Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

occasion of your marriage.‖

Edward grunted.

On her chair Swanne shifted slightly, bored with the proceedings. She tried to catch

Tostig‘s eye for some amusement—he was standing to one side of the hall—but failed. She

sighed and rubbed her belly, wishing she were anywhere but here at this moment. Her mind

began to drift, as it so often did, to thoughts of Brutus-reborn, and where he might be, and if he

was thinking of her.

―My lord wishes to present you with a token of his love and respect,‖ Martel continued,

―and hopes that you are as blessed in your marriage as he is in his.‖

With that, Martel reached under his cloak, and withdrew a small unadorned wooden box.

―My lord, if I may approach…‖

Mildly curious—and yet disappointed that William‘s gift was not more proudly

packaged—Edward gestured Martel forward, taking the box from him.

―What is this?‖ he said, opening the lid and staring incredulously at what lay within.

It was nothing but a ball of string. Impressively golden string, but a ball of string

nonetheless.

This is what William thought to offer a king as a gift?

Caught by the offence underlying Edward‘s words, Swanne looked over, wondering what

the Duke of Normandy had done to so insult Edward.

―What is this?‖ Edward repeated, and withdrew the ball of string from the box, holding it

up and staring at it.

Swanne went cold, and her heart began to pound. She was so shocked that she could not

for the moment form a coherent thought.

―A ball of string?‖ Edward said, the anger in his voice now perfectly apparent.

―If I may,‖ said Martel, taking the string from Edward. ―This is a treasure of great

mystery,‖ he continued. ―May I be permitted to show to you its secret?‖

Edward nodded, slowly, reluctantly. A treasure of great mystery?

Trembling so badly she could hardly move, Swanne edged forward on her seat. Oh

please, gods, let this be what I want it to be! Please, gods, please!

Martel began to unwind the string, which was indeed made of golden thread. His

entourage had now formed a long line behind him, and Martel slowly walked down the line,

spinning out the string so that a portion of it lay in the hands of each member of the line. Once

the string had been entirely played out—there was perhaps fifteen or twenty feet of string

between each man—Martel walked back towards Edward‘s dais, holding the end of the string.

Again he bowed. ―Pray let me show you,‖ he said, ―the road to salvation.‖

And with that, still keeping firm hold of the end of the string, he stepped back, and

nodded at his men.

They began to move, and within only a moment or two it became obvious that they

moved in a superbly choreographed and well-practised dance of great beauty. They moved this

way and that, in circles and arcs, until each watcher held his or her breath, sure the string was

about to become horribly and irredeemably tangled. But it never did, and the men continued in

their dance, their faces sombre, their movements careful and supple.

Of all the watchers, only Swanne knew what she was truly watching, and only she knew

what that ball of string represented: Ariadne‘s Thread. The secret to the Labyrinth.

Gift to Edward be damned. This was a message for her, and her alone!

―Brutus,‖ she whispered, now at the very edge of her seat, her eyes staring wildly at the

Normans as they continued in their graceful dance, unwinding the twisted walls of the Labyrinth.

Brutus…none other than William of Normandy!

―Thank all the gods in creation,‖ she said, again in a whisper. Her eyes filled with tears

and her heart pounded with such emotion that Swanne was not entirely sure that she would not

faint at any moment with the strength of it.

With a concluding flourish the dancers halted, paused, and then in a final, single

movement, each laid his portion of the string on the ground, and then moved away from it, his

task completed.

Soon the flagstone area before Edward‘s throne was empty save for the golden thread,

now laid out in a perfect representation of the pathways of a unicursal Labyrinth.

Edward had risen to his feet, and his eyes moved slowly between the golden Labyrinth

laid out on the floor and Guy Martel.

―The road to salvation?‖ he said in a puzzled tone.

―My lord duke well knows of your piety,‖ Martel said, ―and of your great disappointment

that you have been unable to tread those paths within Jerusalem where once Christ‘s feet trod.

Behold the Labyrinth. Its entrance lies before you, and when you enter it, you do so as a man

born of woman, and thus weighted down with grievous sin. But as you traverse the paths of the

Labyrinth, thinking only of Christ and his goodness, you will find when you enter the heart of

the Labyrinth that Christ and his redemption await you. When you exit the Labyrinth, retracing

your steps through its winding paths, you do so in a state of grace, and you will truly be stepping

the pathway towards your own redemption. This Labyrinth, great lord and king, represents the

pilgrim‘s journey to Jerusalem. He goes there weighted down with sin, but having prayed within

that land where Christ once lived, he returns to his own land in a state of grace. He retraces his

steps into redemption. This, my great lord of England, is Normandy‘s gift to you.‖

No, thought Swanne, the tears running freely down her cheeks, this is Brutus-reborn”s

gift to me.

Edward was clapping his hands, his cheeks pink with joy, and he began to converse

animatedly with Martel. But Harold was staring at Swanne, and leaned over to her, concerned.

―My dear, what ails you?‖

Clearly overcome with emotion, her eyes locked on to the golden Labyrinth, Swanne had

to struggle to speak. When she did, her voice was only a hoarse whisper.

―The child,‖ she said, and rested a trembling hand on her belly. ―The child has caused me

some upset. I will retire to our chamber, I think, and rest.‖

Harold leaned closer, worry now clearly etched on his face. ―Should I send for the

midwives?‖

―No! No, I need only to rest. The heat and the crowd in this hall have made me feel faint.

I will be well enough. Please, Harold, let me be.‖

With that she rose and, a little unsteadily at first, made her way from the hall.

Harold might have followed her, but as Swanne passed behind Caela‘s chair, he saw that

his sister was staring at the Labyrinth with almost as much emotion as Swanne had been. Harold

sent a final glance Swanne‘s way—she was walking much more steadily now, and his worry for

her eased—then he rose and went to Caela‘s side.

―Sister, what ails you?‖

She tore her eyes from the Labyrinth, and looked at Harold. ―How do we know,‖ she

said, ―that there is Christ in the heart of the Labyrinth, instead of some dark monster? Promise

me, Harold, that you will never enter that pathway.‖

He attempted a smile for her. ―Should you not be warning your husband?‖

―I care not who he meets within the heart of the Labyrinth, brother. Christ, or a monster.‖

And with that she, too, was gone, rising to exit with her ladies.

Later, as Martel was showing Edward the intricacies of laying out the string into the form

of the Labyrinth, a man leaned against the wall of the Great Hall and watched with a cynical

half-smile on his face as the King of England tried to learn the pathways of the Labyrinth.

He was a man of some influence within Edward‘s court, and that influence was growing

stronger day by day. He was a man liked and trusted by many, disliked by some others,

overlooked by many more, and used by none. He was a man far greater than his outward

appearance and station within society would suggest.

He was Asterion, the Minotaur, lover of Ariadne and victim of Theseus. Many thousands

of years ago Asterion had been trapped within the heart of the Great Founding Labyrinth of

Crete. There Theseus had come to him and, aided by Ariadne, Asterion‘s half-sister, had slain

him. But Theseus had abandoned Ariadne and, in revenge, she colluded with Asterion‘s shade,

promising him rebirth into the world of the living if he passed over to her the Darkcraft, the dark

power of evil that the Game had been created to imprison. Asterion had agreed, handing over to

Ariadne the ancient Darkcraft for her promise that she would destroy the Game completely.

But Ariadne had lied, and one of her daughter-heirs, Genvissa, had sought to resurrect the

Game with her lover Kingman, Brutus. That attempt had ended in disaster and death—two of the

things Asterion was best at manipulating—but the attempt had given Asterion cause for thought.