―Aye,‖ said Harold. He blinked, as if he had tears in his eyes, then leaned forward and
held out a hand to William.
William took it without hesitation. ―I do not want to kill you,‖ he said.
―Aye, and I do not want to have to kill you.‖
They gripped hands, their eyes locking, then both let go and sat back, half-embarrassed
smiles playing over their faces.
―If I win,‖ William said, only half-jokingly, ―and you do not survive, may I say that on
this visit you pledged to me that I might take the throne?‖
Harold considered. To say that would be to blacken Harold‘s name: that Harold had
pledged to William the throne on Edward‘s death, and had then gone back on his word and
sought to deny William his rights through force.
Yet the revelation of such a vow would unite England as nothing else had done. It would
prevent the country from tearing itself apart trying to resist William‘s rule. If William won on the
battlefield, and then said that God had judged in William‘s favour because Harold had reneged
on his word, the English would accept it. They might not like it, but they would accept it.
What did he want more? His honour, or England‘s wellbeing?
He nodded. ―Aye. You may say that.‖ He paused, a slow smile spreading over his mouth.
―If you also agree that should I win, and you die, then I can spread it about that you were the
motherless son of one of Hell‘s imps.‖
William burst out laughing. ―A deal!‖ He held out his hand.
But Harold hesitated as he extended his own hand. ―And that if you do so win against me,
and I die on the battlefield, then you shall respect the life and property of my sons and daughters,
and that of my sister, Caela. You shall honour my children, and my sister, and do them no harm.‖
William‘s face grew serious. ―A deal, Harold.‖
Harold nodded, and took William‘s hand.
―I wish you well,‖ said William softly.
―And I you,‖ said Harold.
And with those words, each man felt an immense weight lift off his shoulders, while,
under London, the stag god Og stirred, and his heart (still lying so cruelly torn from his breast) beat a fraction more strongly.
SEVEN
CAELA SPEAKS
A day or two after I had moved the band, I arranged it so that Ecub, Judith and Saeweald
sat with me in some privacy within my solar. Again, other ladies were in attendance, along with
one or two of Edward‘s thegns (and paying attention to one or two of my ladies rather than me).
They were grouped at some distance, and I felt that if I kept my voice low then we should have
seclusion enough.
I told them of the moving of the band, and of how Asterion tried to snatch me and it.
They shuddered, as did I in the retelling, and begged me be careful in future.
Then, because they needed and deserved to know, I told them of how I had felt empty,
un-right, of how I felt some loss of connection to the land. How I was not all that I should be.
―But how can this be?‖ Saeweald began, rather officious and put out, as if I had
conceived of this problem only to irritate him, and I held up a hand to quiet him.
―I have talked of this to both Silvius and the Sidlesaghes—‖
―And not us?‖ Saeweald said quietly.
―She talks of it now!‖ snapped Ecub, and silently I blessed her for her intervention.
―Think yourself not so important that you be her first counsel on every occasion.‖
Saeweald‘s mouth thinned as he compressed his lips, but he said no more. Judith caught
my eye, but I looked away and resumed my speaking.
―I have talked of this both to Silvius and the Sidlesaghes,‖ I said, ―and the answer is
alarmingly simple.‖ I gave a soft, deprecatory laugh. ―Here I am, the enchanted representation of
fertility and birth and growth, the health of the land, and I am—‖ I lowered my voice ―—a
virgin! To unite completely with the land, to be at one with who I should be, I need to
consummate my self with the land. Unite completely with the land.‖
―Lose your virginity,‖ Ecub said, ever practical.
Gods help me, I blushed. ―Yes.‖
―With whom?‖ said Saeweald, and I felt both his and Judith‘s eyes steady on me.
―Silvius,‖ I said.
― Silvius?‖ Saeweald said.
―Shush!‖ I said. ―Is there better without Og-reborn to comfort me?‖ I kept my eyes steady
on Saeweald as I said this, and he dropped his eyes away from mine.
―He does not truly represent the land,‖ said Ecub. ―Surely…‖
―He represents the Game,‖ I said, ―and the Game and the land are united. Allied.
Besides,‖ I softened my voice, ―it need only be a man, and I may choose as I will.‖
―He looks like Brutus,‖ Saeweald said, his voice hard. ―That is why you chose him.‖
―And if it is why, then that is no concern of yours.‖
For a moment no one spoke. Finally, Saeweald broke the silence.
―I put myself forward,‖ he said. ―It would be appropriate.‖
Oh, gods damn his ambition!
―I have chosen as I think appropriate. I am not looking for applications, Saeweald.‖
His face hardened, and he looked away.
EIGHT
On the morning of the festival of St Thomas, Edward accepted an invitation from
Spearhafoc, Bishop of London, to celebrate mass within St Paul‘s cathedral. Although Edward
generally preferred to worship within Westminster, whether at the abbey or the chapel in his
palace, he did make a point of worshipping at St Paul‘s on four or five occasions a year. If the
weather was kind, then the king proceeded to St Paul‘s via the road which led from Westminster
to the Strand and thence through Ludgate to the cathedral; if, as on this day, the weather was
inclement, then Edward and the immediate members of his court rode the royal barge to St
Paul‘s wharf and then travelled on horseback, under a canopy, up the hill to the cathedral.
Whichever way the king travelled, the crowds always lined his processional route, often
three or four people deep, cheering and applauding. Supplicants often tried to reach forth, but
these poor folk were always kept at bay by the king‘s men-at-arms.
Caela, of course, came with the rest of the court. Although her previous visits to St Paul‘s
had held little significance, she now, with her restored memory and new knowledge of who and
what she was, looked forward to the outing. Not to the service, mind, which Caela had every
intention of ignoring, but merely the visit to St Paul‘s itself.
Today, as always for a king‘s visit, the cathedral was packed. Caela and Edward, together
with several members of the witan, two earls, several thegns and a variety of wives, took their
places on chairs set out for them to one side of the altar. A large and beautifully carved wooden
rood screen shielded them from the eyes of the majority of the congregation; today, unusually,
flowers had been woven through the spaces in the screen, filling the royal seating area with the
heady scent of late autumn roses.
Caela took the seat by her husband, resting her feet gratefully on the covered heated stone
that had been placed before it. The cathedral‘s interior was frigid, and Judith stepped forward
and ensured that Caela‘s fur-lined cloak sat closely about the queen‘s shoulders before she took
her own place further back in the rows of seats.
The service began.
Halfway through, when a visiting cleric was engaged in a lengthy discourse about the
sins of Adam and Eve, Caela noticed a movement to her left, and glanced over.
She froze, her eyes wide, disbelieving.
Silvius, in all his Trojan finery, was walking towards her through the ranks of clerics,
courtiers and sundry monks who filled the aisles to the side of the altar.
Having stared at Silvius, Caela‘s eyes then flew to the people grouped about her,
expecting most of them to be staring gape-mouthed at this apparition who walked so arrogantly
among them.
But no one was paying any attention.
Caela looked back to Silvius, who was now grinning at her confusion.
―Peace, lady,‖ he said as he walked to her chair, leaned down, and planted a light kiss on
her still-startled face. ―They are unaware of me, and, as for you, why, all they see is their queen
with her head bowed in prayerful contemplation.‖
Again Caela glanced about her. It was as Silvius said. No one paid them any attention,
and even the movements of the cleric intoning before the altar were strangely slowed and muted,
as if in dream.
―You have done this?‖ she said.
―Aye. Another piece of Aegean trickery. Did Brutus never do this? Never play this
particular hoax on his comrades?‖