Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

him!

It seemed such a simple thing, discovering what name Brutus went by in this life, but the

lack of knowing had been a torture for her. She needed to know who he was to be able to contact him and much of her life to this point had been spent in that search.

Where are you, Brutus? Where?

Always that search had been frustrated over and again by circumstance.

Swanne had been born in a county a long, long way from London to a nobleman of little

consequence. For years, ever since she was some ten or eleven years old and had come to full

awareness and remembrance, Swanne had been desperate to leave her father‘s home and get to

London. Somehow. Anyhow.

To get back home.

To find Brutus and to finish what had been so terribly interrupted.

But Swanne had been reborn into a life and a world in which women had very little

power, and even less say over the destiny of their lives. Her father had laughed at her pleadings

to be allowed to live in London, and said that she needed a husband to tame her waywardness.

The thought of a husband made Swanne even more desperate—the Mistress of the

Labyrinth did not submit to a husband—but as she grew older, and rejected the hand of every

suitor her father tossed her way, she grew ever more desperate. She hoped Brutus-reborn would

one day ride into her father‘s estate and claim her, but he did not, and Swanne realised he

probably would not.

The only way out of her father‘s house, and the only way to London, was via that hateful

institution of marriage. Maybe she would submit to a husband, if only to use him for her own

ends.

One day, Harold Godwineson had ridden laughing and strong into her father‘s courtyard,

and the instant Swanne had seen his face, felt his eyes upon her, she had known.

She had known who Harold was, reborn, and she knew she could use him. He would be

her bridge to Brutus-reborn and to London and the Game. Coel. Swanne wasn‘t sure why he had

been reborn, what had pulled him back, but the thought of using Coel-reborn to get to London,

and eventually to Brutus, was of some amusement to Swanne.

The blessing in all of this was that Harold himself had no memory of his past life. If this

had not been so, Swanne would have had no chance at him at all. She had no idea as to the why

of it—perhaps it was merely an indication of Harold‘s complete meaninglessness in what was to

come—but she was very, very grateful.

Swanne had smiled and shaken out her jet-black hair and tilted her lovely head on its

graceful neck, and had won Harold before he‘d even dismounted from his horse. She went to his

bed that night, and in return he had taken her from her father‘s house the next morning.

They were wed, but under Danelaw rather than Christian. That had been Swanne‘s

demand, and Harold, desperately in love with her, had agreed without complaint. Danelaw

marriage gave Swanne more independence, and far more control over the extensive lands which

had been her dowry, than a Christian marriage would have done. Under the hated Christian law,

everything—her estates, her chattels, even her very soul—would have become Harold‘s. Under

Danelaw it remained Swanne‘s.

And thus to London.

To be certain, they spent some time each year in Wessex, dreaded cold, rainy place that it

was, but most of the year Godwine made sure his eldest son and heir kept him company within

Edward‘s court.

Swanne had been certain that Brutus-reborn must linger somewhere within

Westminster…but she had found it was not so, and in the eighteen months or so of her marriage

Swanne had had to fight away despair.

Where was Brutus? What was his name in this life?

But now she knew, and all she wanted to do was go to him, and in this want and need

Swanne succumbed to a fit of hating so great she actually sank to the floor, beating at her belly

with her fists.

All she wanted to do was go to her lover, to go to William, and here she was, almost

seven months swollen with another man‘s child.

Harold! She spat the name, all her gratitude for his usefulness vanishing in her anguish.

She wanted to go to William… she wanted to so badly she could taste the need in her mouth, feel

it in her body, and here she was, large with another man”s child!

Coel‘s child.

Swanne went cold with apprehension. Oh gods…Coel‘s child. How could she explain

that to William?

She hit her belly hard with the closed fist of her right hand, beating at it until she bruised

the skin beneath its linens and silks. Coel-Harold‘s child.

And a son.

She conceived the baby only after many months of marriage, when it had become

apparent to her that Brutus-reborn was nowhere within Edward‘s court, and likely nowhere

within England. She‘d conceived a son, going against her every instinct and need as Mistress of

the Labyrinth, because a son would bind Harold the tighter to her, and further ensure her a place

within the Westminster court.

―C urse you, Harold, for getting this child in me! ‖ she said, low and vicious, and she

barely avoided using her power as Mistress of the Labyrinth to visit him with a death-dealing

curse then and there.

No, no, she must be careful. She must be prudent. She was aware that Asterion lurked

somewhere, and after the mistakes of her past life Swanne was not going to make another

ill-considered move until she knew precisely where Asterion was and what power he

commanded in this world. As Genvissa she had thought he was weak and essentially powerless.

What a fool she had been. Asterion had played them all, had toyed with them, and had used

Cornelia to stop the Game in its tracks.

Swanne had tried to scry out Asterion‘s identity—she had managed it easily enough

when she had been Genvissa and had realised the fact of Asterion‘s rebirth within the Poiteran

people—but now, in this life, Asterion appeared to have grown so greatly in power and in

cunning that she could not know where, and who, he was.

If she didn‘t know who he was, then Swanne knew precisely what it was that Asterion

wanted: to destroy the Game once and for all, and to destroy Swanne and William with it.

No, you bastard, she thought, her eyes still closed, her lovely face set in uncommonly

harsh lines, no. And this time you can be sure we won”t allow you to use Caela as your dagger

hand.

Ah, Caela! Swanne‘s eyes opened, and they were hard with hatred. Caela! Swanne

couldn‘t believe it when she first met Harold‘s sister. She would have murdered the bitch then

and there had it not been for the fact that she still needed Harold‘s goodwill (and body and bed

and children) to assure her a place by his side at court.

Then, as if her very existence were not bad enough, Caela had become queen! Still

Swanne did nothing. The murder of Caela, even by a hired hand, would expose her to far too

much risk. Not only would it alienate her from Harold (and how she despised being tied by need

to the man) but it would overexpose her to Asterion. For all Swanne knew, Asterion was hoping

that Swanne would murder Caela.

So she stilled her hand, and contented herself with whispering viciousness into the poor

girl‘s ear whenever she had the chance.

The blessing in all of this was the fact that Harold and Caela had been reborn as siblings.

Swanne wasn‘t sure who was responsible for that piece of mischief—whether fate or

Asterion—but it had provided her with a never-ending source of amusement. Poor lost, insipid

Caela, for whatever reason not remembering a thing of her previous life, horrified at her constant

yearning for a man who was her brother. And the equally unremembering Harold‘s yearning for

her.

All that suppressed lust.

Swanne could understand why Harold might not remember his previous life (he was

hardly important in the scheme of things, was he?) but she was surprised that Caela did not

remember (gratifying also, as it gave Swanne so many opportunities to torment the woman).

Caela still carried Mag within her womb ( was there nothing that could eject that damn goddess from Cornelia-Caela”s womb? ), but even Mag seemed faded, lost, forgetful.

Useless.

Swanne shrugged to herself. Well, neither of them was of much account now.

Swanne slowly rose to her feet, drying her tears and straightening her robe, her thoughts

now back to William. There was a large mirror of burnished bronze in the corner of the chamber,

and Swanne walked over to it, regarding herself within its depths.

Would he like her? Would he desire her? Pregnancy aside, Swanne was taller and