The boar screamed—in rage, rather than pain or despair. Before Harold could twist the

sword free, the boar twisted itself, throwing the weight of its body against the legs of Harold‘s

horse.

The stallion slipped to its haunches and Harold, still gripping the haft of the sword, was

pulled out of the saddle both by the motion of the horse and by the continual, maddened twisting

of the boar.

He fell, grunting in surprise as he hit the stones of the creek bed, slipping in the shallow

water as he tried to right himself.

The boar, Harold‘s sword still sticking from its back, had turned and was now watching

Harold with its vicious, intelligent eyes.

Even though there were other men and horses milling about, and even though Harold

could hear the frantic shouting of Ranuld and William, and of his two companions Thorkell and

Hugh, it felt to him as if there were only two creatures in this world on this morn: himself, and the maddened, murderous boar.

Very slowly Harold managed to rise to his knees, his eyes never leaving those of the

boar, and slowly drew free the long-bladed knife from his belt.

To one side William kneed his horse forward, grabbing a pike from one of the other men,

and hefting it in his hand.

The boar had its back to him, and would be an easy target.

―No,‖ whispered Walter Fitz Osbern. Then, a little more strongly, ―No!‖

He grabbed at the reins of William‘s horse, pulling it to a sudden halt and almost

unseating William.

―Let the boar and Harold settle this,‖ Walter said, meeting William‘s stunned and furious

gaze. ―Let God decide who has the right to take England‘s throne, here and now.‖

―You fool!‖ William yelled, and, leaning forward, struck Walter a great blow across the

face that almost unseated the man from his horse.

Frantic, not even wondering why he should be so frightened, nor so determined, William

turned his horse back towards where the boar faced Harold in the bed of the creek.

To his side, Thorkell and Hugh were already moving ahead.

They were all too late.

The boar had charged.

Harold was still on his knees, weaving backwards and forwards unsteadily from either the

force of the impact in the fall from his horse, or in panic at the boar‘s murderous rush, and barely

had time to raise his knife.

“Harold!” William yelled, discarding the pike and jumping down from his horse. He

dashed forward, his sword drawn.

The boar was roaring again, a horrible, terrible noise of squealing and grunting and

screaming all in one, and as it came to within two paces of Harold, it tucked its head down

against its chest, presenting its tusks and broad forehead to Harold.

In that instant, that instant when the boar could not see, Harold fell back, his head

slamming into the trickle of cold water.

The boar was upon him, terrible pounding feet, hot, foul breath, a grunting and

screeching that sounded as if it emanated from hell.

Harold cried out involuntarily as the boar‘s front feet slammed into his belly and chest

and then, as the boar surged forward, as the boar‘s great pendulous abdomen brushed over his

chest, Harold brought up the knife with all the strength he had, plunging it into the boar‘s soft

underbelly, allowing the forward motion of the creature to tear it open.

Blood and bowels erupted over Harold, smothering him, and in the next moment the

entire weight of the boar crashed into his neck and head, then, mercifully, rolled off to one side.

―Harold! Harold!‖

William was upon him, sure that the blood and entrails which coated Harold must be the

man‘s own.

―Harold!‖ William fell to his knees, straddling Harold‘s body, and pushed aside the worst

of the gore.

Beneath it, Harold slowly opened his eyes.

―Harold?‖

Harold raised a hand, waving it weakly from side to side. He was gasping for air, and

William realised that the boar‘s death plunge must have winded him severely.

If not worse.

―Harold?‖

―I have…have…but lost…my breath…‖ Harold eventually managed. ―And…and my

chest and belly throb from where the boar stood on the scars of Tostig‘s treachery. But I think it

is nothing more than bruises.‖

William breathed a sigh of unpretended relief. ―Thank Christ our Lord,‖ he said.